Caroní River – The Pull Of The Land

Bands of Robbers

May 1, 2025May 1, 2025 Richard Barnes

“Without justice what are kingdoms but great bands of robbers? And what is a band of robbers but such a kingdom in miniature? It is a band of men under the rule of a leader, bound together by a pact of friendship, and their booty is divided among them by an agreed rule. Such a blot on society, if it grows, assumes for itself the proud name of kingdom.” — St. Augustine

Before the inauguration of the Caruachi Dam across the Caroní River in the first decade of this century, the river was traversed by ferry (chalana). As a child, I preferred taking that particular ferry to the ferries operating in what became Ciudad Guayana.

I suppose my preference was due to the seemingly wilder or less tamed nature of the area around Caruachi — no towns or cities in the vicinity and the fishing and wildlife were more surprising at times.

Regardless, the Caruachi dam (which I never witnessed) changed all that.

The last time I saw and used the ferry was in 1987. Several of us were in Venezuela on an audit assignment and took our free day to visit the area around the confluence of the Orinoco and Caroní Rivers.

The milieu was very different from that of my childhood: a number of the men who crossed with us looked rough, even ruffian-like. I attempted to strike up a conversation with two or three but it was hard going. One of them did pull his hand from his pocket and opened it for me to see a gold nugget. I asked permission to take a photo and he quickly declined, which I of course honored.

He went on to tell me about the mining in the Bolivar/Amazon areas, which is where he and a number of the other men on the ferry were coming from. He said the area was quite wild and somewhat lawless.

I asked if any of them would mind if I took a photo. Three of them agreed but only if I did not use their names.

That incident was a foreshadowing of what was to become of that untamed jungle and river area of at least 35,000 square miles, now known as the “Orinoco Mining Arc”, which encompasses large swathes of the state of Bolívar, where I was born, as well as of the vast states of Amazonas and Delta Amacuro. This area contains bauxite (used for aluminum), coltan (used in the production of electronic devices), diamonds, and, of course, especially gold.

However, in a lawless country as Venezuela has become, any “designated” area is actually limitless. So, unsurprisingly, this “arc” has invaded the Canaima National Park, a UNESCO World Heritage site. Elsewhere in this blog I’ve noted Transparency International’s ranking of Venezuela as the most corrupt country in the America’s — yes, more corrupt than Cuba or Haiti, as incredible as that seems — with extensive ties to global criminal syndicates which exploit the mining area and the indigenous peoples who are unlucky enough to not have escaped before their enslavement.

(It is always a wonder to consider that those who hate Columbus and accuse him of murder, torture, and enslavement seem oblivious to how they project onto the great seaman what their own fellow travelers are actually doing now. It’s much easier to indict and delegitimize our founding than to see that the abandonment of our founding has led to the atrocities they so piously and hypocritically decry….)

According to the Center for Strategic and International Studies (CSIS), the arc is a giant hub for illegal mining, “where armed non-state actors and local gangs compete for control of key mining operations. The Maduro regime has used state enterprises and security forces to legitimize otherwise criminal mineral extraction, collaborating with criminal groups to mine, process, and transport minerals.”

In exchange for what?

Well, the state-owned enterprises operating there serve to source the minerals extracted illicitly and, ¡Voilà! the minerals are then exported “officially”, thereby, legitimately. The bulk of these exports are to Turkey and the United Arab Emirates, according to CSIS. The state does not do this for free, of course. It carves its handsome cut from every transaction.

However, that maneuver accounts for a fraction of Venezuela’s gold exports. The vast majority is shipped from the country as contraband and later “officialized” into the global market, with the State — both the top bureaucrats as well as the military leadership — receiving a major bite from the gargantuan profits. These profits are in addition to other fraudulent enterprises such as multiple military check points, each demanding bribes or multiple fuel depots supplying needed fuel to the illicit mines, also at large profits.

To give the reader an idea of the immense amounts of money involved, some top army generals are receiving gold in the equivalent of $800,000 per month in bribes.

But wait! There’s more! Clandestine flights carrying gold are given safe passage, for another nice cut; the state has given ownership of individual mines to many of the country’s state governors and other political leaders to ensure their loyalty; ad nauseam.

This post is already too long, so I’ll skip over the very real environmental devastation, including mercury poisoning in the rivers whereby fish taken to market as far away as Colombia are contaminated and causing serious harm to the health of regular folks.

We do not know how many laborers are involved in the illegal mining operations, but I’ve seen some estimates as high as 500,000. About half are children; most are from local indigenous villages and practically all are coerced. They work under threat of punishment by armed groups and gangs. Men and boys are subjected to atrocities by violent, pitiless mine owners who know they are “protected” against any and all actions they might take.

We have eye witness reports of arms and hands being mutilated or amputated; forced prostitution; murders. Per CSIS, “Dozens of massacres have been reported in Bolivar state as well as reports of mass graves in the area.” In addition, the sex trafficking of young children is heartrending; venereal diseases have spiked; disappearances are common.

