Working in Fort Worth I became acquainted with an attorney whose friendship is now a fine memory. We had many conversations about life and science and religion. And we have lost track with one another as so often happens in this life.
One such discussion veered onto the “age of the earth”, which for some reason was a big deal at the time. The attorney was convinced that the earth was multiple billions of years old. Although I was also taught likewise in my elementary and high school science classes, I nevertheless remained doubtful.
I asked, “Remember Mount St. Helens?” Of course, we both remembered. After all, at the time of our conversation, that cataclysmic event had not been that long ago.
That volcanic eruption took place on May 18, 1980, forty-two years ago this month, and changed the face of the earth for miles around.
The eruption blew out the side of the great mountain at 300 miles per hour with temperatures of 660 degrees Fahrenheit. One hundred-year-old trees snapped like toothpicks. The surface of the earth changed in a matter of minutes. Mudflows cut 100-feet canyons in hours, leaving layers of rock which would usually be interpreted as geological ages. In the following months, mudflows cut hundreds of feet of solid rock. The canyons created are reminiscent of the Grand Canyon, only smaller.
My attorney friend and I had been taught that the Grand Canyon had to have taken hundreds of millions of years to have been formed. However, Mount St. Helens canyons were formed in mere months.
Trees clogged Spirit Lake and formed three feet of bark peat in just a few years. Huge trunks sank to the bottom of the lake and stood upright as “buried trees”, similar to the “millions of years old” buried trees in Yellowstone Park’s fossil forest. Only the Spirit Lake buried trees came about in roughly a decade.
The Mount St. Helens catastrophe was minuscule compared to the worldwide flood of Noah’s day. Yet, she changed the face of the earth around her in a matter of days and weeks and a decade or two. Even forty-two years later, its impact is still developing.
Should geologists return to their ancient roots and consider that the earth’s age cannot be determined woodenly? That is, instead of “uniformitarianism”, believing (by faith) that whatever is seen on the surface of the earth has occurred by uniform, natural processes, perhaps we ought to consider cataclysms, including the Great Flood of Noah’s day when “were all the fountains of the great deep broken up, and the windows of heaven were opened.”
Surely such a cataclysm gave an appearance of age which modern geologists would be wise to consider, no?
My attorney friend and I discussed this at great length including finding seashells atop mountains and being told they were millions of years old. Really? They looked exactly like those we’d find on the beach over the weekend. As children we wondered about that assertion.
We still wondered.
It was a stimulating conversation.
But we never had the opportunity to discuss again.
Mount St. Helens eruption, March 27, 1980. Forty years after eruption, thousands of trees decimated by the eruption still float on the lake near the base of the mountain. Covered in ash: pickup truck and some of the tens of thousands of trees and countless animals killed by the volcanic eruption. Volcanologist David Johnston taking notes and smiling at his camera on the eve of the eruption. He did not survive.
Rainy days in the mining camp are cherished memories and I suspect they are so for many of my contemporaries. Put another way, rainy days did not get me down. (Although, every once in a while, Mondays did.)
Of course, the rains I witnessed in Hurricanes Donna, Cleo, Maria, and others were extraordinary and Texas rains that come with some spring seasons are dangerously intense. Nevertheless, the curtains of water that fell during every rainy season in El Pao made a lifelong impression on the memory banks of my childhood (Memory).
The rainy season ran roughly from May through November, with crashing rains especially concentrated in June, July, and August, which overwhelmed more than half the days of the month. I’ve been told that El Pao’s rainy season more or less paralleled that of South Vietnam’s monsoon season. If so, that explains how landscape photos or films of that part of Venezuela can be easily confused with similar scenes of Southeast Asia.
For example, after watching The Ugly American, my father’s first comment was how much the landscape in the movie looked like our area of Venezuela. Of course, this was a Hollywood film; however, Thailand landscape around Bangkok provided the background sceneries and some scenes were actually shot there, because they very much looked like South Vietnam.
A former colleague had served in the Vietnam War and when he visited our property in Puerto Rico, which looks like the regions around El Pao, he walked to the edge of our ridge and stood silently for several minutes. Later, as we drove back to town, he merely said, “This looks like South Vietnam.”
