Author: Richard Barnes

Mining

Richard Barnes

Any blog on Venezuela must include posts on mining. In the future, I hope to have a post or two from guests with more expertise on the more technical aspects of the mining industry in Venezuela and their complex engineering facets. Meanwhile, we can certainly post things of interest or of general introduction.

Depending on your sources, Venezuela was one of the world’s largest producers (some sources had it as the largest) of direct-reduced iron (iron ore which is reduced to a smaller form, usually pellets by means of a specially formulated gas). It was in the top ten of the world’s producers of iron ore, aluminum, and bauxite. And it still ranks as possessing one of the world’s largest known reserves of crude oil, second only to Saudi Arabia, although some say the United States has surpassed both.

It holds one of the world’s largest reserves of gold and was second only to South Africa in diamond production. Countless gems and precious stones have been mined there, especially in the interior state of Bolivar and the giant Territorio Amazonas.

The attentive reader will note the use of the past tense in the second and third paragraphs above. The past tense is used because extraction and production have suffered precipitous declines since the late 1990’s and early 2000’s. I would not be surprised by the discovery of vast new deposits and reserves, alongside the return of successful mining and production, once the investment climate improves. (Meanwhile, we should not be surprised by the intense interest focused on Venezuela by China and Russia.)

In 1956, Time Magazine had at least two issues on iron ore mining in Venezuela. The article in its November 19 issue began thusly: 

“Inland from Venezuela’s Caribbean coast some 200 miles, the swift, black Caroni River plunges into the chocolate-colored Orinoco. Southward from this junction of two mighty streams lie jungles and sandy scrublands studded with low, reddish mountains. This poor-looking expanse is one of the world’s great storehouses of iron. West of the Caroni looms Cerro Bolivar, blanketed with 500 million tons of high-grade ore. Farther west lies another iron mountain, El Trueno, endowed with 150 million tons. On the other side of the Caroni, Bethlehem Steel Corp. gathers up 3,000,000 tons of ore a year from El Pao….”

Poetically and dramatically, the article captures the vastness of the country’s riches in iron ore alone. The country is “awash” with natural resources, even including coltan. We are told that Venezuela is one of only seven countries in the world that have known coltan reserves in sufficient quantities to export. It is a black mineral that is used in mobile (cell) phones and computer chips.

According to recent publications, metal production is at all-time lows; even oil has suffered catastrophically. Here is a recent headline from a technical publication which will suffice for all: “Venezuela’s Iron Ore Mines Operate At Less Than 10% Of Capacity“.

The iron mines of El Pao, where I was born, had massive structures such as a giant ore crusher which was loaded from trucks carrying about 30 tons of ore from the dynamite sites. The crusher ground the ore down to chunks of about 8 inches. Then its covered conveyer carried the reduced ore to a secondary crusher which crushed it further down to 2 or 3 inches. Finally, that ore was poured into 34-car trains which transported 4,500 tons of crushed ore 35 miles daily to the company port on the Orinoco River from whence it was shipped to a deeper water port on the Caribbean coast, transshipped to larger oceangoing vessels, and delivered to Sparrows Point, Maryland, the world’s largest steel mill at the time.

Clearing through the jungles from the Orinoco to the camp site. Arduous work, which at times brought mishaps and frights
Ore crusher at El Pao
train loaded with ore headed to the company port, Palúa, on the Orinoco
Company port 
Sparrows Point, Maryland. At the time, the largest steel mill in the world

That accounts for a fraction of the investment required by one company to successfully extract and produce steel. To that, must be added roads, bridges, hundreds of houses for miners and their families, schools, churches, recreational facilities, commissaries, airports, and more. Multiply that by the dozens of American and European companies who came to Venezuela for iron ore, petroleum, and other minerals, and you begin to get an idea of the gargantuan investment made in the country in the first fifty or so years of the 20th century. For example, US Steel’s investment greatly surpassed Bethlehem Steel’s. And so did the oil companies’.

