“I wish I had been there” is a familiar lament for many. It certainly applies to me with regards to the incident which follows.
In the camp’s early days, my father would travel to Ciudad Bolivar to pick up the month’s payroll. This was long before the bridges which now span the Caroní River and the multiple lane highways which came years later, during my lifetime, in fact.
Back in the 40s, the trip was very long and also required him to spend the night under the open sky, something he did not mind and did not consider dangerous, even though he carried the camp’s month’s pay, in cash. He was never threatened with theft.
On one of those trips my father was rewarded with a sight he often recalled: a black jaguar.
My father had a copy of Fauna Descriptiva de Venezuela, by Dr. Eduardo Röhl, published in 1949. As a child I would avidly thumb through that edition, pausing here and there to read more carefully when the subject especially struck my fancy.
I have my father’s copy with me and regarding the black jaguar it says that it “lives in the jungles of the Orinoco, [and] is a case of melanism”, meaning a genetic issue which causes the skin to hide the spots to greater or lesser degrees and highlight the black color. In Venezuela the terms jaguar or tigre are interchangeable, but all agree that the black version is rarely seen.
This comports with the Wikipedia article which affirms that black jaguars have been sighted throughout Central and South America, but rarely.
On one particular trip, late at night, my father was driving the stretch from Ciudad Bolívar to Puerto Ordaz, the confluence of the Caroní and Orinoco rivers, grateful for a full moon by which he might see the outline of a tree under which he could spend the night.
However, the moonlight rewarded him with a more dramatic sight that night. The landscape was clear even though it was late at night. The brush and sandy loam had the grayish, yellowish hue so common to a full moon. And then he sensed something to his immediate left, outside the driver’s door and open window.
It was black and it was running like a gazelle parallel to the car on the left side of the road. It seemed as if the perfectly formed, graceful creature were racing the car. My father could see the light of the moon reflected off the jaguar’s shiny black coat. The sight was mesmerizing. He kept looking, while quickly glancing to the road, as it ran and ran and ran. And then it swerved to its left and disappeared in the thickets and brush.
My father slowed the car and looked through his open window hoping to see the animal one more time. But, of course, he did not.
The jaguar is a nomadic creature with no fixed pathways for his nocturnal journeys. Its prey ranges from the clumsy Chigüire to tree-based monkeys of all kinds. During Humboldt’s years of discovery, the jaguar was the greatest enemy of the river turtles in Venezuela, which, by the time I left the country in the 70s, were often seen but nothing close to the abundance described by the great explorer.
In memory of my father, this post is an overview of him and his love of baseball.
He was not tall, maybe 5 feet 8 inches or perhaps 9. But he was naturally, effortlessly muscular and always stood straight, like an athlete in his prime. In fact, he was an athlete: first string in his high school basketball and baseball teams in Massachusetts.
He was high scorer in a championship basketball game and hit a winning home run in a championship baseball game: both events were featured in the respective next day’s newspapers – I was always astonished by newspaper clippings about my father, hidden in a dresser drawer: my mother had shown me the clippings and had, helpfully, shown me where they were hidden and given me permission to seek them out whenever I wished to.
This I did frequently. My father’s pictures in those old newspapers demonstrated that, apart from thinning hair, he still retained much of that youthful, virile look, down to his straight nose and firm chin.
He was fast in his movements when he needed to be, surprising many younger men. And he was quick to learn new sports. For instance, the camp had built a two-lane bowling alley; boys were paid to set up the pins. Despite never having played before coming to Venezuela, he bought and practically memorized Andy Varipapa’s book on bowling and quickly excelled at the game, not only in El Pao, but also in Puerto Ordaz.
But, when it came to sports, baseball was his true love. He had been recruited by the New York Yankees in their heyday and played in their farm league. However, he decided to accept the Bethlehem Steel offer and went to Venezuela. I remember, as a child, telling him, “But why didn’t you stay with the Yankees!?”
He laughed, “Well, if I had, then you’d never have been born.”
“That’s OK! You’d have played with the Yankees!”
He laughed and hugged me.
