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“Bali Ha’i” and “India Country Side”

Richard Barnes

Elsewhere in these posts I’ve mentioned that corporate work assignments in South America in the early to the mid-Twentieth Century often included generous annual home leaves. Although my father’s point of origin was Massachussets, we usually spent his leave in Miami, visiting family; however, every two years or so, my father would take us to New York City for a few days. He knew the city pretty well as he’d attend Yankee games during his high school years in Massachussets. 

On one of our visits, circa 1959, we were treated to a nice restaurant: one of those with violinists going from table to table playing diners’ requests. At our table, after Mother’s request had been honored, the violinist asked me for a favorite. I said, “Three Coins In A Fountain”!

The violinist was stunned and laughed loudly. He played it and then said, “I was not expecting that request at all!. I was expecting something like this!” 

He proceeded to play an energetic rendition of “Pop Goes The Weasel”, which I also enjoyed.

Then he asked my parents about our music listening habits and they told him some of the records we had at home besides children records: music by composers such as Beethoven and Bach as well as movie soundtracks, such as my request. They told him that my favorite soundtracks were South Pacific and Around the World In 80 Days.

That was true, but it would have been more accurate to have said that whenever I thought of those, I would think principally of “Bali Ha’i” from the first and “India Country Side” from the second.

In 1986 during an audit assignment overseas, the once-pretty-good 60 Minutes broadcast a piece wherein Diane Sawyer traveled with James Michener to the island of Espíritu Santo (New Hebrides Islands, now named Vanuatu, in the Pacific) where he, forty years before, had written Tales of the South Pacific. 

A little over halfway in the interview, Sawyer asked him whether his favorite tune was “You’ve Got To Be Taught” — a tune about Americans being prejudiced or racist. Typical question by a mainstream journalist which received an atypical reply: “Bali Ha’i”. I was not a fan of Michener’s politics. But I softened quite a bit towards him when he gave that answer. In that, we were united.

A few years later, in 1993, I was in Mexico City on business. After dinner on the night before my departure, I returned to my hotel room ready to hit the sack for a few hours before an early flight the next morning. But as I crossed the lobby, I saw that a television set was playing Around the World In 80 Days.

So, against my better judgment, I flipped on the set in my room and watched, looking for the scene where Cantinflas gazes out the window of his sleeper car as the soundtrack plays “India Country Side”. 

The next morning, in the taxi, the driver casually commented, “Bueno, se nos fue Cantinflas.” 

I had not listened to the news nor even glanced at newspaper headlines, so did not know that he had died the night before, as I watched the film that marked his American debut. To this day, I do not know whether the station knowingly broadcast that movie that night or whether it was done because they knew that Cantinflas was dying and actually passed away at 9:25.

When I think of El Pao, oftentimes several tunes invade my mind and heart. Among them, invariably, the music of “Bali Ha’i” and “India Country Side” are close to center stage. 

Diane Sawyer interviews James Michener in 1986

Cantinflas about to press against the window to marvel at the India Country Side, 1956 

Explosion and Fire in Carabobo (Venezuela) Hospital

Richard Barnes

George Orwell’s astonishingly prescient novel, 1984, describes a mechanism whereby events — whether historical or current — which are embarrassing to the regime are cast into the “memory hole” or are “memory holed”. 

When I first read the novel in my teen years, I immediately identified the memory hole with Pravda, the official news organ of the late Soviet Union Communist party. Years later, during the “Iran-Contra” hearings I was astonished to see live examples of real-time memory holing in our own country. I found myself in a location which was playing the hearings live, so I had a pretty good understanding of what happened in the hearings on that particular day. 

However, watching the news that very evening and then reading the news the following morning, I had the distinct feeling that the “reports” of that day’s hearings were either utterly dishonest or the reporter was at another hearing with no relation to the event labeled “Iran-Contra Hearing”. It was breathtaking.

And eye-opening. 

I recalled my father telling me about Walter Duranty, the New York Times reporter whose mendacious reporting about the glories of the Soviet Union won him a Pulitzer prize which to this day has not been revoked let alone denounced despite the knowledge that his reports were utter nonsense — to put it charitably. I had believed that Duranty was an exception. However, after Iran-Contra, I was not so sure.

Now, of course, such shenanigans are so commonplace we run the risk of shrugging them off without pausing to consider the danger such actions pose to us as a free people. 

In January of this year, an explosion and fire shook and damaged the pediatric area of a hospital in the city of Valencia, in the Venezuelan state of Carabobo. El Carabobeño, a local newspaper, carried a snippet on the event, noting that they had been unable to get an “official” explanation as to the cause and the extent of the damages, other than that there were no casualties and all affected patients had been successfully evacuated.

The Caracas Chronicles also carried a short article on the event, noting that it was not the fire brigade or any government agency that had contained and eventually extinguished the fire: “It was not the fire brigade; the catastrophe was averted by the doctors, the nurses, the janitors, and other employees.” 

The reporter — whose name is withheld — makes a serious observation:

There are many reasons this barely made the headlines, even within our own state. There weren’t any casualties and with so many crises in our country, it is impossible to keep up with them all. Power outages lasting several hours are still common in Carabobo. But we cannot ignore censorship as a key factor. As soon as we were discussing how to handle work the day after the fire, there was a consensus not to make any public statements. It is not like most health workers support the government; far from it. But they fear the consequences of speaking out. And I include myself in that. I’m only human.

I did a quick online search of this event and found nothing (apart from the sources noted above. In fact, in one AI-generated reply, I was told there was no report of such an event!

In effect, this episode has been memory holed.

Our liberties are precious, including our freedom to speak the truth as we see it. These liberties came under serious attack during the recent “plague” years when even respected doctors and physicians were silenced or mocked into oblivion. Common folks — laymen — who questioned the wisdom of coercive actions taken by local and federal agencies were threatened and even dismissed from their employments. Now even the former persecutors are acknowledging, however indirectly, that the objects of their virulence actually turned out to be right. But no apologies, much less sincere mea culpas have been forthcoming.

We must defend our liberties or we shall lose them.

One way to defend them is to support — however we may be able to — an organization or person who, with integrity has been speaking truth especially in these past 5 or so years. They have been doing a work for us all. And they have paid a price. Such people can be relatively easily identified.

I’ll close this post with one more quote from the above-mentioned reporter:

The same state that normalized Carabobo’s blackouts — very likely causing this fire — is the same state that fuels a climate of fear, making it nearly impossible to even talk about these problems, let alone solve them. I still remember a little girl with a fractured leg. She had a fever and had to be evacuated that night, with nurses administering medicine outside to keep it under control. She kept repeating, “Don’t make me go back to the hospital! I’m scared!” Because of the incompetence of the corrupt elite that rules us — people who will never set foot in a public hospital — Venezuela’s most vulnerable children are forced to endure trauma. And as if that were not enough, the fear of speaking out against the dictatorship has left people just like the hospital that night: in complete darkness.

Berán and Sinatra

Richard Barnes

Although the Golden Encyclopedia of Music focuses primarily on what is generically grouped as “classical”, whether composers, instruments, interpreters, performances, and more, it also includes singers and musicians who are considered influential and excellent interpreters of popular ballads. So although the encyclopedia, rightfully, includes longish articles on eminences like Johann Sebastian Bach, it also includes a brief entry for Francis (“Frank”) Albert Sinatra. Significantly, it has no entry for The Beatles or any of their members. One may disagree with the inclusions or exclusions; however, one ought to recognize that if the volume is going to include 20th Century popular music it surely must, and does, acknowledge Sinatra.

Although I knew about Mr. Sinatra since my childhood — he was ubiquitous for over half the century — I did not pay much attention to him until 1980. It was that year that he made news by actually commenting — at the end of a show — about the cultural and political state of our country. This was so unusual for him — not that he wasn’t known for having his political preferences; but he did not discuss such things as part of his on stage repertoire. Very different from just about every two-bit performing seal today!

Sinatra’s comments on that occasion urged his audience to seriously consider voting for Ronald Reagan in November of that year. Reading some of the newspaper accounts, you’d be forgiven if you got the impression he had called for the return of the ice age or a resurgence of the Black Death. As it turned out, most folk understood perfectly well what he meant and voted accordingly.

It was in that decade that I bought my first Sinatra albums and began to appreciate his craft — from a layman’s perspective. I learned that he’d swim under water every day, when a younger man, to strengthen and expand  his lung capacity. The experts may disagree with him as to the efficacy of that exercise; what impressed me was his absolute dedication to his vocation. How he made every song “his own” was also something that awed me.

My father still lived in the early 80s and in conversations he’d recall how influential Sinatra and his music were in the 40s and 50s, although the rumors of underworld connections bothered my father enough that he refused to buy any more of the crooner’s records and it was only towards the late 70s that he softened a bit, admitting that he was indeed a very good singer, and in some cases — From Here to Eternity, for example — a good actor as well.

It was in the early 80s that my beloved Aunt Sarah and Uncle Luis (“Wichy”) began tuning in to a Frank Sinatra radio station in Miami. They enjoyed reminiscing with the music, which was pretty clear and “listenable”. 

I personally do not like all his songs — some of which I find suggestive and unnecessary — but his oeuvre is most impressive and for the most part worth listening to every once in a while. By the late 90s my favorites came down to three albums:

Only the Lonely — According to the connoisseurs, Sinatra was best known as a wee-hours-of-the-morning, sad crooner. If so, this Capitol album from 1958 surely is the epitome. This is the sad and longing Sinatra singing for the waning generation of the late 50s.

September Of My Years — This Grammy award-winning (when the Grammy meant something) album of the year, asks and does not quite answer the question many middle-aged men ask themselves: who am I? This is the album that has one of the songs he is most identified with, “It Was A Very Good Year”. It also has one of my favorites: “The September Song”, which I first heard sung by Jimmy Durante in New York (on television).

Everything Happens To Me — Two years before his death in 1998, Sinatra worked with his daughter to compile his favorite songs released by his recording company, Reprise. Significantly, although he released songs and albums into the 90s, the selections in this album were all recorded between 1962 and 1981. This album is an echo to Only The Lonely with most of the songs in the same nostalgic category. “The Gal That Got Away” and “Summer Wind” give you an idea. This is not a “hits” album; it is simply what he preferred to sing.

In 1983 I took my fiancé to a Frank Sinatra benefit concert at the Fox Theater in Atlanta, Georgia. It’s not for nothing that he’s known as the best entertainer of the 20th Century. The next day, as we told my mother and dear friend, Mrs. Eleonora Berán, about it, she shared an anecdote involving her late husband.

In the early 60s (for the life of me, I cannot remember the exact year), Mr. Berán was flying from Caracas (Maiquetía) to Miami. At the ticket counter he was informed that the entire first class compartment was unavailable. Mr. Berán, who had a confirmed first class ticket refused to accept this and demanded to speak to management. He was then informed that Frank Sinatra was flying back to the USA and had purchased all seats in first class to fly alone. Mr. Berán was unmoved. The airline spoke with Mr. Sinatra who accepted Mr. Berán. The entire flight, Sinatra was in the first row, on the right window seat; Mr. Berán, in the last row on the left window seat. They were the only two passengers in that section. 

Mr. Berán said the service was very good! As in a very good year.

Frank Sinatra in Caracas in 1982

Lunch and good conversation with Mr. Berán in Venezuela in 1978

Postscript To If It Belongs To All….

Richard Barnes

If It Belongs To All….

In my research for the second to last post, I saw some comments online which, unfortunately, I failed to source. Nevertheless, I believe the reader will appreciate them and if anyone knows the source, please advise and I’ll give due credit. 

They are not my words, but they encapsule my memories as well as my gratitude. I’ve linked to prior posts which expand on the subject or comment, as necessary. I’ve made no changes or edits to the comments, other than grammatical corrections for ease of reading.

Comments Online

El Pao has a very cool tropical jungle climate with rainy periods from April to November each year. Minimum temperatures reach 19º C [66° F] and maximum temperatures reach 31º C [88° F], with an average of 24º C [75° F].

The Betlehem Steel corporation carried out explorations on the El Florero hills, discovering large iron deposits in this area. Eduardo Boccardo transferred the mining rights to Bethlehem Steel, which began to develop the project for exploitation, creating the subsidiary company Iron Mines Of Venezuela. In 1940, the project to build a road and a railway to the port of Palúa on the right bank of the Orinoco River began, but these were delayed by the events of the Second World War, and exploitation actually began in 1950.

The El Pao camp, as it was known, was divided into three urban groups: “Rankin High” where most of the teachers and nurses lived [my Madrina lived there with her mother], and the Catholic Church was also located there; “San José Obrero” where the workers lived [known to us as “el Otro Campo“], there was a primary school, a commissary, a hospital, an evangelical church, police, a national guard, a hotel, and a workers’ social club; and “El Florero” where the administrative staff, doctors and engineers lived, mostly North Americans in the 50s, 60s and 70s. They had an American primary school and a social club (with a swimming pool, tennis court and bowling alley).

El Pao, a magical place in permanent contact with nature, where every day at 3 in the afternoon we were shaken by the explosives that exploded in search of iron, and the train with its slow and heavy step was the sound of progress, work, and hope. 

Thus, a modest but comfortable [mining and] urban center was built, where the first inhabitants, apart from the peasants from the region, were the immigrant employees who were in charge of carrying out the work of the mine, one of the most significant in all of Venezuela, from which, until 1996, at least 111 million tons of mineral were extracted.

In 1974, the management of the mine passed into the hands of the Venezuelan state, and in 1975 the company, Ferro-minera Orinoco, belonging to the Venezuelan Corporation of Guayana, joined the exploitation works.

Reply from a reader of the above comments:

Greetings from Caracas. Reading this whole story takes me back many years because I was born and raised in El Pao, exactly on Bolivar Street. 

My mother worked at the hospital when the [Americans] left. She had 30 years of service. 

Those were unforgettable times. If God asked me what I would like to repeat in my life, I would tell him to return to El Pao as I lived it, its streets, its green grass, the streets full of mangoes, me going to the commissary, the school — by the way, the best in the state of Bolivar — the best hospital, ufff, everything first class, the pool…. 

Well, friend, I congratulate you for all that I have read, without being able to contain my eyes from clouding with tears when I read or see something from my dear and beloved El Pao, remembered forever. 

I am a Paoense in soul and heart. Greetings.

Paoense. I don’t remember having heard or read that word before. But I fully relate.

View from the administrative camp towards the warehouse and mine, circa 1965

Vivian

Richard Barnes

During the early part of the 20th Century, our grandparents succeeded in keeping our family “close”, despite the greater part of the family being in Massachussets and another part being 1,600 miles away in Cuba. Many years later, I remember having our parents’ cousins visiting us in Miami or we visiting them in Stockbridge, and, later in life, visits in Georgia. At the time I did not think anything of it — taking it for granted.

Our generation — our parents’ children — also stayed close to one another. Annual visits to Miami were taken for granted — at least by me. And as the years went by we stayed close for the most part. I cannot speak for others but as for me my cousins were my brothers and sisters. Year after year we visited, lived in one another’s houses, fought, or simply rejoiced in happy company. 

When death visited us, we took it hard. But not one of us was surprised by that reaction. We grew up in a time when saying “I love you” to siblings or cousins wasn’t “a thing”. But we knew we loved one another; later in life, we actually did begin saying so.

My last conversation with cousin Vivian was one such time. On the phone, 1,500 miles away, I told her that I loved her and she, with what very little strength she had left, said the same.

Vivian’s speech was low key and soothing. She came across as perennially unperturbed, because she always knew and trusted in the Lord that all would turn out well, no matter what the crisis.

In supreme pain, during my mother’s final illness, Vivian visited her if not daily, certainly multiple times a week. Her focus was on Mami, not her own debilitating and painful cancer.

She finally succumbed to that cancer on February 22, 2025, age 69; just one day shy of her and her husband, Rick’s, 50th wedding anniversary. Although we knew the day was close, death is still a slap in the face. 

And will continue to be so until that Day of the “manifestation of the sons of God”, as St. Paul puts it, referring to the Day of Resurrection; a Day Vivian believed in with all her heart, having known her Lord and trusting in Him, to the very end.

Vivian had two siblings: Cousin Louis (Papito) who passed away in December, 2022, and Cousin Janis. Janis and her loving husband Pete are both battling cancer and I earnestly pray and hope their treatments are fully successful. 

In December, 1972, the family met in Miami, Florida, to participate in and celebrate the wedding of Cousin Sarita, Uncle Max and Tía Carmencita’s eldest daughter. We took a photo on that occasion and 34 years later, at a family reunion, we saw that most of us were still here. That is no longer the case, unfortunately.

At Vivian’s burial, and the meal afterwards, two members of the “next” generation spoke about arranging periodic family reunions. I told them I was all for it, but they would have to take the lead on that. My generation — this is my personal opinion — did not do as good a job as our grandparents and parents in keeping the family close. I know I did not and I regret it. Maybe these two young ladies will pick up the slack that we’ve left them.

I hope they do.

Rest in peace, dear Cousin Vivian.

Photo taken the day before Papito’s memorial service, February, 2023.  From left to right: Janis, Pete, Vivian, and myself.

September, 2023, shortly before my mother’s passing. Vivan is to the right: standing, solid peach blouse

December, 1972. Thirteen (13) are now gone. But we trust to see them again.