Some of the home office staff bidding farewell to one of their number who was going on annual leave

Circa 1958, my beloved aunt visited us from Miami, Florida. Although a busy homemaker, she was of that generation who would, nevertheless, find time to experience and appreciate the natural world that surrounds us. So, naturally, we would go on day excursions to different parts of Guayana. Once, in the interior, as we drove over a small stream she asked my father if he’d stop the car so that we could walk around a bit. We got out and made our way to that stream and my aunt promptly took her shoes off and waded in, carefully stepping on the rocks and smooth stones under the water. 

“There are gems in this place,” she said.

I, regrettably, never learned why she thought that, although I do recall spirited conversations between my parents, my godmother, and my aunt about the possibilities. Then, all possibilities having been exhausted in conversation as we wandered around, we embarked and continued on our journey.

A few years later, my father brought a newspaper report noting that a gem mining concession had been granted in that spot, which became a profitable enterprise.

A country might be supremely rich in natural resources; it may have people, like my aunt, who can discern the riches under the surface. But if it discourages investment and healthy incentives, what can we say about all those natural resources other than, “Why cumbereth it the ground?”

Or, “Why bury your talent?”

“There are gems in this place.”

Coffee

Richard Barnes

This in no way is the opinion of a coffee connoisseur; just an anecdote in the ongoing education of a layman who likes coffee.

I often wondered why coffee tasted so good in Venezuela but so bad in Colombia. The conundrum was a challenge because having brought both Venezuelan and Colombian coffees to our home in Michigan and, later, Texas, preparing and drinking the Colombian was a delight, whereas the Venezuelan was a bitter memory. This neatly inverted my experience when actually drinking coffee in the respective countries: in Venezuela, coffee good; in Colombia, coffee bad.

Why was that? Why was coffee so flavorful in Venezuela, whether in fine restaurants or on street corners or in middle-of-nowhere joints, but so insipid in similar venues in Colombia? And yet, when you took the same coffees out of the country, the experience was exactly the reverse?

During an assignment in South America in the early 1990’s, I was invited for dinner at the home of a European executive and his wife. They served exquisite coffee.

“This coffee is very good. I assume it’s Colombian,” I said. 

“Well, no. It’s Venezuelan,” our hostess replied. And then she and her husband laughed. They went on to explain that the reason coffee tasted good in Venezuela is that, although Venezuelan coffee is, in general, really not very good, the country’s bistros, restaurants, street corners, and country kiosks were equipped with the best European coffee makers, whether simple, Italian-made stainless steel stove top expresso makers (not to be confused with made-in-China Bialetti’s, whose coffee soon has the whiff of aluminum) or the marvelously complex, Swiss-or-Italian-made stainless steel commercial barista-operated machines.

“That is not the case in Colombia, for the most part. Yes, their coffee is indeed superior, but they go cheap on the coffee-making equipment and hence their coffee suffers.”

The point they drove home was that, for a tasty cup of coffee, the coffee maker can be more important than the coffee itself. Experts may disagree with their statement, but my own experience, anecdotal and unprofessional as it is, bears it out. And did I mention that the executive was a longtime employee of one of the largest food and beverage companies in the world? He likely knows what he’s talking about.

Once, in my mid teens, during a 24-hour drive from the interior to Maracay (a city to the west of Caracas), my father was not comfortable stopping for the night given that the inns we had inspected were, shall we say, not family friendly. He decided to continue driving but asked me to assist given that my mother was too sleepy to do so. I was excited for my first opportunity to drive on one of our excursions but was just as sleepy as he was. My father knew that the large cattle ranches in the area (known as hatos) would at times have giant kiosks with generators and excellent coffee along some roadsides. Around three in the morning, we saw one, like an oasis bathed in bright lights piercing the stark darkness. It was open air and the cowboys could be seen from the road as they leaned on the massive mahogany counter chatting and sipping their “negritos”, a very strong espresso-like concoction. My father ordered two. It was my first ever and it kept me awake and wired through the rest of the dark hours and into the middle of the morning when we drove into the city.

Three impressions stay with me from that incident: first, the bright lights in the darkest period of the night; second, the vaqueros in their boots and large hats as they leaned and talked and took their coffee; and, third, the intricate and polished espresso machines which, to a boy, seemed to extend the length of the wooden counter. This was an example of the Italian-made coffee makers one would find in the remotest corners of Venezuela, producing a coffee so excellent, that it would make Venezuelans dining in Paris bistros yearn for that homemade brew.

Venezuela once rivalled Colombia in terms of coffee production (not taste, except for rare artesanal coffee). Sadly, Venezuela’s coffee production has been in steep decline, especially since early this century when the effect of state regulations interfered with and disrupted coffee growers’ operations. In this regard, Venezuela has more in common with Cuba than to its neighbor. In Venezuela, power is now officially rationed but we can be grateful that, unlike Cuba, coffee is not.

Well, Colombia and Venezuela were supposed to be one country, not two. Maybe they’ll agree to unite one day, for the perfect cup of coffee.


A recent photo of Caracas at dusk. Notice the absence of lighting. An astounding contrast to the lighted kiosk in the “middle of nowhere”.

About twice the size I drank that dark morning, only without milk and thicker (if boyhood memory serves)

And, for breakfast, hard to beat corn arepas accompanied by that coffee. 

Venezuela coffee farm surrounded by mountains

My father clowning around while enjoying his Venezuelan coffee break, circa 1950

Madrina

Richard Barnes

In today’s quick-paced Western world, hand-written letters are a lost art. Why would anyone write a letter when email…no, wait! That’s just as anachronistic. Texting is more efficient. And, for good measure, be sure to use acronyms AMAP!*

Over a recent weekend as I was going through some old documents searching for Bethlehem Steel correspondence, I found a less ancient recent letter that I had inadvertently filed among them.

The letter is dated March 21, 1995, but was actually completed about two weeks later, as it was written over a space of over ten days. It was from my godmother, known as madrina in Spanish, who wrote me after she had received our 1994 Christmas letter and photo. She lived in the interior of Venezuela and passed away a few years ago; an event which saddened me deeply.

The letter is written over eight pages in beautiful, flowing longhand script. It is thoughtful, funny, sincere, and, most importantly, loving. The letter writer had schooling: three grades. Plus six months’ secretarial school. I mean no offense or disrespect to my fellow college-educated friends but she was more educated — truly educated — than most of us.

Her nephew was one of my best early childhood friends. Whenever I think of him, I think of the classic carousel humming top. He and I would dedicate much time of play spinning that thing. We each had one and “competed”. Not sure on what basis we kept score. But we did.

As a child, I addressed her as “Tía C__L__”. And I addressed her thusly the very last time I visited with her in 2005, when her mind had begun to noticeably fail. She lived another nine years after that, passing away in 2014.

The perceptive reader will note how loving and also how prescient she was. 

Here are some excerpts:

“My dear nephew….

“I pray to the Lord that you are well and in union with your family and I also ask God that He might bless you with good health, peace, and wellbeing in this new year that began not too long ago. Amen…..

I’ll tell you that I received your letter in mid-February and it was stamped in Texas in December, 1994. Almost two months to arrive in my hands. This happens all-too-frequently in our country; mail arrives in Venezuela quickly, but there is far too much neglect….”

“Ricky, my dear son, this aunt of yours would so much like to … and know all that happens in your family. The mischiefs, anecdotes, and the rest of the acts of the “gang’ and in general of every one of you all.”

“I believe my memory is beginning to fail me. I think I’ll have to consult with a doctor to see if he can help me with a given medication. Sometimes I have difficulties maintaining a conversation because I forget a word or two or the name of a person or thing. This worries me and makes me feel bad. But I am fully conscious that this is the work of the ‘almanac’ which promotes havoc as time goes by.”….

“Ah! Lillian, a little birdie told me that, soon, God willing, another baby will arrive. Is it true? If so, may it please the Lord God that all goes well and that a little sister may arrive to accompany Elizabeth… [to Elizabeth’s dismay, it turned out to be another boy, Nathan. But the next birth was indeed a sister, Esther — RMB].”

“The truth, daughter, is that children are a blessing from God and are the joy of life for loving couples. That’s how I see it.”….

