El Loco’s haunts were unknown. For the most part.

Mining camp residents spotted him occasionally, and only when they journeyed to or from San Felix, the port town on the banks of the Orinoco River, about 40 kilometers north. If they were lucky, their trip would coincide with an El Loco sighting. He’d be seen walking jauntily, swinging his arms in an exaggerated, yet nonmilitary-type, arc; unmindful of the storms of dust raised by cars or trucks as they passed him, always slowly, because everybody wanted to see El Loco and laugh with him, and the sightings seemed too few and too far between.

He’d always laugh and lift his arms in childlike, yet firm salute; one hand always gripping a staff, as if some sort of rudderless Moses wandering the El Pao – San Felix road for generations. 

Probably no American had seen him up close. But, judging from 30 or 40 feet away, a consensus of sorts had developed among them affirming El Loco was probably in his early thirties

He seemed to be much taller than average in that era and in those regions, maybe five feet nine or ten inches; wiry, strong, virile, and with huge hands. These judgments-from-afar were about as much as could assuredly be said about him, as the distance did not permit inspection of his physiognomic features. More on that further below.

Of course, everybody understood that someone had to be “taking care of” El Loco, else he could not survive. Here, perhaps, the legendary Venezuelan hospitality played a critical but hidden role.

An American cattleman with business interests in Venezuela once wrote his personal impression of Venezuelan society saying that it was the most open and cordial in all of South America. He further noted that, unlike the Argentines and Brazilians, who used hotels or restaurants or clubs to entertain visitors, the Venezuelans entertained in their own homes; in that respect, he concluded, they were very much like the Americans.

That observation was true, though too limited. Venezuelans didn’t invite only known, or business, guests to their homes; they compelled strangers, especially the poor, and the “locos”, apparently mindful that, at times, some, unawares, had entertained angels.

Then weeks would go by with no one having seen him. Where was he? At such times I would hear speculation when accompanying my mother at the commissary in the Otro Campo (known to the Americans as the labor camp), or with my father in the American Camp bar. Some voices affirmed, as if they were eye-witnesses, that El Loco was still on the road, but, in fact, no drivers or passengers had seen him. Others rumored El Loco was on jungle paths, headed temporarily for other destinations, as if looking for side adventures to spice up his El Pao – San Felix routine. Still others did not really care or think about it, and just assumed El Loco would reappear on his favorite road soon enough. And he eventually did, as if he had been nowhere else. As if he would live forever.

Regardless of opinions as to his whereabouts, the Venezuelans along the El Duo road just shrugged, confident in the truth of the old Spanish aphorism, “God takes care of the widows, the orphans, and the crazies.” It did not occur to them that God used them to do the caring.

El Loco walked with a swinging gait, a long, thick staff in one hand. His dusty jet-black hair shagged over his collar and a bit over his ears. He always walked with, never against, the traffic. Whenever I heard or read about a man in rags, I’d picture El Loco. His rags were always in khaki, just like the men in El Pao, only very worn and torn. And, instead of a dull yellow, El Loco’s khakis seemed rusty red.

Once, on a drive to San Felix, we saw him up close.

As we approached him in our car, to my utter, indescribable delight, El Loco swung round and stopped, looking toward the Oldsmobile as it slowly approached. El Loco began jumping in place, raising his arms and waving them. He was strong; he could wave the arm carrying that staff as easily as the other. Then he yelled a loud, croaking-like cheer as he laughed. His entire face laughed. And his teeth shone a bright white.

To me, laughing with my parents as we all saluted El Loco, it seemed even the Oldsmobile laughed. We drove slowly by El Loco, as we waved at him while he waved back, croaking, yelling, laughing, screaming, jumping. His cheeks’ bony arches seemed like sharp hills guarding his oviform eyes, whose color matched his hair, only brighter. And they seemed, to the boy, to be looking right into his own eyes.

Unlike most adults, El Loco was able, with absolutely no awkward self-consciousness, to look at someone in the eye, no matter what the age, and sustain that look until naturally broken. I just knew El Loco looked only at me, as if he knew me. As if we’d met before. Somewhere. There was no fear in me. On the contrary, like all children, I considered El Loco as very approachable, a dear friend and protector.

I stuck my head out the back window resting it on my arms on the frame as I looked back at El Loco, who was still jumping and yelling and laughing, forming a striking, puppet-like silhouette against the green, as the dust rose behind the car.

What most knew about El Loco was limited to the fact that he spent his days and years striding between El Pao and San Felix. Clearly folks cared for him; after all, it was assumed, he ate and slept. The I recall once, and only once, during an unusual mid-day drive to San Felix, seeing El Loco sitting peaceably in a chair in the front, porch-like structure of one of the cabins off the road. The farmer sat across from him, as the wife served him lunch and the children stood by. Sometimes El Loco would not be seen for what seemed to be weeks, before he’d reappear again on the road bringing joy to folks, especially children, who drove by.

I don’t remember the last time I saw him. He just melted away, like a mirage, into the jungle and before I knew it, I realized I had not seen him in years, maybe decades.

But I think about him. I can see him walking firmly, soldier-like, on the right side of the road, gripping his staff with his right hand, wildly swinging the left. El Loco whirls round and there is that wide grin once again, mouth way open, white teeth flashing. He lets off that loud cheer as he raises his hand and staff, pointing to the heavens.