Chile – The Pull Of The Land

Leaving Venezuela — Mike Ashe

May 21, 2022May 21, 2022 Richard Barnes

In response to my prior post (Leaving Venezuela — 1966) my friend, Mike Ashe, emailed me his own take about the same subject, as he also left at an early age.

I appreciated his recollections and thoughts and asked his permission to post, which he generously granted.

Hi Richard

I guess if we kids stayed in El Pao long enough, we ended up going solo to schooling elsewhere.

My dad left by train at age 14 traveling from Chuqicamata, Chile, to a high school in Buenos Aires. The Chilean Rail Line ran from Arica to La Paz. I don’t think that the train stopped in Chuqui; they had to flag the train down to board.

He would travel by train to Santiago and by taxi to Cordoba and take a train to Buenos Aires.

My grandpa worked for Anaconda Copper and spent 40 years in mining camps in Chile and Mexico.

In my case I shipped out at age 12 and spent two years at Admiral Farragut Academy. I did go back home to El Pao one summer. Holidays were spent in the school dorm or visiting friends

In those days there was no communication except by mail which most of the time was late or lost in transit.

A lot of my classmates were from South America so I had plenty of company that could relate. Also, I must say that my El Pao education served me well in transitioning into a different educational system. Admiral Farragut was a top-notch military school with high academics and an over-the-top discipline standard.

Seventy five percent of the graduates received appointments to the US Naval Academy, Annapolis Md. The most notable Farragut graduates are Astronauts Charles Duke and the first US Astronaut in space, Alan Shepard.

Actually, getting out of El Pao was a good thing since boarding school provided me with an opportunity to socialize with many boys from different backgrounds around my age. Cubans (great athletes), Colombians, a few Brazilians, and mostly US students.

The transition from being the oldest two or three boys in a mining camp to a school with hundreds of students mostly older and a lot more worldly, was bracing.

I was fortunate to have Chuck Gould as my roommate for two years (Chuck later played football at Michigan State). Chuck actually became my best friend, and nobody messed with Chuck. Or his friend! At age 13 he weighed over 200lbs and could outrun anyone in the Junior or Senior school including some exceptionally fast Cubans.

I did miss my family and El Pao but can honestly say that life was a great adventure for me in Florida. I was able to play sports for the first time. It was a great awakening for me. So grateful to have been provided that opportunity.

Also, both of my brothers spent their high school years in boarding schools Linsly Military School in Wheeling, WV. They also felt that going solo provided them with some great opportunities that they would not have had if they had remained in Mexico.

Really enjoy Pull of the Land

Take care

Mike

Panoramic View of Chuquicamata at 9,850 ft above sea level in the Atacama Desert (driest desert on earth). Mining of gold and copper started in 1882. My grandfather (Mike Ashe), an electrician on the New York subway system, accepted a job there in 1923 as an electrician working in the power plant. My dad was born in Harlem, New York his sister and brother were both born in Chuqui. In 1943 my grandfather accepted a transfer to another mining camp in Cananea, Mexico, also located in the Sonora Desert. The Cananea mine is the second deepest open pit mine in the world at 2,790 ft. The Bingham Mine in Salt Lake City is the deepest; both are copper mines. When I was working, I would fly into Salt Lake and never got tired of seeing Bingham from the air.

The “Right Wing” Military

February 25, 2022February 25, 2022 Richard Barnes

Growing up, a standard assumption was that “the military” — whether that of the United States or that of Venezuela — was “right wing”. So ingrained was that assumption that when Hugo Chávez appeared on television on February 4, 1993, announcing that his coup attempt had failed “por ahora“, we assumed he and his comrades had intended to re-impose a Pérez Jiménez dictatorship on the country.

No one paused to consider his words nor his co-conspirators — all, without exception, men of the Left. No one paused to question the previous night’s role of Nicolás Maduro, trained in Castro’s Cuba and recently reintegrated into Venezuela.

Our paradigm was Seven Days in May, both the novel and the movie: any military uprising has to be from the “right”, à la Augusto Pinochet. (So strong was that paradigm that we didn’t ask ourselves whether the Chinese or Soviet armies were also “right wing”.)