“Today, the third of April, I have heard on the noon news that a major embezzlement was discovered in SIDOR [the large steel works operation in Guayana, Venezuela’s interior. Refer to post, Guayana The Reverse Miracle — RMB]. I will be following this event. Our country fell into disgrace ever since the [mining industry was expropriated] during the time that Colombian [his opponents denied he was born in Venezuela — RMB], Carlos Andrés Pérez ruled, and the fanaticism of the political masses re-elected him [twenty years later] so he could finish the job of destruction. Now the people … expect the new administration to perform miracles in little time.”

[She, like many Venezuelans, was very frank in her assessments of all political leaders and parties — RMB]….

“Please forgive me for commenting on all this…. It hurts me that my country, so beautiful and with so much treasure in its soil, a country which should be at the top of the list of the world’s industrialized and developed countries is in such a disastrous condition. How far from today’s conscience are the writings of our Libertador, Simón Bolivar. No one even considers him or hearkens to him…. Unfortunately, in my thinking, none of those who have governed Venezuela have loved her in truth.”

In my godmother you can see and hear “the Spain” in the people of Venezuela — the courtesy, the simple erudition, the warmth, the transparency — and, in her regard for Bolivar, you can also sense “the France”. Finally, in her recognition of the corruption of her country’s leaders — “none … have loved her in truth” — you can see the inchoate recognition that something was wrong and had been wrong for a long time. These thoughts will be developed as we continue posting over the coming months.

I miss you, dear Tía.


*As much as possible.

The Barracks, Part II — José Tomás Boves

Richard Barnes

One cannot begin to understand Venezuela without knowing some of its revolutionary history.

In the previous post I alluded to the bloodletting in Venezuela in the revolutionary wars of the 19th century. Among the most terrible campaigns of the era (of any era) were those of José Tomás Boves, Venezuela’s own Attila the Hun, also known as The Beast On Horseback. Boves was born in Spain but lived in Venezuela most of his life. He began his horrors in the vast plains of Apure and Guárico, scenes of immense bloodshed. Numerous contemporary reports describe the monstrous rainy season lakes as reddish with the blood of thousands of Venezuelans slaughtered by their own countrymen during the unbelievably heinous racial wars unleashed by strongmen such as Boves who incited los negros against the white criollos, including the gang rapes of women, children and even toddlers. Some of the tortures inflicted on the criollos (Spanish descendants, but Venezuelan-born) are beyond belief, including the live skinning of men, women, and children.

By the end of the revolution in the late 1820’s, foreign observers reported without exaggeration that Venezuela’s criollo population had practically disappeared. Young women from reputable families, when initiating a courtship, felt compelled to inform their beaus early on, “I am from the time of Boves.” Nothing more needed to be said.

Boves lived by the sword and died by the spear. A few months before his death his army had left Valencia in ruins. One of his many despicable acts was to swear profusely and formally, as the Eucharist was held by a priest outside the city, that he would harm no one. After this ceremony, he and his army entered and called the citizens to a banquet and elaborate ball at which he had his musicians play the tawdry songs of the Apure region, to which he forced the women to dance with his men while the husbands and fathers and brothers were taken and thrust through, impaled, skinned, or otherwise tortured before suffering the coup de grace.

This frenzy lasted 3 days.

On their way out of Valencia, heading east, they came to the home and ranch of the Bravante family. Boves gathered the family, including the 19 and 12-year-old daughters. He ordered his men to defile the girls as he forced the father and brother to watch. He then ordered the family’s slaves to further defile them. Finally, he himself proceeded to engage in the same acts only now the girls were in death’s agony and shortly afterwards were killed.

Boves’s men killed the father but somehow the brother tore loose, killed one of the attackers as he took his horse and fled.

Now we come to the battle of Urica, about a day’s journey north of Maturín, a colonial town just north of the Orinoco River in southwest Venezuela, about three months after the slaughter in Valencia. Boves was in the midst of the battle as the town of Maturín was emptying out into the vast prairies of Venezuela. There was little hope that Boves’s army would be stopped and the people knew better than to expect anything but the vilest treatment.