He would drive to the labor camp and join the men who’d gather every afternoon, after the 4 o’clock whistle. He immediately earned their respect and admiration by playing ball competitively and with scrappy excellence. The days came and went and within months, my father had organized those men, and others who had joined up, into teams, assigning several “naturals” to the positions most suited for them.
He was a player-manager who also pitched and the days he did not pitch, he played left field. The company purchased pin-striped uniforms for the team’s home games and gray for the road. Bold lettering in front read: Iron Mines, short for the Bethlehem Steel subsidiary, Iron Mines Company of Venezuela.
The company also graded the field and built stands and El Pao found itself with a regulation sized baseball field and stadium ready to host the arduous daily practices as well as, eventually, home games for the team.
And they indeed did begin a celebrated career, achieving Double A status and earning two national championships in the 1950s.
My father was a strict manager, which paid off richly. And he was fearless.
He laid down strict rules about drinking, smoking, carousing, and all-around honesty – somewhat like an American high school coach in that era might lay down to his charges.
In season, he worked every day, after the 4 O’clock whistle, with the team and he expected each member to give his all. And it was hard work, as several had not even seen a baseball until my father recruited them to the team. In brief, in less than 5 years, he had transformed them into a championship team.
One star pitcher became something of a prima donna. One day he arrived at the 4:15 PM practice quite drunk. It was not the first time.
My father kicked him off the team: “My team is on the field right now. And they are sober!” He told him. “Go! And bring me your uniform tomorrow without fail.”
The uniform did not appear.
After a few days, my father drove late one night from El Pao to a two-story apartment complex in the outer purlieus of San Félix on the Orinoco, knocked on the door, and, upon the fired pitcher’s opening the door and freezing upon seeing him, demanded the company’s uniform back forthwith.
He returned to El Pao with the uniform.
I heard this story from others; my father didn’t tell me.
When asked by his superiors why on earth he’d risk his life for a lousy baseball uniform, he shrugged, “I didn’t risk my life. That uniform is company property. If we allow a cry-baby to stomp off with company property with no consequences, we open the door to all sorts of malfeasance. I know the folks in San Félix and they know me, and they know the company. There was no danger.”
It was incidents like these that generated my father’s reputation for honesty, persistence, and a desire to make things right.
He was not universally liked; however, many younger men, mostly from the labor camp loved him. He taught them not only baseball, but also discipline and sportsmanship.
I remember once overhearing him tell my mother about a Pittsburg Pirates scout who had seen the team play in Ciudad Bolivar and had approached him after the game to recruit him for the Pirates. My father laughed heartily as he remembered telling his age to the scout and seeing the scout drop his jaw.
I also recall one game in El Pao when the opposing team’s power hitter had batted the ball over the left field fence. Or so it seemed. My father ran like a gazelle, hit the fence, then climbed the fence, jumped up, caught the ball, and fell to the ground, while holding the ball in his glove. I felt like the stands were going to fall, so loud were the cheers and yells and so strong the stomping and slapping. I’ve not often seen joy like that since.
In one game I did not see, as it took place before my birth, my father ran to catch a line drive but the ball was going too fast and he would have missed it if he attempted to catch it with his glove. So he launched himself horizontally and caught the ball with his bare hand.
When he left Venezuela, word spread and the old timers came from around the country and surprised him with a farewell game. He pitched three innings.
My father and the men he trained are mostly all gone now. But I am very grateful for the memories and example he left behind. He always missed the USA. But he made his years in Venezuela count to the utmost.
As a postscript, in 1978 when I visited Venezuela on what is perhaps my most memorable trip, while in Puerto Ordaz one evening, I had inadvertently taken a left turn at an intersection where such a turn was prohibited. A police car immediately pulled me over and the officer rattled off my infraction and hauled me off.
At the precinct I tried to explain that I did not see a “No Left Turn” sign but was willing to pay any fine. But they insisted on putting me in jail and see a magistrate whenever one became available.
After about an hour going back and forth, and seeing the police were not budging, in subdued exasperation I said, “I am very saddened that after leaving El Pao and returning to visit the land of my birth, my compatriots are about to jail me.”