This might explain why I became so attracted to Singapore whenever I visited on business less than a decade ago. Unlike southern Vietnam and El Pao, Singapore has two monsoon seasons. One of them runs from June to September, which is roughly parallel to El Pao’s. The rains, her lush, abundant jungle foliage, the green which predominates, and the tropical climate surely were major factors for my remembering my visits there with fondness.
Vietnam, Thailand, Singapore, Puerto Rico, El Pao. In my child’s memory, I do not think of war and devastation. Just rains and green and beauty.
Monsoon rain in Singapore Monsoon rain in Ho Chi Min City (formerly Saigon) Rainy season in Venezuela Scene from The Ugly American Approaching rains in Puerto Rico
In response to my prior post (Leaving Venezuela — 1966) my friend, Mike Ashe, emailed me his own take about the same subject, as he also left at an early age.
I appreciated his recollections and thoughts and asked his permission to post, which he generously granted.
Hi Richard
I guess if we kids stayed in El Pao long enough, we ended up going solo to schooling elsewhere.
My dad left by train at age 14 traveling from Chuqicamata, Chile, to a high school in Buenos Aires. The Chilean Rail Line ran from Arica to La Paz. I don’t think that the train stopped in Chuqui; they had to flag the train down to board.
He would travel by train to Santiago and by taxi to Cordoba and take a train to Buenos Aires.
My grandpa worked for Anaconda Copper and spent 40 years in mining camps in Chile and Mexico.
In my case I shipped out at age 12 and spent two years at Admiral Farragut Academy. I did go back home to El Pao one summer. Holidays were spent in the school dorm or visiting friends
In those days there was no communication except by mail which most of the time was late or lost in transit.
A lot of my classmates were from South America so I had plenty of company that could relate. Also, I must say that my El Pao education served me well in transitioning into a different educational system. Admiral Farragut was a top-notch military school with high academics and an over-the-top discipline standard.
Seventy five percent of the graduates received appointments to the US Naval Academy, Annapolis Md. The most notable Farragut graduates are Astronauts Charles Duke and the first US Astronaut in space, Alan Shepard.
Actually, getting out of El Pao was a good thing since boarding school provided me with an opportunity to socialize with many boys from different backgrounds around my age. Cubans (great athletes), Colombians, a few Brazilians, and mostly US students.
The transition from being the oldest two or three boys in a mining camp to a school with hundreds of students mostly older and a lot more worldly, was bracing.
I was fortunate to have Chuck Gould as my roommate for two years (Chuck later played football at Michigan State). Chuck actually became my best friend, and nobody messed with Chuck. Or his friend! At age 13 he weighed over 200lbs and could outrun anyone in the Junior or Senior school including some exceptionally fast Cubans.
I did miss my family and El Pao but can honestly say that life was a great adventure for me in Florida. I was able to play sports for the first time. It was a great awakening for me. So grateful to have been provided that opportunity.
Also, both of my brothers spent their high school years in boarding schools Linsly Military School in Wheeling, WV. They also felt that going solo provided them with some great opportunities that they would not have had if they had remained in Mexico.
Really enjoy Pull of the Land
Take care
Mike
Panoramic View of Chuquicamata at 9,850 ft above sea level in the Atacama Desert (driest desert on earth). Mining of gold and copper started in 1882. My grandfather (Mike Ashe), an electrician on the New York subway system, accepted a job there in 1923 as an electrician working in the power plant. My dad was born in Harlem, New York his sister and brother were both born in Chuqui. In 1943 my grandfather accepted a transfer to another mining camp in Cananea, Mexico, also located in the Sonora Desert. The Cananea mine is the second deepest open pit mine in the world at 2,790 ft. The Bingham Mine in Salt Lake City is the deepest; both are copper mines. When I was working, I would fly into Salt Lake and never got tired of seeing Bingham from the air.
Researching and writing about the Bogotazo — whose repercussions are with us still — elicited a few childhood memories which, for what it’s worth, I’ll document here.
I left Venezuela in 1966, fully intending to return to live there one day. See Playa Hicacos, 1966 for my personal recollections of that year in my childhood, which was yet another tumultuous year in Latin America.