As the battle raged and Boves’s men took advantage, a young man, fighting in defense of Urica and Maturín, espied him on his horse as he led his men and fought. This young man, with a singleness of purpose and steel in his eyes, fought desperately, to get closer to Boves. As he neared Boves, the opposition of Boves’s men became almost irresistible, but the man, killing as he advanced, was not deterred. Closer, closer he came.

Finally, after several wounds, the young man was thrust to the hard ground. With his sword he killed one of Boves’s lance men and, grabbing the dead man’s lance, he ran like a whirlwind towards the horse and his rider. Screaming like a dervish,  he mightily rammed the lance right through the chest of the evil man. So powerful was the act, that the lance protruded out Boves’s back as he fell from his horse, the eyes glazed open, dead, before he hit the ground. The young man was immediately sliced to death by Boves’s frenzied men. 

The young man was Ambrosio Bravante, avenging his sisters’ miserable deaths at the hands of Boves.

The ravages experienced in Venezuela resembled those of the French Revolution. That is not a coincidence. And it explains much of Venezuelan history. More on this in later posts.


Early 19th century depiction of José Tomás Boves

Mid-19th century depiction based on description by Daniel O’Leary, Irishman who fought with Bolivar against Boves. Boves defeated Bolivar the two times they met in the field of battle.

Note: Historians agree that Boves won the Battle of Urica, but was killed there, by a spear through his chest. But they disagree as to the identity of the man who killed him. I’ve used a well-sourced biography for my description above, but others disagree. Furthermore, historians acknowledge, some reluctantly, that arguments can be made that Boves’ actions were in reprisal to Simón Bolivar’s own actions and his “War To The Death” proclamation. These posts will discuss these and more, in future weeks and months. 


Flag similar to that used by Boves’ forces

The Barracks

Richard Barnes

The three Latin American countries most identified with Simon Bolivar are Colombia, Ecuador, and Venezuela. In the 40’s and 50’s, some used to say: Colombia is the University, Ecuador is the seminary, and Venezuela is the barracks.

Having visited but never having lived in either Colombia or Ecuador, I am reluctant to comment on their monikers above. As to Venezuela, I am reluctant to press its characterization too far. However, at times, a generalization might have a grain of truth. 

I recall getting ready to accompany my cousin to see a movie in San Felix, in the state of Bolivar, a little under 500 miles southeast of Caracas. My aunt cautioned us as we walked out the door, “Be careful! This is the season for recruiting!” My cousin, assured her we’d be all right but I had no idea what she was talking about and just let it go over my head. 

As we approached the theater area, we saw a commotion in front of the theater doors. Soldiers were grabbing young men and boys and tossing them into patrol trucks with cage-like structures on top. My cousin grabbed my shoulder and pulled me behind a corner from where we watched as boys scattered as fast as they could run but many did not make it because soldiers were strategically placed at random points and were pretty successful in apprehending them and dragging them to the trucks which would transport them to boot camp and years in the army. 

I watched in a bit of horror soldiers kicking the boys to the trucks and pushing their posteriors as they scrambled into the cages. Years later, reading about colonial era British shanghai methods and about the American, Shanghai Kelly, I’d recall this scene, which has remained with me since.

Venezuela lost a third of its population during the South American revolutionary wars of the early 19th century. The bloodletting in Venezuela was unmatched by any other South American country or region. To help understand the magnitude of the carnage, with 600,000 to 800,000 deaths (depending on which source you trust), the United States lost about 2 or 3% of its population during the Civil War. That’s more deaths than all her major wars combined.

Venezuela lost 33%.

The military campaigns were heroic, atrocious, incredible, treacherous, and pitiless. They featured unimaginable tortures which paralleled those documented in Wilbarger’s Indian Depredations in Texas. 

In the words of the British Legion’s Captain Mahoney, recorded in Recollections of a Service of Three Years in Venezuela and Colombia: “The best and dearest blood of the inhabitants flowed profusely; their fairest towns and cities were laid waste; and one of the finest portions of the globe became a grievous theatre of rapine, devastation, and murder. It is scarcely hazardous to assert, that there was never a period, in any age or country, in relation to which history has recorded more premeditated slaughter or greater cruelty in the application of tortures more dreadful than death itself.”

That helps explain why Venezuela was known as the barracks.