I said this, remembering that my father often advised me that, when in trouble, to remind folks that I am “one of them”. That might move them to see me in a different light.
“You are Venezuelan?” asked my chief interrogator.
“Of course, I am! I was born about an hour from here in El Pao.”
“Barnes …. Barnes…. What was your father’s name?”
“Charles. Charles M Barnes.”
At this, the officer broke into a big, open smile and almost yelled, “When I was a little boy I used to beg my father to take me to see your father play! I saw him as often as I could! He was the best ball player I have ever seen. Is he well?”
“Yes. He is well.”
After another 15 or so minutes of reminiscences about my father, they released me with their best wishes.
Thank you, dear Dad.
Happy Father’s Day.
Iron Mines team, circa 1956. My father on front row, far left.
On an exciting trip down the Orinoco River to Puerto de Hierro, Venezuela — Circa 1963
Newspaper account of the farewell game in honor of my father — 1976. Note: he was also known as “The Cubano” because he was born in Cuba where my grandfather, Max A. Barnes stayed after the Spanish American War.
My father sat alone on the divan in the enclosed porch area reading El Universal, a national Venezuelan newspaper, as he listened to Aaron Copeland’s Tender Land Suite playing on the record player.
My father’s record collection was not extensive, but later in life, I would evoke the sounds of Beethoven’s and Mendelssohn’s violin concertos, Dvorak’s New World Symphony, and Debussy’s hypnotically enthralling Clair de Lune. I would often recall Van Cliburn’s performing Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninoff in that record whose cover has the famous prodigy seated at the piano as if in an arch, a picture of sublime concentration. There were other records, of course, including anthologies of movie themes such as Laura and High Noon, which I would remember.
But – as my wife and children will attest — I regularly associate the intensely lyrical Tender Land Suite, especially the finale, “The Promise of Living”, with El Pao and with … John Wayne. The Copeland compositions are not directly associated with any of the American actor’s movies; however, those rugged, American-sounding bars, and chords, and melodies summoned scenes from Monument Valley, the Sierra’s, the Rockies, the Shenandoah Valley, and the vast Texas Big Bend.
Sights I had not yet seen, except in western picture shows which, to my mind, were never as good as when John Wayne was in them. And, to me, John Wayne was America. Especially the West.
Relatively current movies were shown in El Pao twice a week: Wednesdays and Sundays. They’d be flown in from Ciudad Bolivar, formerly Angostura, on the shores of the Orinoco, by helicopter.
The helicopter would seem to hover a bit but would actually be flying in a slow oblong circle above the clearing next to the club grounds, just beyond the swimming pools. Then it would descend onto the field, creating its own whirlwind. Boys sprinted to the clearing to gawk at the descending helicopter.
That was almost more exciting than finding out what pictures would be shown that week. Almost.
Venezuelan censure laws were strict and the American camp abided by them. “A” movies were for all, including children; “B” movies were for audiences 14 years old and above; and “C” movies were for adults 18 years and older.
So, as the pilot emerged from the cockpit, the boys demanded to know the censure rating of the movies he carried. “Well, lads, both movies are ‘C’. Sorry!” Then he’d stare at their hang dog looks as they absorbed the melancholy reality of a week wherein they would not partake of Hollywood’s offerings.
One of the movies I most recall when hearing Copeland is The Searchers: John Ford’s, and, in the view of many, also John Wayne’s masterpiece.
Scenes from that film were stimulated to remembrance by the record my father often listened to. Memories of a big man, Ethan Edwards, remorselessly searching, for 7 years, for the Comanche Indian, “Scar”, whose reputation for murder and mayhem, terrified even his own devotees.
It was Scar who had butchered Ethan’s brother and sister-in-law and kidnapped his two nieces. Wayne’s portrayal of Ethan, a Confederate army veteran who refuses to take the Union oath because he figures “one oath is enough in the lifetime of one man,” is suffused with barely suppressed rage and focused determination to fulfill his duty to recover the eventually sole surviving niece.
“We’ll find ‘em. As sure as the world turns, we’ll find ‘em,” he mutters as he looks across the desolate, snow covered prairies, rides through majestic Monument Valley, crosses rapids and deserts, and in fury kills buffalo to reduce his quarry’s food supply.