In 1978, during a trip to Venezuela, while visiting friends whom I had known since infancy, conversations inevitably cascaded to the massive construction and manufacturing projects in the country, in particular the Ciudad Guayana area. My concerns about the massive “nationalizations” (expropriations) that had taken place and the control of the oil and iron ore industries — both the properties and the management — were met with assurances that these actions, although admittedly concerning, would not lead to a Socialistic or Communistic environment.

Seeing my doubts about their readiness to ascribe good intentions to the politicians drunk with power and riches, my friends clinched the argument by stating the obvious: “Ricky, don’t worry, if things take a turn to Communism, the military will not allow it. They will step in and put a stop to it.”

They had a point. We all agreed the military tended to be conservative. After all, Pinochet put a stop to the Communist depredations in Chile and by 1978, Chile’s GNP growth was in the double digits after the negative GNP swamps of the Allende era. Chile would go on to lead South America in both economic and personal liberties until recent years when they began flirting again with the totalitarian Zeitgeist.

So, it is easy to understand why Venezuelans felt somewhat secure in assuming their military had their back.

However, that does not excuse us. A little scratching beneath the surface ought to have awakened us to the fact — incontrovertible by now — that Venezuela’s military leadership was a hotbed of Communist infiltrators, with direct connections to Fidel Castro. Did we not consider it strange that the very first official state visit by Fidel Castro after the January 1, 1959, coup against Batista was to Venezuela a mere 22 days later?

Did we not have strong reasons to credit the rumors — now corroborated as facts — that the Venezuelan army had surreptitiously and illegally supplied United States war materiel to Castro’s guerrillas in the Sierra Maestra? Did we not wonder how it was that Vice-Admiral Wolfgang Larrazabal had so freely, with unmitigated audacity, invited Dictator Castro to Venezuela to celebrate the first anniversary of the coup against Pérez Jiménez (see Larrazabal)?

Where was the Venezuelan army when Communist-instigated “students” violently attacked a sitting vice-president of the United States and his wife when they came to the country on a state visit (see Nixon). For decades, the beautiful people instructed the rest of us to ignore Nixon’s assertion that Communists, a loud minority, had orchestrated this embarrassment. However, since the election of Chávez in 1999, the truth of Nixon’s statements was no longer denied and was now openly celebrated.

So, my good friends and I were without excuse: the Venezuelan Army could not be relied upon to protect the country from a Communist takeover because its leadership was too compromised. And many decent Venezuelan soldiers eventually paid a high price for this.

But it took decades to see this. President Carlos Andrés Pérez thought highly of Fidel Castro, actually meeting with him secretly during his first tenure (1974 – 1979 — the age of expropriations), and inviting him to his second tenure’s (1989 – 1993) inauguration. It was during that inauguration that Pérez naively gave Castro carte blanche to enter the country with hundreds of “advisors”, by-passing immigration. He also gave the Cubans full use of the Eurobuilding Hotel, then in final phases of construction, in Caracas. No Venezuelan was allowed in the building, only Cubans, including food and cleaning services.

It was during this infiltration that Nicolás Maduro returned to Venezuela camouflaged as a Cuban adviser. And, just as ominously, scores of fully equipped sharpshooters entered also. Upon departure, Venezuelan emigration officials reported to President Pérez that the number of Cubans and equipage departing was significantly less than what had entered. The president waved aside their concerns. Much later, Venezuelan intelligence (before its complete replacement by Castro’s Communists) confirmed that the weapons had been stashed for years in the Caracas metro, under Maduro’s hooded eyes.

Before closing this post, I do want to preview that during the coup attempt in 1993, President Pérez, swearing he would not commit suicide like Allende, acted with great courage and audacity, fully armed and fighting his way out of La Casona to Miraflores where he was shortly surrounded once again, forcing him to fight his way out a second time that night. Pérez was naive and foolish in his childish embrace of a rattlesnake like Castro, but when the chips were down, he acted valiantly. We are not cardboard creatures.

The above may read like an outline or a pitch for a political or crime thriller, but it is all true and factual. As we continue to review the rise of Chávez, we will get into some detail. For now, let it be said that one must never assume anything, including that the military, whether that of Venezuela or that of the United States, is “right wing”. Everything rises and falls on leadership. Instead of assuming, one must observe and analyze the leadership and its decisions and policies.

Dictator Nicolás Maduro, the world’s living testament to the wisdom of Article 2, Section 1, Clause 5

General Augusto Pinochet, circa 1973. Notable quote which distills why he is hated, even 16 years after his death: “Everything I did, all my actions, all of the problems I had I dedicate to God and to Chile, because I kept Chile from becoming Communist.”

President Carlos Andrés Pérez, circa 1973, campaigning for his first tenure in office

Venezuelan Vice Admiral Wolfgang Larrazabal and Fidel Castro, Caracas, 1959

President Carlos Andrés Pérez, Dictator Fidel Castro, and President Felipe González (Spain), 1990. By then, Pérez had been warned repeatedly that Castro had been conspiring with military leaders to overthrow him, including by means of assassination. Pérez impatiently dismissed these reports. He changed his mind during the 1993 coup attempt when he came within a whisker of losing his life.

Mining Camp Memories (conclusion): Part 5

May 16, 2021May 16, 2021 Richard Barnes

With this post we conclude Mike Ashe’s Mining Camp Memories. This final part of his memories speaks of his having to leave the camp for schooling as well as a bit about his parents’ background.

Just about every one of us in that time of El Pao history, early 50s to mid 60s, left home “early” to go to school. As one of the “small kids” I’d wonder where the big guys went during the year. My father would tell me about military academies and whatnot. But that was like telling me they all went to Siam. And then it was my turn in the mid 60s and, like Mike, I was told to write home every week and I did so “religiously”, as Mike puts it. In the 50s and 60s leaving El Pao to go to school in the US was like going to the moon. Very little communications and you truly were “far, far away.”

As to his parents’ background, I was reminded that no one comes into this world a “blank slate”; we all bring a heritage of the previous generations and much more. Sitting at the club bar as a kid in a time and place where that was not frowned upon, I heard the men there talk about mining accidents and lessons learned before coming to El Pao and how they applied such lessons to their current employment, not to mention their own parents or grandparents, and even politics and religion, at a time and place where such topics could be discussed without ending in blood and warfare.

Many years later, I realized that, listening to those men, I was developing an inchoate understanding that no one comes into this world with nothing. We are born into homes we did not build, eat food we did not grow, learn languages we did not invent, and much, much more.

El Pao welcomed men and women and children with manifold exciting backgrounds and experiences. Those of us whose childhood was nurtured there were very fortunate.

As you read these last few paragraphs in the Memories, I hope you too are reminded of your own heritage and grateful for it, whether good or bad, because, properly understood and viewed, it all works for your and my good.

And I know you will appreciate the photos Mike appended at the end. I am pleased to remember and respect all the men Mike names.

Thank you again, Mike.

Michael John Ashe II

Admiral Farragut Academy

In 1959 I had to leave Venezuela at age 12 (Company School only went to the 6^th grade). The company paid for me to attend Admiral Farragut Academy in Saint Petersburg Florida. Getting into Farragut was not easy, you had to have good grades, pass an entrance exam and obtain a letter of reference. Mr. Shingler and Mr. Belfonti provided a letter of reference. Mr. Shingler’s son Jimmy thought I was pretty cool (the one and only that thought that) he and his Dad built a log cabin fort on the water tower road and Called it Fort Farragut. Seventy-five % of Farragut graduates made it to Annapolis (US Naval Academy). Apollo Astronauts Alan Shepard (first US astronaut in space) and Charles Duke are Farragut Astronauts.

The Academy was very demanding with extremely strict discipline and academically challenging. Reveille at 0600 taps at 2100. God, Duty, Honor, Country and welfare of fellow cadets and teachers was a part of life at Farragut. Although not a denominational school, the practice of one’s religion was expected and prayers were said before all meals and at assembly. Honor meant that cheating was not tolerated and anyone caught cheating was expelled. The Flag was raised daily at reveille with all cadet’s present, accounted for, and at attention. Retreat required that those outdoors stop activities and face the flag being lowered. Those in uniform were always required to face the flag being lowered and salute. At Farragut there was a live bugler at the all-daily ceremonies. Love of country was taught by staff and teachers.

Inspections were performed twice a week without warning. Barracks, bunks, uniforms, shoes. foot lockers, and the bathrooms, “AKA-The Head”, were all under close scrutiny. Demerits were issued for non-compliance, missing homework assignments, talking in class or assembly. For every demerit over three a week resulted in one hour of marching in uniform with rifle on the parade grounds. More serious offenses such as fighting would result in a “Captains Mast”. Rule of thumb: if you needed to fight don’t get caught.

My weekly allowance was $2.50 most of which was spent at the canteen (owner was not part of the Academy) for candy and soft drinks. In the front of the canteen there was a coke machine sitting on a wooden deck with boards that were spaced so that any coin dropped would quickly end up under the deck on a wire screen. Latticework blocked any attempt to retrieve ones lost treasure. Chuck snooped around and discovered that there was a hidden entrance that would lead to the coins but would involve crawling about 20 feet in a very dirty space. So, one Saturday evening right before sundown (when everything was quiet) we executed operation treasure hunt. We made quite a haul: enough to keep us in coke, candy and movies in downtown St. Pete for a long time. The canteen owner sealed up the entrance after that so no more treasure hunting, but we couldn’t complain.

My best friends were Keller (from Cuba), Gould (from Michigan) and Freeble (from Florida). Chuck Gould was my roommate the years that I was there he was 6’2” 210 pounds and a very fast runner. All four of us in 8^th grade were invited to spring training with the High School Football team. Chuck was faster than all the high school players and he ended up playing football for one of the Big Ten Schools (maybe Michigan State)

Keller was the top cadet and I was second. The award was limited to just two cadets per year and it was the first time that two Latin American cadets received this award. The best athletes at Farragut were the Cubans, hands down.

A lot of the boys there came from Cuba and South America. Even though I was 12 when I left home, I had always been mature for my age and adapted well to being on my own. However, I must confess that when you only get a couple of letters a month (only communication with the family) sometimes was a bit of a letdown. I was required to write the family one letter a week, which I did religiously.

When my parents returned from Venezuela, I had to leave Farragut which was not at all what I wanted.

The Chile Connection

Not Completely Related but interesting is Herb Ashe’s story-for his Brother Don Ashe who is now 93 years old:

Dad’s father Michael was a self-educated man who was orphaned at a very young age. He managed to secure a career with a lot of determination and hard work in all things electrical working for the New York Subway system. Along the way, he thought it would be a career changer if he could move to Anaconda’s mining operation in Northern Chile. The mine was the largest open pit mine in the world at that time and for many years thereafter, Chuquicamata or referred to as simply Chuqui.

During that time, he was dating my Grandmother Martha, whose family seriously objected such a wild idea from a guy driving a motorcycle. Without getting into the weeds, my father Herb was born in 1922 and the three traveled by steamship to the northern coast of Chile. I believe in 1923 after Anaconda Copper bought the mine from the Chile Exploration Co (Guggenheim) but I don’t know how Grandpa was hired by them. Mine development was mostly done by the Guggenheim group, bringing Andes water to the desert and providing electric power for mine operations was critical. Also, I don’t know if the steamship was able to unload in Tocopilla or they might have disembarked using long boats when arriving in Chile.

The mine is located about 800 miles north of Santiago at an elevation of over 9,000 Ft in a high plain desert (Atacama the driest desert on Earth). Grandpa was assigned to the power plant and remained there, until he was offered a job for Anaconda’s Copper mine as the power plant superintendent around 1942-43 timeframe in Cananea Mexico until he retired in the early 60’s.

Martha was a business woman. She represented Ramos Catalan (a very accomplished and famous Chilean Artist) while in Chile. She knew how to pinch pennies. One of the stories involved Grandma’s trip to Naco, AZ for groceries. She arrived at the border with no gas in the tank and stopped in the first gas station she could find only to find out that they did not offer S&H green stamps so she drove on looking for an S&H gas station before running out of gas. I always admired my Grandma.

Dad’s brother (Don) and his sister (Aunt Carroll) were both born in Chile. Herb and Don where really handfuls for their parents. Dad was six years older than Don: maybe a good role model or maybe not? Camp schooling was provided through the 8^th grade so dad had to leave Chuqui for a Christian Boarding School (I think it was St Andrews Affiliated with the Presbyterian Church). Anyway, Dad boarded a train in Chuqui for transport to Santiago, he arranged transport across the Andes to Mendoza Argentina and then by rail to Buenos Aires. Below is the famous switchback road from Santiago to Mendoza Argentina. Not an easy trip alone for a fourteen-year-old?

Dad and I traveled to Chile together on business in 1993 it was a great experience; something I will never forget. Chile was simply breathtaking. I would like to take Cristy there when COVID is over to see Venezuela and Chile. Allende was a big mistake that did a lot of damage in Chile. General Augusto Pinochet cleaned this mess up in short order. The US left-wing media portrayed the General as a terrible villain but in reality, the country became an economic model for South America thanks to his reforms.

Rare picture of Dad and Mom together in Venezuela

Dad, Ted Heron, and Dick Guth at the El Pao mine site. Notice all wore khaki and most sported their military style belts.

Dad showing off mining techniques and really looking like Castro! Dad was about 5’8” but his hands were huge. When you shook hands with him it was like shaking hands with a bear.

Couple of mining camp engineers: Dad and Corky. Great photo.

Left to Right-Lou Hintshaw, Dad, Walfredo Jimenez, and Bernie Gerbrecht talking mining on the front porch of our company house. Mr. Jimenez was the head of mining operations in El Pao.

Olive Ruff on left and Mom on the Road to Cananea Mexico. Art Ruff was a classmate of Dad’s at Colorado School of Mines. He worked in Cananea and was the General Superintendent of Cerro Bolivar, US Steel Property in Venezuela, Circa 1955

Passport Picture of Mom, Me and Mary Ellen taken just prior to leaving the US for Venezuela.

Ted Heron-always Dad’s friend and colleague for life.

Michael Ashe -Farragut Picture at age 14.
Now the family knows where they get their ears!

Why Such High Crime Rates In Venezuela?

June 20, 2020June 20, 2020 Richard Barnes

We drove past the club to the left and continued by the sports field — simply an open pasture or clearing; the same area which served as a heliport but was used primarily for softball games — and beyond to the only entry and exit point of the mining camp: the alcabala (guardhouse), manned by a member of the camp’s security force.

I sat in the back, our maid, Elena (not her real name) sat in the front, and my mother was at the wheel.

It was night.

I waved at Sr. Bello and laughed as he gave an exaggerated faux salute, smiling broadly, open-mouthed. Whenever I think of a wide, genuine smile, I think of Sr. Bello, as he would greet or say farewell to us coming or going, all the while working the lever which lifted or lowered the crossbar blocking the road.

Upon exiting the camp, shortly after passing the alcabala, the road split: the right would lead to the labor camp; left would lead to the Orinoco, the Caroní, or Upata and points beyond. That night we turned left, intending to go a short distance, some 4 or 5 kilometers on the road to the Orinoco to drop Elena at her roadside home, a structure I would probably call a hut today, but in my childhood it was someone’s house.

“There is someone there!” my mother exclaimed to Elena as we approached.

“Oh! Well, I wasn’t expecting him to ever come by. I’ll tell him to leave,” Elena replied, as she looked towards her house.

The rest of the exchange was sotto voce. I did not understand why my mother seemed so upset and why her tone sounded so urgent, but could tell this was not the first time the two had discussed whatever matter they were now talking about.

She drove a few kilometers more beyond the hut, all the while going back and forth with Elena, who seemed to be seeking to reassure my mother that she was in control of whatever the matter was. My mother found a place to turn around and drove to the hut.

This I do remember: the light was on. A mean looking, swarthy fellow (at least to my childhood eyes) was standing inside, shirtless, doing I don’t know what, while a radio was blasting some cumbia-salsa type music. He did not seem to be a good guy and my mother’s concern inchoately became mine.

“Spend the night with us, Elena,” my mother said, but to no effect.

“Do not worry. I’ll handle this.”

We drove home, Mr. Bello once again lifting the crossbar, this time to let us back into the camp.

Some weeks or months later, I arrived home from school, either for lunch or after the end of the school day, to find my mother speaking sharply to Elena, who meekly agreed with whatever was being said.

And months later our family gave her gifts for her newborn child and my mother sought other ladies in the camp to also give….

One of the most frequent themes of conversation during my preschool and early school years was how Venezuela was so low in crime under Gómez or Pérez Jiménez and how crime exploded under democratic rule. One of my first memories after the fall of Pérez Jiménez was looking out the inlaid windows during a visit with my aunt. Some youths ran behind two young ladies and, to our utter shock, disrespected them in a most vile manner. That event triggered the topic of conversation the rest of that visit, with the refrain, “That never happened under Pérez Jiménez.”

Later, a Venezuelan friend and her family visited the United States for the very first time. Upon their return she told me about visiting a park in Miami or New York and purposefully dropping litter on the grass. “And, no policeman rebuked me or arrested me.”

I was too green to know to reply that the United States system of government presupposes a people who can practice self-government. It does not need police on every corner to jump down one’s throat for littering. As self-government decreases or ceases, crime increases dramatically and littering becomes the least of our worries.

One of our founders said something along the lines of, “You will either govern yourself or, by God, you will be governed.” This was clearly a derivation of Proverbs 25:28, “He that hath no rule over his own spirit is like a city that is broken down, and without walls.”

And this brings me back to that story about Elena. Growing up in South America I often heard that crime in Venezuela was very high whereas in Chile it was low.

Why?

Answering that question requires an expertise that I certainly do not possess, but, given the track record of supposed “experts” on sundry matters, including viruses, perhaps the rest of us should at least make use of Ockham’s razor and take a stab at what is most obvious.

And what is most obvious is the home.

Venezuela has historically had high rates of unmarried cohabitation and illegitimacy, in contrast to Chile, where such rates have historically been low.

For example, in 1970, cohabitation percentages for men 25-29 in Venezuela and Chile were 30.6 and 4.4, respectively. Women’s rates were similar. By 2000, the rate in Venezuela had soared to 56.4, and, ominously, in Chile it had spiked to 29.3.

(Why the earlier statistics between Chile and Venezuela vary so wildly, given that they were both Spanish colonies with presumably similar backgrounds, is a matter for another blog post.)

Even more inauspiciously, well over half of all children in South America today are born to unwed mothers. Per NPR, the rate in Colombia is 84%.

Throughout this blog, I’ve made the plea for rapprochement and better cooperation and understanding between the United States and South America, noting that our respective backgrounds in many respects have more in common than with modern Europe not to mention other areas of the globe. Both North and South America are now grappling with the consequences of family breakdowns, yet, in South America, the family still manifests a pull which surpasses that of North America.

For example, in Chile, 81.8% of all single mothers live with their families and receive support and encouragement there. In Venezuela, it is 79.4%. In contrast, the United States has more than three (3) times the share of children around the world who live in single parent households. In other words, they live apart from their extended families.

South America can re-teach North America the value of extended family.

North America can re-teach South America the absolute necessity of self-government.

And both North and South America need a Reformation and Re-Awakening to God.

For readers with further interest in this subject, the links below will be helpful.

https://phys.org/news/2010-07-crime-linked-out-of-wedlock-births.html

https://ced.uab.cat/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/Chapter_2.pdf

https://www.npr.org/sections/parallels/2015/12/14/459098779/all-across-latin-america-unwed-mothers-are-now-the-norm

Playa Hicacos, 1966

June 15, 2019June 15, 2019 Richard Barnes

Towards the end of my childhood life in Venezuela, my father took us to Puerto la Cruz. Back then, this was a 5 or 6-hour drive but Puerto la Cruz was the closest city with an American consulate. She sits on the northeast coast of Venezuela, east of Caracas, west of Cumaná.

We always looked forward to trips there because such trips would invariably include at least one visit to the spectacular beaches on the coast of Sucre to the east of the city. That trip, in 1966, marked the last time I ever visited a beach in Venezuela, not counting those in Canaima, which are river beaches.

Childhood memories are notoriously unreliable. However, over the years I’ve had the pleasure of meeting a few “round-the-world” sailors who agree that this area of Venezuela contains some of the world’s most picturesque, but unknown, ocean spots.

On that visit, my father drove us for what seemed like hours snaking our way through the high coastal mountain ranges over some unpaved roads affording us breathtaking vistas of this striking cordillera and crystalline seas far below. We eventually arrived at Playa Hicacos. We had it all to ourselves. The water was cold (not cool but cold). However, we quickly warmed up and enjoyed our day at the beach. That last beach outing has remained indelible in my memory and I’ve judged all other beaches by that standard. Most others fall short — unfair, I know, to judge the rest by a childhood memory, but indulge me on this, please.

I had little idea that year was a tumultuous one for South America. Signs of political agitation were almost everywhere, not only in Venezuela but in practically all large cities of the continent. Scrawlings on walls — this I do recall — ranged from “Castro is a traitor!” to “Vote Communist!” and, of course the ubiquitous, “Yanqui go home!”

That was the year of The Beatles’ Rubber Soul and I remember hearing “Michelle” here and there at stops during this and other trips — including the one to Maracay alluded to in an earlier post (“Coffee”). That was also the year the same Beatles released an album cover posing as butchers with mutilated dolls and cut meat. It was later pulled, which reflects the fact that, even in 1966, an anteroom year for the Hippies and Woodstock shenanigans, sensibilities were more respectful than today.

I also recall lots of ruckus about a gal named Peggy Fleming who skated on ice, spectacularly. I now understand that she was a key figure (no pun intended) envisaging the return of the USA to figure skating dominance after the entire 18-member team was killed in a plane crash in 1961.

And large scale anti-Vietnam War protests also began to take shape that year.

But news from South America was sparse. You had to be living there to hear about Communist guerrilla bands attacking landowners in Peru or the rumors of Juan Peron’s return to Argentina and the upheavals that led to the military coup, with labor support (!), which deposed its president.

In Chile, Eduardo Frei was president. He downplayed the Communist threat and, like many South American intellectuals, would chide the Americans for being so “childishly afraid” of a non-threat. It was a turbulent year in Chile culminating 4 years later with the election of Salvador Allende with 36% of the vote; an election which had to be decided by the legislature who voted him in, after receiving assurances by Allende that he would not go full Communist. Assurances which went promptly out the window. Such was the shock and such was the disaster, that Eduardo Frei himself came to support Allende’s ouster by a military coup in 1973. The Chile situation did get press in the United States in the 1970’s, but as usual it was very incomplete and much too colored by Hollywood.

In Colombia, lawlessness had its own peculiar name: La Violencia. In 1966, as in prior years, President Guillermo Valencia sought to explain to US diplomats and legislators and dubious journalists that the violent guerrillas causing havoc in the country were Communist-inspired and supported (there was plenty of evidence for this, including Cubans embedded with the guerillas and pamphlets espousing the Communist line).

Perhaps La Violencia’s most despicable exponent was Pedro Antonio Marín, known as Tiro Fijo (Sure Shot). The prior year he had waylaid a bus, and killed thirteen of its passengers (including two nuns). This was followed by an attack on a nearby village. He and his men murdered the mayor and police chief and then preached revolution to the stunned villagers. Marín was the chief leader of the Communist FARC, which he founded in 1966. His toll of known murders exceeded 200 by the end of the 1960’s, then grew exponentially thereafter.

In Venezuela President Betancourt, a former Communist who had been betrayed by Castro (here, besides written propaganda, the evidence included weapons, explosives, and ammunition smuggled in from Cuba), had denounced Castro to the Organization of American States (OAS) and demanded sanctions, thereby earning the eternal hatred of his erstwhile comrades. The FALN (a Communist group akin to Colombia’s FARC) was active, but Betancourt clamped down, hard, in the early 60’s including outlawing the Communist Party. The damage to infrastructure and commerce, including oil pipelines, was great; however, by 1966, things were somewhat calm, business was good, travel was open, and the National Guard checkpoints along critical highways gave us a sense of security. Acts of violence still occurred, but not as seriously as earlier in the decade.

It was an intense year. But as a child, I knew little of all that and certainly had no premonition of the storms which were about to burst in the few short years that followed.

My only concern (whenever I would think of it, butterflies would fly in my gut) was that this would be my last year living at home. That day in Playa Hicacos was fun and peaceful and strikingly beautiful; sort of an oasis, a recreational rest midst the gathering storms. Looking back, I now suspect my father’s desire was to provide opportunities to create memories to cherish in the years ahead. Not only for me, but for him as well.

In September of 1966, at the end of annual family leave in Miami, I bid farewell to my mother and father and siblings as they boarded the Pan American jet which would transport them back to Venezuela. I remained in Miami, Florida for schooling, as did most of my cousins.

As for Playa Hicacos, I later learned that, in 1973, the entire area was designated a national park, Mochima, and I hear it’s as beautiful now as it was back in the day when I visited.

There are some things that never change.