My intentions never materialized because, as the Spanish aphorism puts it, “El hombre propone y Dios dispone” (“Man proposes and God disposes”), loosely based on Proverbs 16:9, but quoted in classic Spanish literature such as Don Quijote. So, although I was able to visit a number of times, especially summers during student years, I never returned to live there again.
Nevertheless, as Whittaker Chambers put it in his magisterial Witness, “No land has a pull on a man as the land of his childhood.” And that pull is still with me.
In that era, “globalism” was an unheard-of term. Large companies, such as Bethlehem Steel and United States Steel, were known as “American” companies, whereas today such seek to be known as “global” companies, with minimum, if any, loyalties to the United States, regardless of their founding or corporate headquarters.
American families were stationed in myriad and distant spots across the continents and the early schooling of their children was addressed by establishing schools modeled after those of the origin state of the company. So, for instance, the Bethlehem Steel school in El Pao was generally modeled after the norms of state schools in Pennsylvania. So, as an example, when those schools required standard tests for the elementary schools across the state, those very tests were also administered to us.
As far as I know those who attended the school in El Pao did well once they transferred to the United States.
And they usually transferred at an early age. I was 12 years old when it was my turn to transfer, and I was not an exception.
We travelled to Miami for annual leave, but my stomach churned a bit that year because I knew that at the end of that vacation, I would not be returning with my family to Venezuela. We nevertheless enjoyed our visit with family in Florida and the Northeast. I was happy to see the Langlois Motel in Miami again. Our family had been staying there for years and it was a favorite of the cousins and us.
What I most remember, though, was the farewell at the Miami International Airport. Back then we had no obstacles to staying with travelers in the Pan American Airways waiting lounge and then at the gate.
My father and mother said their farewells to my aunt and cousins, as did my sisters. Then they each embraced me and expressed their hope to see me again at Christmastime. I bravely succeeded in holding my tears and keeping my voice from cracking as I hugged back.
Then we waved good-bye as they left the terminal and disappeared into the plane.
My aunt and cousins and I walked back to the parking lot, exchanging few words, but I could tell they were a bit anxious about me. I just wanted to get back home and find a spot where I could be alone.
But my aunt had other plans. She drove us to Miami Beach. I asked why are we going there, especially at this hour? “Oh, just for a ride.” Then I understood she was doing her best to distract me. I was not a happy camper for that, but I kept it to myself. The radio played that week’s top song, “Cherish”, performed by The Association. It seemed a bit too treacly, even for a 12-year-old, but what did I know. It became one of the very top songs of that year.
Then “Eleanor Rigby” by The Beatles came across the airwaves. That song, about loneliness, was more in tune with my sense at the moment. As the only surviving relative of Eleanor Rigby put it in an interview in 2008, “A lot of time has gone by, and Eleanor’s side of the family has run out. They were ordinary, hardworking folk, the Rigbys — joiners, bricklayers, farmers, and the like — not the kind of people you expect to go down in history. And now there’s nobody left.”
That about encapsulates my anomie back then.
Days later one of my cousins told me they were very surprised I had not broken down. I assured her that I had indeed broken down — inside.
Months later I learned that on the plane, a gentleman who sat across the aisle from my father had leaned over and told him about having been left in the United States years before in circumstances very similar to ours. Only in his case, the parents were headed back to Germany. He had noticed our farewells and wanted to assure my parents that all would be well. But he did not sugar coat it: he said that, even after so many years, he still gently grieved whenever he thought of that day.
The reader should keep in mind that in 1966 communication with El Pao was via short-wave radio. Or mails. It was like going to the other side of the earth.
Psychedelic drugs and English fashion — Carnaby Street, Twiggy, Alfie — were “in” and for young folks it was difficult to tell the difference between genuineness and just plain marketing and promotion. Regardless, it seemed the world was going upside down and that the self-centeredness of Alfie generally reflected western mores at the time.
As the American and British scenes seemed to careen off course, South America was wracked by coups and a violent Cordobazo in Argentina, further Communist infiltration into the highest echelons of the military in Venezuela, and, by 1966, La Violencia had caused the abandonment of over 40% of the arable land in Colombia.
So, as we asked, “What’s it all about?” the seeds of upheaval continued to be sown in abundance in Latin America. And the harvest in Venezuela became most apparent in the 90s and to the present day.
Langlois Motel, circa 1960 Pan American ticket counter, Miami International Airport, circa 1960 Number 2 song of 1966 Twiggy, 1966 Revolver, The Beatles, 1966 Carnaby Street, London, 1966 Michael Caine in Alfie, 1966. The song was composed separately as a promotion song and became a surprise hit.“Eleanor Rigby died in the same house where she had been born, was interred in the graveyard of St Peter’s Church, and had her name added prominently on an increasingly crowded headstone.” — The Daily Mail. She had married 9 years earlier and then discovered she could not bear children. She died of a massive brain hemorrhage a month after the outbreak of World War II. She was much loved by her family.
‘During the bloody civil war of 1948-1953, a group of bandits burned the home of a wealthy Conservative landowner, killed his foreman and two sons, ravished his daughter, and left the owner wandering dazedly before his flaming hacienda. In shocked horror, the man mumbled over and over, “¿Pero porqué?” — “But why, why?”
“And the scornful answer was: “Porque usted es rico y blanco” — “Because you are rich and white”‘
Vernon Lee Fluharty, quoted in Guerrilla Movements in Latin America
Readers of this blog (see, for example, War to the Death) know that violence and savagery in South America was inaugurated, not by Spain, but by men such as Simón Bolivar and his French Revolutionary ideology. Note that the reply quoted above addressed envy and race, “You are rich and white”. It said nothing about El Bogotazo.
“Certain techniques of death and torture became so common and widespread that they were given names, such as ‘picar para tamal‘, which consisted of cutting up the body of the living victim into small pieces, bit by bit. Or ‘bocachiquiar‘, a process which involved making hundreds of small body punctures from which the victim slowly bled to death. … quartering and beheading were … given such names as the ‘corte de mica‘, ‘corte de franela‘, ‘corte de corbata‘, and so on. Crucifixions and hangings were commonplace, political ‘prisoners’ were thrown from airplanes in flight, infants were bayoneted, schoolchildren … were raped en masse, unborn infants were removed by crude Caesarian section and replaced by roosters, ears were cut off, scalps removed….” (ibid).
Readers might think that we are dealing with violence and ferocity unparalleled in modern times. However, if one includes the French Revolution and the Russian Revolution in “Modern Times”, as most historians do, then such savagery as cited above is not unparalleled. A cursory reading of The Black Book of Communism will disabuse anyone of thinking such violence was unique to South America. It is a common thread throughout the history of Jacobinism, whether Robespierreist, Marxist, Maoist, or whatever stripes.
As the avalanche of savage murders and violations crashed down on Colombia, blaming such on El Bogotazo ought to have been seen for what it was: a diversion from its actual antecedents.
But history persists in blaming that event of early April, 1948, for a “decade of mayhem” except that the mayhem began at least two years before. What it lacked was a pretext. El Bogotazo provided that.
The immediate aftermath of El Bogotazo were the deaths of at least 3,000 persons.
By the mid-1950s, that toll had risen to 135,000 direct killings, the vast majority of which were peasants. One thing about Communism: it is historically consistent in mostly killing the people they claim to represent.
Students of this period, known as La Violencia, estimate that the toll was closer to 200,000 when one includes those who died from their wounds. And these figures do not include the tolls of forced displacements and disappearances.
One thing is very clear for anyone willing to put the effort to read beyond Wikipedia, The New York Times, and the like: La Violencia was in no way, shape, or form an “indigenous uprising”, nor was it something in the “genes” of Spanish-American descendants. This was the product of an ideology alien to our upbringing; an ideology which, as Simón Bolívar himself put it, served to destroy centuries of a civilization which was truly a wonder once one steps back and considers (So Close to God).
Fidel Castro returned to Havana having understood the scope of the vast upheavals caused by inflaming envy and unleashing mob passions. He put this understanding to good use throughout his career, including in Venezuela.
Schoolchildren “conscripted” by Communist guerrillas, Colombia, circa 1953 Displacements are a toll that’s difficult to quantify, but we must note its harsh reality.Manuel Marulanda (seated), known as “Tiro-Fijo”, one of many maniacal murderers unleashed during La Violencia (see Playa Hicacos).