But he also more than intimates that “…it were better for [his niece] to be dead” than to live as a crazed woman with a foot in savagery and another in no-man’s land. In such a condition, would she not pull down the civilization where he would eventually bring her? Would it be better to kill her instead of recover her? The tension becomes almost unbearable as the movie unrelentingly proceeds, step by step, battle by battle, to its furious climactic scene, filmed in Monument Valley.
It is a movie for adults, but one that was seared in the minds and hearts of children who paid attention when they viewed it in the 1950’s.
As a young boy, my psyche subconsciously drew in the intensely nostalgically played strings and horns of the finale of Copeland’s suite, my mind thrust forward the images of Ethan Edwards persistently, sedulously striding across the wild, savage West, every once in a while coming to catch his breath at outposts of civilization, as if to tell folks, “if it weren’t for men like me, these outposts would cease to exist.”
Maybe it was projection, maybe naïveté or childishness; nevertheless, as a boy, I did respect the men in El Pao. Would there have been such a place in the middle of that jungle were it not for men like these? Would the place survive, as it is, without such men? Or without honoring their memory?
Early years
Charles M. Barnes (right) and Mr. Trumbour, mining camp controller — circa 1945
Memorial Day, originally Decoration Day, is a civil holiday originating during and after the War Between the States. Its purpose is to honor those who have died while serving in the United States Armed Forces. The first known tomb which to have been officially honored was in Virginia where the first Civil War soldier’s grave was decorated. The soldier’s name was John Quincy Marr, who died on June 1, 1861. More soldiers’ graves were decorated a few years later in Jackson, Mississippi, Richmond, Virginia, and other towns until the first formal proclamation in 1868.
Most names are unknown to us today, unless we have family, friends, or loved ones who have died in United States wars over the past one hundred and sixty years or so.
This post remembers a selfless soldier named Euripides Rubio, born on March 1, 1938, in Ponce, Puerto Rico. I am taking the information verbatim from Chapter 17 of the book, Pay to the Order of Puerto Rico, by Alexander Odishelidze and Arthur Laffer.
“Captain Rubio was attached to the 1st Battalion, 28th Infantry of the U.S. Army. He had entered service at Fort Buchanan in Puerto Rico. He was serving as his unit’s communications officer when it came under fire from the Viet Cong. Capt. Rubio and his fellow soldiers were badly outnumbered. The communist forces raked the American position with machine gun fire and launched mortar rounds and rifle grenades into the midst of the Americans.
“Had he remained where he was, Capt. Rubio might have been safe. Instead, he left his position and moved to the area where the firing was the most intense, distributing ammunition, tending to the wounded, and helping re-position the Army defenders. By exposing himself this way, he was wounded twice, but he kept on. When one of the battalion’s rifle company commanders was wounded and evacuated, Capt. Rubio quickly took command. Moving among his men to rally their spirits in the face of the devastating Viet Cong fusillade, he was wounded a third time.
“When more men were wounded, Capt. Rubio attended to them. [Then] he noticed something that put the company in danger of drawing friendly fire. A smoke grenade that had been dropped to mark the position of the Viet Cong for U.S. air strikes had fallen dangerously close to the American and Republic of Viet Nam lines. Rubio rushed to grab the smoke grenade and reposition it to safeguard his countrymen and our allies, when enemy fire drove him to his knees. Somehow, undeterred, he scooped up the grenade, ‘ran through the deadly hail of fire to within 20 meters of the enemy position,’ as the citation reads, and hurled the smoking grenade into the midst of the Viet Cong before collapsing for the final time.
“Using the grenade to target their attacks, allied air strikes were directed to destroy the Viet Cong forces and end their assault. As the citation further reads, “Capt. Rubio’s singularly heroic act turned the tide of battle, and his extraordinary leadership and valor were a magnificent inspiration to his men. His remarkable bravery and selfless concern for his men are in keeping with the highest traditions of the military service and reflect great credit on Capt. Rubio and the U.S. Army.’