And, yes, one of the most powerful crime syndicates ruling in the Orinoco Mining Arc is the Aragua Train, better known as Tren de Aragua. As a criminal enterprise, they not only ruthlessly run mines, they also establish pricing and rations for daily goods and groceries and woe be to him who disobeys or seeks to supply himself independently. Americans need to wake up to the reality that Tren de Aragua and the Venezuelan state are an allied enterprise. And neither of them messes around.

St. Augustine in his The City of God wrote that a people that denies or refuses to be governed by God’s law (justice) will become ruled by “bands of robbers”. The history of the 20th Century with its totalitarian regimes, including Communist dictatorships resulting in 100,000,000 deaths by the state (see The Black Book of Communism) amply justifies Augustine’s affirmation. Not only do “bands of robbers” run rampant through the land, the state itself acts hand in glove with national and international crime syndicates all of whom share the common goal of personal empowerment and enrichment and grotesque pleasures at the cost of the lives and well being of their own peoples.

And before we get too smug, be gently reminded that we have legislators who have become very wealthy while in office. Few are they who, like many of our Founders, actually became poorer when they entered public service. As we ourselves have cast God’s precepts aside, we too are facing the increasing rule by bands of robbers.

And it is not a pretty picture.

FYI: Claritas, a major mining area, is controlled by Tren de Aragua. Guasipati (not noted) and others are as well. The value of gold extraction in some mines, including Claritas, exceeds $1,000,000 per day.

Black Jaguar

June 25, 2024June 25, 2024 Richard Barnes

“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.

Cero

April 18, 2023April 18, 2023 Richard Barnes

Company towns in petroleum or mining camps in Venezuela, like El Pao, had hospitals and doctors who tended employees and their families. Recently, I was prompted to think a bit about my childhood experiences and interactions with doctors and the hospital. My experience was primarily in El Pao, but also encompassed an annual check up with a doctor in Miami. I suspect my parents just wanted to sort of double check by getting a second opinion to confirm that all was well.

As I’ve told my children over the years and now tell my three youngest who are still at home, we have been blessed with good health. It is far too easy to take this blessing for granted. One should never do so.

Whenever we had to see a doctor (anemia, parasites, fevers, tonsillitis, broken collar bone, sudden nausea), depending on the urgency, we either rushed in as an emergency or made an appointment. In any case, Dr. Hernandez [a composite name serving for several doctors whose faces I can still recall and none of whose names was “Hernández”] would examine the patient and tell my parents what he had noticed and his treatment including any medicines he’d prescribe.

On one occasion, when I was about 6 or 7 years old, I was accompanying my father as he travelled with the company baseball team to play in Ciudad Bolivar, on the Orinoco River. This was before the bridges across the Caroní River were built and crossings were by ferry, making the trip much longer than it was by the time I left Venezuela.

About 40 minutes after the river crossing, the team stopped at El Kilómetro 70, a major highway intersection with a large, popular diner and gas station. I told my father to go ahead, that I’d wait for him in the pickup. I did not tell him that I was feeling very poorly because I did not want him to send me back and so cause me to miss the ballgame.

However, “Cero”, the water boy who was one of the friendliest and kindest men I have ever known, had decided to come out and look in the pickup, “¿Te pasa algo?“

I had been curled up, not thinking anyone would see me. He startled me but even so I could not move quickly as I was in pain and, as I recall, had nausea.

He turned away and in a minute my father was opening the door and after a brief discussion he along with Cero decided to drive on ahead of the team to Ciudad Bolivar where we had friends. Regardless, this would take less time than to travel back to El Pao, river crossing and all.

My father drove to our friends, the Graziani’s, who immediately took us to their family doctor who attended me promptly. I don’t recall what he did, but I do remember that by the time we left his office, I was hungry and at Mrs. Graziani’s house she served me the most delicious pumpkin soup ever. And I was not partial to soup. I have been blessed with the opportunity to travel to many different parts of the world. Whenever a restaurant had pumpkin soup, I’d order just to see if it equalled my childhood memory. Of course, none ever has.

My father told me later that Cero had come inside “El Kilómetro 70” and had told him that my color was not good. That caused my father to look at me more carefully when he came out to the pickup. He was impressed with and appreciative of Cero’s perceptions.

I think my father was able get to the game in time that day, but I had to stay with the Graziani’s. However, by then, I was content. I do remember his telling us our team had won.

Medicine and doctor care was very personal then. My father paid the doctor and thanked him. In El Pao, the doctors were paid by the company. In Miami, as I recall, medical costs were a bit less simple because those were paid by the company’s medical insurance; however, care and interactions were far more personal and direct than they are today.

These thoughts were prompted by the chapter, “The Crisis in Medicine” in the book, The Sensate Culture, to which I’ve alluded in an earlier post.

My intention was to write a brief review of that chapter here, but then I remembered Cero, and it is impossible not to pay tribute to him first. Unfortunately, I do not remember his real name and my mother does not remember either. However, in his case, the nickname was purposefully the exact opposite of the man’s worth. He was respected and admired and was easy to laugh with.

After leaving Venezuela, between college studies and early career hustle and bustle, I eventually forgot about Cero. Then came the expropriations of the oil and ore enterprises in Venezuela under the first administration of Carlos Andrés Pérez and many Americans and their spouses, including my parents, left the country.

The year was 1976 and unbeknownst to my father, word had spread of his imminent departure, and the veterans of the mining camp baseball team, which my father had shepherded to AA ranking and championships, agreed to come from all points of the country and surprise him with a veterans game. Newspapers covered the event but I’ve lost the clippings.

However, several men, including Cero, did not get word of the event.

About a month later, my father and mother, along with my little brother, had begun their trek out of the country. Their first stop was Maiquetía, the international airport which serves Caracas, where they were to spend the night and then head back to the airport the next morning. As they waited for their luggage, Cero saw them and ran to them. They embraced and laughed — it had been more than a decade since Cero had left El Pao and they had lost touch.

After asking about the rest of the family and being told that everyone is fine, Cero said, “I remember that you usually took your vacation in September. I see you now are taking it in the springtime?”

“Well, this is not a trip for vacation; we are leaving the country.”

Tears welled in Cero’s eyes, and they talked for a long time. But what I remember most from my parents’ narrative of the event was something he said amongst all the words, “Please don’t leave, Charles. This is your country. You are loved here. Don’t leave.”

I still choke up when I recall that; and I had not recalled in many years.

They embraced and parted company one last time.

Cero was worth millions.

Multi-year AA Champions. My father is in front row, far left. Cero is not pictured.

Sopa de auyama (calabaza). Hard to beat a childhood memory.

Maiquetía in better days

Tragavenado

July 3, 2020July 3, 2020 Richard Barnes

She moved slowly, as if tentatively feeling her way up the massive mahogany in the jungle to the left of that road which formed the boundary to the outlying wilderness.

Had I seen her, as she slid up the great trunk, I would have called her a tragavenado. All boas in Venezuela were known by that name. Even the ones along the Orinoco River, more properly identified as anacondas, were invariably called tragavenados: deer swallowers. Both boas and anacondas were plentiful in the regions around El Pao during my childhood. The anacondas especially in the wet jungle areas around the rapids of the Caroní River near its confluence with the Orinoco River.

The boas are smaller than the anacondas, which have been known to grow up to 30 feet and more. Tragavenados measure between 5 and 15 feet. The largest tragavenado seen in that part of Venezuela, for which there is record, measured just under 20 feet. That was considered exceptional.

Living in the damp jungle maze for up to 25 years and even more, this one grew undisturbed, never venturing very far from that area west of the road limning the west of the mining camp. Since her habitat had not changed much in a man’s generation, she remained therein where she fed on abundant wildlife of wild pigs, stray goats, tapir, deer, chiguires (capybaras), monkeys, and large fowl. Had she wandered closer to the Orinoco, her diet would have been augmented by small caimans.

The tragavenado can act as a very quick coil. She rests midst the brambles or branches for several days. Eventually, large birds, such as jungle parrots, settle nearby, oblivious to the danger. The tragavenado slips slowly, imperceptibly towards the resting prey. She does this by sliding the upper part of her long body towards the bird in an almost circuitous route. The tail end rests on a branch at the lower left side of the tree, seemingly to dangle, like a thick vine, two feet to the lower left and up to the upper left of the bird.

The massive middle section runs along, one or two feet away, further up and then curves along the higher branches so that it rests directly above and to the upper right of the bird. The snake completes as it were an expansive frame around the bird, so that eventually the snake’s head is beneath the bird, mere inches away.

The power of this reptile is embedded in muscles all along her 20-foot length, covering her entire body.

The head acts as a guided missile. The muscles along the 2 or 3 feet below the head are designed not only to cut off her prey’s blood circulation, but also to “launch” the head. This they do, and the bird never knew what hit him. Within minutes it is inside the snake’s jaws and beginning its final, unwilling journey into the entrails of its killer.

Other prey, such as a pig or goat, or especially a deer, requires accommodation. This the serpent does by biting and, while keeping the fangs sunk into her quarry, coiling herself around the quickly immobile body and squeezing it. This is done by degrees. When the victim struggles, it creates small spaces which the snake’s muscles exploit by taking those spaces over, thereby slowly reducing all room for maneuver, until the animal ceases to breathe, has cardiac arrest, dies, and, finally, it is slowly but relentlessly swallowed whole into the laboratory whose acids work on it, preparing it for absorption and transforming it into nutrition.

All this activity, occurring mere yards from the camp, my friends and I mostly ignored. Everyone in the camp ignored. But we knew it went on.

Once, during a game of war around our makeshift “forts” in the jungle, I had wandered off alone and stood in what appeared to be a natural, heavily forested culvert. Unexpectedly, I sensed as if the earth were opening or sliding under me. I looked down and saw a boa pulling herself, carrying me along like a jelly legged marionette. I, bravely, sprang like a jack-in-the-box, tumbled like a rag doll, and scampered like a hysterical baboon out of there, running on pure adrenaline till I reached the edge of the jungle. Only then did I catch my breath enough to call out. We all fearlessly marched to the scene of the scare. But, boas being very good at camouflage, we failed to find it.

The above is true.

Except for the “bravely” and “fearlessly”.