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Essequibo

Richard Barnes

Mostly under the radar to the rest of the world, but very much on the minds and attitudes of the people of Guyana and on the Venezuelan political class, the long simmering Venezuelan claim over a vast, oil rich area of the Guiana Highlands is dangerously close to erupting.

The highlands are “a heavily forested plateau and low-mountain region north of the Amazon and south of the Orinoco River. This extensive natural border, coupled with nonexistent infrastructure and insufficient political willingness to cooperate from both sides, has left Guyana — and its institutions, customs, culture, and people — as an enigma to the majority of Venezuelans [Caracas Chronicles, February 2, 2024]”. No doubt the same can be said about the Guyanese people’s perceptions about Venezuela.

Two months ago, on December 3, 2023, the Maduro regime claimed an overwhelming “victory” in a referendum where over 95% of the Venezuelan people in effect voted to take over the region and to reject any past or future international arbitration agreements. Of course, since the early naughts any results from “elections” or “referendums” in Venezuela are trusted only by those who believe in the tooth fairy.

Nevertheless, the Maduro regime is proceeding as if an invasion is the “will of the people” (Rousseau is very much with us, no?).

As noted by the Caracas Chronicles, “In the slums of Caracas and in towns closer to the border with Guyana, people remain focused on their many other problems and see the chauvinistic campaign as a bad thing.” 

As well they should.

Since the referendum, the people and authorities of Guyana see the 20,000-plus Venezuelan immigrants as Trojan Horse infiltrators and are making life increasingly difficult for them. These are not “military age single men” such as are being seen in the United States southern border, but rather very poor people who escaped Venezuela in search for a way to feed their families. Guyana has historically never refused them entry.

Brief Background

British Guiana was a possession of England since long before Venezuela had come into existence in the 19th Century. It was only after the terrible revolutionary wars of South America that Venezuela, seeing that the British region contained gold deposits, claimed much of the British colony for herself.

The British were not impressed; however, they were willing to settle the controversy. As far back as 1840 they commissioned Sir Robert Schomburgk to ascertain the true boundary. He made a careful survey which the Venezuelans promptly dismissed. 

Then, in 1895, the Venezuelans turned to the United States whose Anglophobe Secretary of State, Richard Olney, wrote a fierce letter to England’s Prime Minister, Lord Salisbury, who replied several months later, correcting Olney’s interpretation of the Monroe Doctrine, which barred European powers from imposing their systems of governance onto the Americas but did not enter into border disputes. His reply also had the air of a college professor correcting a freshman student’s obvious grammatical errors.  

Salisbury was undoubtedly correct; however, he was diplomatically unwise, not having read the American mood at the time, which was not very pro-British. Lord Salisbury turned his attention to England’s far flung empire, no doubt figuring the Americans would not bother further over that jungle-matted territory.

He figured wrong. President Grover Cleveland sought approval from Congress to appropriate funds for American arbitration of the border dispute, which request was approved unanimously, with a whoop and a holler, by both houses of Congress. The mood was of war with England, should it be necessary.

This was, of course, foolish on the part of the jingoists. England’s navy alone could wreak havoc on America’s coasts. Also, most American’s did not even know where British Guiana was on the map and could not care less, meaning enthusiasm was only temporary.

Across the ocean, similar sentiments prevailed. Most Englishmen agreed that a mosquito-infested piece of the South American jungle was not worth any war, no matter how many gold reserves it might have; after all, England had a corner of the world’s gold without counting the disputed highlands. Besides, the British were far more concerned with the rising power of Germany and also the obstreperous Boers in South Africa, which Germany was cheering on. 

Europe’s discords continued to work to America’s advantage.

So the British agreed to arbitration and provided the Americans with massive amounts of documents and data which helped greatly in the push towards a reasonable and fair settlement. The Americans persuaded the Venezuelans to sign a treaty with England which called for the submission of the border dispute to international arbitration. This was a significant concession by England who knew that arbitrations tended to “split the difference”. The concern was that Venezuela, most unreasonably, claimed most of British Guiana, while England claimed far less of Venezuela.

The decision was issued about two years later and generally followed the Schomburgk line, with two important exceptions. “First, Venezuela secured a considerable area at the southern end; secondly, and much more significantly, she obtained control of the mouth of the Orinoco River [A Diplomatic History of the American People].”

It was Venezuela who had sought “Yankee intervention”. And when Cleveland died in 1908, Venezuela lowered her flags to half mast.

Current Situation

And now, Venezuela has moved “light tanks, missile-equipped patrol boats, and armored carriers to the two countries’ border in what is quickly turning into a new security challenge…. [Wall Street Journal, February 9, 2024].”

Historically, “revolutionary” regimes, which emphatically include Communist and Socialist inspired governments, seek confrontations and conflicts as they point fingers to “the other” as excuses for their own failures. History has ample evidence of this, from the French Revolution and it’s progeny throughout the earth, including the South American revolutionary wars of the 19th Century, the Russian Revolution and its progeny in the 20th, and the thirst for wars of the “free” governments of the 21st.

Essequibo refers to the name of a major river in Guyana. Venezuela aims to push their territorial claims to that river as they seek to take over most of her neighbor’s territory.

Pray for the peoples of Venezuela and Guyana.

Sir Robert Schomburgk, 1804-1865

Lord Salisbury, 1830-1903

United States Secretary of State Richard Olney, 1835-1917

United States President Grover Cleveland, 1837-1908

Georgetown, British Guiana, circa 1900

“This Is It”

Richard Barnes

My wife’s paternal grandparents had fourteen children, twelve of whom survived into maturity. But now, like the elves in The Lord of The Rings trilogy, they are departing, along with their generation.

The night before last we learned that Aunt Ruth had passed away, just a couple weeks short of her hundredth birthday.

For some reason her death caused me great pause, even though I had not known Ruth that well, as she had moved to New York even before my marriage to her niece. 

She was the daughter of Tomás and Andrea Vélez who passed away in 1993 and 2001, respectively. They were hardy folks whose life stories held endless fascination for me. For example, their childhood poverty was enough to cause Tomás to leave home as a boy to seek work. He knew not whither he went, but does recall that, alone in the midst of tall grass which impeded his view and utterly confused his sense of direction, he was suddenly called by a young man a number of yards behind who asked him, “¿Adónde vas?“

Tomás answered truthfully that he did not know, to which the young man said, “Come this way,” as he walked off signaling ahead. By the time Tomás got to the spot where he had seen the youth, he had lost him. However, he followed the general direction pointed out by the stranger and eventually came to a cane field operation where he remained for a number of years, even meeting his wife and marrying her there.

To his old age, Abuelo Tomás expressed gratitude, first to God, and second to that young man who somehow took compassion on him but whom he never saw again.

They had two children who died early: one in infancy, the other at the age of twelve. Tuberculosis was a terrible scourge in those days, the early 20th Century. When the infant died, Abuelo Tomás made a small box, placed the baby inside, carried it to the train station, and boarded the train to the municipal cemetery to give it a proper burial.

He sat at the head of the table, hungry and eager to eat after a long hard day’s work. But he saw his children looking at him, obviously hungry. They often recalled to me how their father would take pieces of his bread or other foods and pass them to his children, even though he needed the food more than they given that the next day would be another exhausting one in the fields.

These were tough men and women. 

Grandmother Andrea, having been born in 1901 and having died in 2001, lived “along” the 20th Century. She lived during the horrible Boer War, the sinking of the Titanic, the Great Depression, two world wars, the rise and fall of the Iron Curtain, the attack on New York’s twin towers, and much, much more. 

As those “great events” developed and subsided and confused and perturbed millions, Abuela Andrea was, first, a good daughter; then, a good wife; then, a good mother; good grandmother; and more. Her Christian faith upheld her and led her to perform her duty with joy and energy throughout her life. 

Her children recall seeing her working under the blazing sun, washing clothes, carrying water, cooking, harvesting sweet potatoes, and more. They remember having seen her living in a tent. And singing hymns and taking Communion in church. They vividly remember her helping her husband hold walls that seemed to implode during the terrible San Felipe Hurricane of 1928 and then again during the devastating San Ciprian Hurricane of 1932. In both, their children heard them pray to the Father Almighty for mercy and protection.

By the time she died, over 99% of all those born in her day, had already passed away, not just in Puerto Rico, but throughout the entire world.

As the world shook and reeled from the upheavals of the 20th Century, the Triune God had His eyes on Abuelo Tomás and Abuela Andrea, as He has his eyes on all Who believe on His Son, Jesus Christ and seek to please Him. Such may be unknown to most; however they are known to Him and their impact was and continues to be great. Eternity will One Day reveal that to all.

Their twelve children — Noemí, Ruth, Esther, Eva, Samuel, Lydia, David, Abigail, Miriam, Joaquín, Andrea, and Isaac — had the privilege of burying their parents. However, today, only Samuel, Joaquín, Andrea, and Isaac remain.

I am very grateful to have known them, as I am most grateful to have known my own parents’ friends of that generation.

Few are left, and we would do well to see them as we are able. To thank them and to learn from them.

Ruth’s mind remained sharp to the end. In her last weeks she said, “I feel my strength leaving me.” On her last day on this earth, she was seated in her walker-chair, said, “This is it”, lowered her head, and passed into glory.

Abuela Andrea and Abuelo Tomás, circa 1985

Abuela Andrea, circa 1990

Abuela Marcolina, Abuela Andrea’s mother. Undated photo

Aunt Ruth on her 99th birthday. She was the second of the twelve surviving Vélez children (1924-2024)

After San Felipe Hurricane, 1928

After San Ciprian, 1932

Det. Bernard “Old Stoneface” McCole

Richard Barnes

I don’t know if Det. McCole’s grave is one of those many who are unvisited, but I do know that he is one of the many who were faithful in their callings and who, though dead, still speak.

My uncle, Alfred L. Barnes, was murdered in the early hours of October 19, 1968. Later, in the afternoon, hunters found his body in a lonely forest clearing in Monroe County, PA. That night, our beloved Aunt Sarah had taken us to a concert in Miami — and you did not say “no” to Aunt Sarah. As usual, however, we were happy she had made us go and were in a joyful mood as we entered the house.

But we found our Uncle “Wichy” sitting next to the phone, weeping. He told Aunt Sarah that Pennsylvania police had called and insisted on speaking only to her. They would not tell Uncle Wichy what this was about, but he noticed that the number they asked her to call was Uncle Alfred’s number. He naturally assumed the news was not good.

And he was right.

Aunt Sarah sat next to the phone, dialed the number and did not wait long before Det. McCole answered. “What?” she said as she then listened. “But how can that be? … Yes, of course. I will come ….”

She hung up the phone, and remained seated for a while, her face in her hands. 

“Uncle Alfred has been murdered,” she told us with great simplicity and with no hysterics. Then she stood and walked to her bedroom, closing the door after her. 

The next few days were a whirlwind. Aunt Sarah with her daughter, Cousin Janis, flew up, met with authorities and also arranged for transport of the body to Miami for burial in the family cemetery. 

My father and Uncle Max flew up from Venezuela and so the three surviving siblings buried their brother. 

I suppose that what happened next will explain my eventual, obsessive desire to see this case solved: my father flew up to Bethlehem, PA, where my uncle lived and worked. I asked my father if I could accompany and he agreed. He was interviewed at length by Det. McCole. I remember the detective looking at me and then, turning to my father, “Would you ask your son to step outside? I need to discuss some sensitive matters with you.” 

Of course, I stepped outside and many years flew by before I learned what those “sensitive matters” were. More importantly, I could see that Det. McCole was concerned he not overstep the bounds between a stranger — himself — and a father-son relationship. He figured that some things were best handled by the father of a 14-year-old, as opposed to being addressed by an unknown person, regardless of rank.

In summary, McCole determined that my uncle had been shot as he sat in the driver’s seat of his Thunderbird by someone to the right rear of the car. He also determined that the shooter then pulled my uncle from the car while still alive. My uncle slumped to his knees and two more shots were fired downward into his skull.

My father and the detective corresponded well into the following year, during which time the investigation accumulated many man years of “gumshoe” work, having visited no less than 400 potential witnesses or people in the area who might have heard or known of something. It was exhaustive work, all dutifully and carefully documented.

And then, he died suddenly of a heart attack, not having solved the case. My father was in great shock, but was hopeful that McCole’s second in command would carry on the work with the same zeal. But about six months later, that detective also died. You could not make this up, but it is true.

The case went cold. 

And I, a pimply-faced kid would visit Bethlehem often and do my own follow ups, which of course were met with barely concealed contempt as I was dismissed from “grownups” work.

But one detective, even as he pushed me out the door, did say to me, “A murder case is never closed.” I grabbed onto that declaration and wielded it forcefully four decades later.

My own father was murdered in 1982 and I became a pest to the GBI, insisting that they were looking in the wrong places — which they were. When they finally listened, precious time had been lost; however, the murderer was found — over a thousand miles away. About thirteen years later he died suddenly of blood poisoning in prison.

In 2010 I again looked through old correspondence between my father and Det. McCole and decided to write persistently and methodically to the Pennsylvania State Police. After a few false starts, I established a relationship with Captain McAndrew and he assigned a young trooper to this cold case.

I was working in Saudi Arabia when I received the following email from Captain Mcandrew:

  HI Richard,

     Hope all is well in the Middle East.  The Monroe County District Attorney has in fact approved murder charges in your uncle’s case.  That essentially means we have an arrest warrant for an individual.  As I mentioned we will be flying to Texas next week in an effort to locate and arrest the individual.  I will keep you posted.

                                            Be Safe,

                                                         Tom

I replied that I too would be in Texas that following week. His reaction:

 The coincidence is unbelievable….as I mentioned, we will be flying into DFW that same day.  Our arrival is 9:40 AM.  We will attempt to make the arrest the following day (Thursday, October 17).  Is there a number I can reach you once we are in Texas?

The arrest was actually made on October 19, 2013, which added an even greater “coincidence” to this saga: that was 45 years to the day of my uncle’s murder.

This turned out to have been the oldest cold case in Pennsylvania history and one of the oldest in the United States.

During the trial, I was amazed at how Det. McCole’s work kept coming up again and again. He had been thorough and precise. His work was key to getting a conviction.

The murderer was found guilty and sentenced to life in prison without parole, according to 1968 Pennsylvania law. 

After the sentencing, one of the district attorney staff pulled me aside to tell me that the daughter of Det. McCole had been following the case and the trial with avid interest. “She said that her father was obsessed with the case; that he was determined to see your uncle’s case closed and the perpetrator brought to justice.”

“Well,” I replied, “Her father certainly did bring it to conclusion and justice.” 

He surely did. He is one to whom we owe the fact that “things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been,” because men and women like Det. McCole “lived faithfully a hidden life” even though he might be resting in an unvisited tomb.

Pennsylvania State Police Detective Bernard “Old Stoneface” McCole. He investigated my uncle’s October 19, 1968 murder.

Similar to the furniture where Uncle Wichy sat as we entered the house that night and where Aunt Sarah sat as she returned the call from the Pennsylvania state police.

Visiting my grandparents’ and related family tombs in Miami, FL. 

Christmas 2023

Richard Barnes

Lillie and I married in 1984 and that year we wrote our first annual Christmas letter. Our intent was to write one annually. We did so through our 2018 letter, marking 35 Christmases touching base with our friends and loved ones.

We’d like to resume our letters, not because you badly need to hear from us; but rather because we need to communicate with you.

The “big event” this year was my mother’s passing away from this earth and into glory with her Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, Whose birth we celebrate this season. The events leading up to, and including, her death are very vivid in my mind and I suppose they will remain so for the rest of my life. We buried her in Fairburn, Georgia, next to her beloved husband, Charles, our father, who preceded her in death by 41 years. 

Life with father and mother seems like yesterday. I can still hear my father’s voice announcing his arrival from work or from a trip to the store. And I can hear my mother’s reply.

Memories can be a great joy, so long as one does not live in the past but rather uses the past as a stepping stone to advancing his calling in life. We do not worship our ancestors; rather we honor our parents and our elders — those who came before — because we know that unless we stand on their shoulders we will not do well in life. But, more critically, because God commands us to. To worship ancestors is to stagnate; to denigrate them is to destroy the future; to honor them is to progress and to help our children and grandchildren do so as well.

I am grateful for my parents and seldom do I live a day when I do not recall or act upon a gem of truth or a piece of advice given to me by them. I hope I will be half as profitable to my children and grandchildren as my father and mother were to me. I am also grateful for my birth in El Pao, Venezuela, and my childhood years there. I had good childhood friends and wonderful teachers whose wisdom persists despite the passing of the years. I am thankful for the privilege of having grown amongst Americans of different states and Latin Americans of different countries. Looking back, I can clearly see what an honor and benefit that was to me and to my own family.

Whenever I visited my father’s burial place, I would walk past Shingo’s grave. Shingo was a member or our small country church in Fairburn. The site always had flowers which I understood were placed by his sister who cared for the site for decades. In my last two or three visits to my father’s site earlier this year I noticed that Shingo’s tomb had no flowers. During my mother’s burial and for two visits afterwards, Shingo’s tomb remained bare. I can only suppose that his sister has either moved out of state or has passed away.

I know that over time, most graves will become unvisited. That thought saddens me and reminds me that most of us will not be long remembered after we leave this earth. It is good to know, however, that our Lord does remember and He will accompany us throughout our lives and as we walk through the valley of the shadow of death. And He will also raise us from our tombs on that Great Day to live eternally in a New Heaven and a New Earth.

That, too, is part of the great story of Christmas.

Two grandchildren, James and Ada, were born in March and January to Elizabeth and Tyler and to Charles and Essie, respectively. They have added to the rambunctious joys of family visits, along with their siblings and cousins, Grace, Ebenezer, Emily, and Beverly. And there are two more on the way: one to Esther and the other to Essie. 

This year marked my 70th birthday. My children gave me a great gift, the Folio Society edition of George Eliot’s great novel, Middlemarch, which I look forward to reading early next year. In closing this year’s letter, it is appropriate to quote from that work:

The growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.

Be faithful. 

Merry Christmas to you and yours, now and always. 

Taken on September 11, 2023, after my mother’s funeral. I was not feeling well and had no idea that my children had aligned behind us in birth order. Thank you, dear children. And beloved wife.

My parents’ graves in Fairburn, Georgia.

Childhood Friends

Richard Barnes

Friendships made in college have been known to last a lifetime and in many cases they issue into productive and highly successful partnerships or careers throughout life. Ditto as to many friendships made in high school. In my case, as an example, I’ve remained closer to several friends made in high school than those made in college.

Back in February of this year, I thoroughly enjoyed meeting with a friend I made in junior high. We were classmates from the 8th through the 10th grades and then I transferred out of state. But we remained close throughout the years since then and when we met for lunch it was as if we had said farewell “yesterday”. 

In the case of childhood friends, I wish I could say I’ve been able to stay in touch over the decades. I truly wish so. However, that was one of the negatives of living in El Pao; society was more transient than in, say, Kalamazoo, Michigan, for instance. My next door neighbor, with whom I had two or three fist fights, only to shake hands and be friends again, left when I was about 7 or so. I still remember him, but have no idea where he might be. I like to think he also remembers me with the same fondness.

The Carrasco’s were dear family friends. I was deeply saddened when they left El Pao for greener pastures in Maracay. They might as well have moved to the moon. I was about 6 or 7 and missed them for years. About 10 years later, we had a family trip wherein we drove from El Pao to Maracay — that was the trip I first drank coffee to enable me to stay awake in order to relieve my father driving. 

We had a wonderful time with the Carrasco’s that trip. Our love for one another was rekindled as we enjoyed the day together, visiting the Maracay Zoo and also the first national park in Venezuela, Parque Pittier, named after the famous Swiss naturalist, Henri François Pittier. Mr. Pittier was born in Switzerland but lived out most of his life in Venezuela, where he named over 30,000 varieties of plants and flowers. He lived to 92 years of age, dying in 1950 in Caracas, Venezuela, where he was interred.

I still remember the clouds or light fog and the dark, deep green as we hiked the park and climbed ever higher. The exercise was strenuous but the spectacular sights, the strong breezes, and the cool, moist weather made it all the more memorable and satisfying. I never returned although, over the years, I’d very much wanted to.

The Maracay Zoo was where my father took Aba, his pet jaguar in the early 50s. As with most wildlife, the jaguar tended to revert to form as time went by and although she never struck or bit my father, she did slash another employee in the arm — the employee had reached toward Aba’s plate as the animal was feeding. The wound was not serious, but it was enough to indicate it was time to dispose of Aba. After some inquiries my father learned that the Maracay Zoo had an excellent reputation and so he took her there. By the time we had visited, the jaguar had died and so we did not see her on our visit.

I still get a slight sinking feeling, reminiscent of the sense of loss I felt as we drove away from Maracay that year as our visit ended. “We’ll see them again,” my father — the eternal optimist — said. But we never did.

Childhood friends come to mind often, but especially during the Christmas season.

It was not unusual to see Jaguar as pets, such as Aba. The above jaguar was the first in the Maracay Zoo (Las Delicias) founded by Juan Vicente Gómez in his favorite city, Maracay.

Henri François Pittier (1857 – 1950). The great Swiss botanist, born and educated in Europe, labored in Costa Rica and in the United States from whence he was assigned in 1917 to a short-term project in Venezuela, then governed by Juan Vicente Gómez, who saw Pittier’s potencial for Venezuela and convinced him to stay on. Stay on he did, living and laboring in Venezuela until his death in 1950. He identified over 30,000 varieties of botanical specimens. Above sculpture is in the Henri Pittier National Park near Maracay.

Henri Pittier National Park

Henri Pittier National Park

My friends, Omaira and Jose Luis Carrasco with Doña (I unfortunately do not recall her name) – Circa 1958

As Christmas approaches, childhood friends come readily to mind.