“Capt. Euripides Rubio died on November 8, 1966. He is one of four Puerto Ricans who have won the Congressional Medal of Honor. All four were killed in action.”
Over the years I’ve posted events or issues of immediate concern regarding Venezuela. My lack of ongoing follow-ups on those is simply due to the nature of this blog, which is not current events or news, but rather more of an interest in lesser known background and historical material.
Nevertheless, every once in a while, it is good to update certain matters raised in past posts.
This post’s title covers the essence: “Venezuelan Navy Captain Dies After Signs of Torture”. His autopsy revealed 38 torture related injuries. To this day, no one has been prosecuted for this atrocity. And that is one reason why such abominations have persisted. The latest that we know of is the case of Rocío San Miguel who in February of this year was arrested in Maiquetía, the international airport which serves Caracas, as she and her daughter were about to board a plane for a short trip to Miami. She has become one of the many “forced disappearances” in that stricken land. Last we know is that she has been charged for terrorism and conspiracy (seems that such charges are favorites of an entrenched ruling class) and is now in the Helicoide, a notorious detention center known for the brutality of its caretakers. In short, the brazen illegal and immoral treatment of the Navy captain has become a portent of worse events thereafter.
As a side note, the Helicoide was almost completed during the presidency of Marcos Pérez Jiménez. However, the army-led coup put off the completion for decades as the structure originally intended as a futuristic shopping mall with drive-in boutiques — with all spaces pre-sold, providing sufficient financing for its construction — became a state-owned torture chamber.
The situation has worsened but at least its reality is better known than the inhumane treatment of citizens who have fallen into the clutches of the Communist dictatorship. It is very unfortunate that many who have crossed the Darien Gap and reached our borders do not mean us well. Unfortunate because many more do mean us well and are simply grateful to have been able to escape Venezuela.
It is difficult for us to appreciate the difficulty — physically and psychologically — of many thousands good folks who escape. Venezuelans are similar to Russians in this regard. They do not see themselves ever leaving their land. The pull is just too strong. They are like Dr. Zhivago: “He’ll never leave, [no matter how disastrously he has been treated].” However, the situation has become so unbearable that many have indeed taken the fateful step to go. I know one head of family who always told me, “I will never leave. No reason to do so.” He is now in another country along with his wife and children. There comes a time when one must take steps previously inconceivable.
Venezuela is headed to presidential elections on July 28 of this year (2024). However, shameless attempts to game the results since the early 21st Century have left the Venezuelan people worse than jaded. They “know” elections mean nothing in their country.
Nevertheless, there is palpable excitement this year and the hope is that the results will be so overwhelming for the opposition that the usual shenanigans won’t succeed. Many, however, are not so sanguine. Since the early 2000s the regime has muscled through ultracrepidarian power plays which have placed the counting of the votes in their own hands. Stalin was known to have said: “I consider it completely unimportant who will vote, or how; but what is extraordinarily important is this — who will count the votes, and how (cited by his former secretary, Boris Bazhanov).”
I believe Venezuelans will vote this year, even if the opposition candidate lands in the Helicoide. But we will have to wait and see how the vote counting goes.
The war drums on the part of the Venezuela ruling class against the people of Guyana has not receded. However, the silence on this issue on the part of western media is deafening. The issue is alive and threatening, right in our own back yard, while we are invited to “Look! A squirrel!” towards Ukraine and the Middle East.
Throughout history all self-described Socialist regimes have promoted wars, not only against their own peoples but against other countries. Venezuela is no exception.
In addition, as is well-known, in the last two or three years the United States strategic oil reserves have been depleted to an unheard of level. Should there be oil disruptions because of a Venezuela – Guyana conflict coupled with Middle Eastern uncertainty (Saudi Arabia’s king has been hospitalized), we could experience disruptions not seen in many years.
When we pray for our friends in Venezuela, we also pray for ourselves in the United States.
In 2019, economist Steve Hanke published a short video on X (formerly Twitter) that is still relevant today. True, Chile has since again succumbed to the Socialist siren call but not to Venezuela’s degree.
Here is the Hanke video, which is worth another look:
