Fernando Rodriguez was an Arthur Andersen audit manager in San Juan, Puerto Rico. He had a delightful sense of humor which, upon remembrance, still makes me chuckle, if not laugh outright.
Once, around noon, having gotten his haircut in the barber shop in the lobby of the Royal Bank of Canada, he walked out and ran into one of the firm’s partners who gruffly rebuked him, “Hmmm. Getting a haircut during office hours!” to which Fernando, without missing a beat, replied, “My hair grows during office hours!”
Of course, the partner laughed.
During one of our trips to the mainland, we had a stop in Miami during which he called relatives there, introducing himself as “Fernandito”. After he hung up the phone, I asked him a bit about his childhood in Miami. A couple of his stories remain with me presumably because they are not too dissimilar from my own childhood experiences.
As a child, he had escaped Cuba where, like his friends and family, he was a die hard New York Yankees fan, as I had been in my childhood. They lived in the Coral Gables area of Miami and every day, he and other young Cuban refugees would run to Sears where they could see the previous night’s baseball scores. He told me of their loud delight whenever the Yankees had won and, looking back, how strange that must have seemed to the Sears employees. Who are these Spanish-speaking kids yelping as they would in the baseball stands when this is not a stadium and there is no game going on?
As he told of that era, I instantly related. Every year our family took our annual leave in Miami where we also had relatives. And every year, my mother would include a long, tedious day or two of shopping in Sears of Coral Gables. In retrospect, I have to admire my parents’ planning. They guesstimated their children’s growth for the following year and bought them clothing on that basis. I can remember only once or twice having to buy clothes in Venezuela, for funerals. It was very expensive and that is why we, and other families in El Pao, bought in the USA once a year.
And I also recall rooting for the Yankees over the big short wave radio at the El Pao Club.
Fernando went on to tell of how he and his childhood friends were so taken by The Beatles phenomenon. They would run to Sears every week, baseball season or no, to check the standings of any Beatles songs on the hit parade. He chuckled as he pondered how crazy they must have seemed to those Sears people.
This too rang true. In another post I’ll tell about the “arrival” of that band in El Pao in 1964 and how that coincided closely with a heartbreaking Yankees loss that year. But for now, I’ll say that when their hit song of the moment came on that short wave radio, my childhood friend, Anne, came running to me, insisting that I come and hear them. Just like Fernando and his friends ran to see how they were doing against the competition.
Fernando went on to live and to thrive in Puerto Rico, first as an Arthur Andersen audit manager, and then as partner and president of a regional CPA firm based in the San Juan area. I last saw him when he and I along with a mutual friend and colleague, Vicente Gregorio, met to reminisce and, mostly, to laugh, in Christmastime, 2012, during one of my visits to Puerto Rico. He passed away on June 4, 2014.
Coral Gables, Florida, was founded in the 1920s and was designed to be a pedestrian city. That, it certainly was as my childhood memories can attest: walking up and down Miracle Mile and Alhambra; visiting the Miracle Mile movie theater; walking to and diving into the gigantic Venetian Pool are all vivid memories decades later.
Many Cubans settled in Venezuela and I was privileged to know them, to love them, to miss them. As I miss my friend, Fernando.
Sears in Coral Gables is one of the very few remaining Sears stores in Florida.
Douglas Entrance to Coral Gables, Florida as I and my friend, Fernando, remembered it. Sears in Coral Gables, Florida. Miracle Mile is seen in background. Thanks to Dreamstime for photo. Venetian Pool, Coral Gables, Florida Miracle Mile Theater, Coral Gables, Florida Fernando Rodriguez, my friend and colleague. May he rest in peace.
In the early 1960’s, two American Peace Corps volunteers driving in the city of Caracas inadvertently ran a Venezuelan National Guard checkpoint. They were immediately pursued by siren-blaring vehicles and motorcycles. Once they realized they were being chased, they pulled over and stepped out of their car with their hands in the air, only to be shot down in a hail of bullets. One died instantly, the other was in critical condition but was rushed to the hospital and eventually recovered.
Such was the nervousness in those days. Pérez Jiménez had been exiled and Rómulo Betancourt, a former Communist, had been elected president and immediately invited Fidel Castro for talks in Caracas. The talks did not go as anticipated, Castro being impatient for immediate Latin American revolutions, Betancourt having moderated somewhat and being more patient to wait for a revolution over time, wherein the state eventually took over most major private enterprises, including the oil and steel industries.
But Castro’s impatience blew up like an exploding cigar. Arms, ammunition, and explosives caches were found along the Venezuelan coast and easily traced back to Cuba and in November, 1961, Betancourt, very publicly, broke diplomatic relations with Cuba. Immediately, Communist guerrilla activity flared and intensified. Checkpoints were set up across the country, so much so that decades later, when stopped at checkpoints while visiting Latin American countries on business, I experienced no nervousness whatsoever, as I had become inured to such since childhood.
That was the atmosphere and the context in the early ’60s when the two hapless volunteers were shot down.
But the early 1960s were a piker compared to extra judicial deaths in Venezuela between January 2018 and May 2019: 6,856 according to the U.N. High Commissioner for Human Rights. That’s more than the killings attributed to Augusto Pinochet’s 17-years in office. And many believe that the commission likely undercounted.
Of the top 20 “murder capitals” in the world, Venezuela has 4 (second only to Mexico) and Caracas is in third place, after Tijuana and Acapulco. If you have been following this blog, you have an idea how shocking this is when you recall that as late as the mid-20th century Venezuelans left their doors not only unlocked, but sometimes open to allow air to flow through on warm, humid nights.
Our earlier posts told of Richard Nixon’s visit in 1958 (Nixon) and the leftist fervent in Caracas university student bodies and their involvement in that close run thing (Universities). The United States National Security Council’s minutes after the Vice President’s return records some interesting insights by John Foster Dulles, the United States Secretary of State as to what might have ailed Venezuela in that era. The following is excerpted from the minutes in 1958, declassified decades later:
“Secretary Dulles went on to say that there was one more very important factor in the Latin American problem which the United States faced. This was the collapse of religion generally in Latin America. We all believe in this country that religion, with its emphasis on the rights and freedoms of the individual under God, is the very core of our democratic system and that it is also the greatest bulwark against atheistic communism. Unhappily … organized religion had practically no influence on the mass of the people as opposed to the aristocracy. Admittedly, said Secretary Dulles, he did not know what we could do about correcting this very grave situation, but it was certainly at the heart of our problem in Latin America.”
Secretary Dulles was on to something. Search for any listing of the top 50 murder capitals in the world, and you’ll find that all but 9 or 10 are in Latin America. However, you’ll also see a smattering of US cities in the lists. As the true religion wanes in the hearts of a people, their capacity for self-government and self-restraint, as well as their courage in restraining others by simply calling a spade a spade, so to say, also wanes. As to the very little crime in Venezuela up to the middle of the last century, it must be said that much of that was likely due to the mano dura of “benign dictatorships who promptly and at times ruthlessly dealt with crime. As Dulles might have put it: you either govern yourself, or you will be governed.
Even today, in Latin America, the mano dura approach is applauded by people of all philosophical stripes. For example, Coronavirus lockdown decrees (which are not different from those of a number of US state governors) would easily have been characterized as totalitarian not too many decades ago. But, whereas in the US there is genuine questioning and push back, including hard-hitting editorials and opinion columns, in Latin America it is amazing to see very little intellectual resistance, but rather applause because “sometimes such measures are necessary.”
Latin America flirted for a long time with, to use Dulles’ words, “atheistic communism”. There are hopeful signs of an awakening, which cannot come too soon. However, looking at our own dalliance with the living-without-God option, might we facing our own dark night?
In this Easter Season, let us all look to Him Who was lifted up and Who draws all peoples unto Him. Personal knowledge of Him gives us an understanding and an inclination to deny oneself thereby to control oneself. This, in turn, foments a growing appreciation for liberty under God and the eternal vigilance necessary to preserve it.
In the late 1970’s, I took an extended leave to visit the country of my birth. During that most memorable trip, I had the joyful pleasure of meeting countless individuals and families, who, in true Venezuelan fashion were not shy in sharing their opinions about the direction the country was taking at the time.
That direction was, in a word, “nationalization” or forced divestment, principally of the iron ore and petroleum industries. This phenomenon was worldwide at the time, especially in Africa and Latin America, and it had devastating consequences.
What I saw — gargantuan enterprises with protean manufacturing plants, power centers, chemical processors, and assorted buildings and dormitories, accompanied by massive hirings of blue and white collar workforces and countless foreign workers, some of whom were housed on cruise ships docked on the Orinoco — did not “pass the sniff test”.
I had a number of vigorous but mostly friendly debates on the merits of government-run versus privately run operations. Already the mining camp where I was born had shown deterioration. One lady expressed sincere surprise at this, “How is it that now that this belongs to us, we haven’t managed to maintain it, let alone improve it?”
“Could it be that when something belongs to ‘us all’ it actually belongs to no one?” was one refrain I found myself repeating throughout the trip.
At my expressed concern about the immense power and wealth being concentrated in the Venezuelan government, something usually seen in Communist or Socialist regimes, the usual reply by those who disagreed with my concerns, was along the lines of, ‘it’s about time that “our” wealth remained here instead of being transferred to the United States.'”
Conversely, the reply by those who somewhat agreed with my concerns was along the lines of, “the Venezuelan military would never allow the government to devolve into outright Socialism or Communism.”
Interestingly, neither camp was concerned about what all this nationalization activity would lead to. In one heated and less friendly exchange, a more recent acquaintance at the time ridiculed my concerns, expressing disdain that I would question the massive wealth now owned by the Venezuelan people. He mocked my assertion that the people actually “owned” nothing. It was all owned by the state.
According to a scholarly analysis by the Federal Reserve Bank of Kansas City in 2013, “Nationalization brought considerable declines in productivity in the oil industries of the sample countries. Productivity fell by more than 70 percent in the Venezuelan oil industry. Despite enormous efforts put into expansion, it took Venezuelan’s nationalized industry about 20 years to return to its early 1960’s productivity levels.”
Sadly, shortly after the 20 years, another, more serious wave of nationalization was launched with even more catastrophic results. To take just one example, the enormous Venezuelan steelworks, Sidor, the crown of Venezuelan heavy industry, saw its production go from 4 million tons of steel in 2007, the year before its nationalization by the Chavez Socialist government, to 1.5 million in 2014, with triple the number of employees. Between late October, 2013 and August 2014, it had operated for only 90 days. I have no access to more recent figures nor would I trust them if I did.
Well, the wealth is gone for the most part; other than the billions in the private foreign bank accounts of a relative handful of Socialists. As for the massive mineral and petroleum reserves, those await the capital and the expertise to extract it. That explains the intense interest and activity in Venezuela on the part of both China and Russia.
As to the military, in later trips, friends were more subdued as they told me of the heavy Cuban influence in the Venezuelan forces. Why was this not being reported, they wondered.
Fidel Castro ruthlessly applied the tactic of buying or otherwise coopting the military. A tactic he taught Hugo Chavez and Nicolás Maduro. Hence, the failure of the Venezuelan military to “never allow the government to devolve into outright Socialism or Communism.”
To read more about the emasculation of the Venezuelan military, refer to the Reuters article linked below, “How Cuba Taught Venezuela to Quash Military Dissent”. The article is appreciated, but why did it not appear a decade ago when it might have made a difference?
This post complements the prior, doing so in the form of excerpts of a dialogue between an ex-patriate employee of an American company and a young Venezuelan who, having pursued higher education in Caracas, had returned to the interior with something to say. The conversation took place in the mid-1950’s on a street in a town on the shores of the Orinoco River during a hot period of the Cold War.
The trigger was an altercation where an older, American executive had been attacked by a mob. Adam had intervened by flooring the leader. He then escorted the elderly man to a company truck and came back to talk with Enrique, who had remained after the group had dispersed.
Any names are fictitious, including any states of origin.
“But, Sr. Adam, you are ignoring America’s malevolence towards Latin America as a whole. Theodore Roosevelt and Woodrow Wilson thought we were about a scale or two lower than the Araguato [Howling Monkey]. They insisted on telling us how to live and govern ourselves. As if we were ignorant beasts, recently arrived from the stone age. They never acknowledged that we had a thriving civilization for centuries before your Pilgrims arrived up north!”
“I have never denied our faults, Enrique. And you must remember that the American people come from 48 sovereign states. We do not necessarily agree with the Roosevelts and Wilsons in Washington. Lord knows I don’t. I am first an Illinois man; then, an American. Anyway, since you know your history, you will remember that the American people rejected Wilson’s utopian designs on us and on the rest of the world.”
“No great comfort to us, Sr. Adam.”
“Many Americans have a genuine affinity for Latin America, you surely know that. Wilson and Roosevelt may presume to tell Latin Americans how to live and how to govern themselves, but many Americans do not agree with them on that. I would have thought you knew that too. When we pave roads and build schools, churches, swimming pools, clubs, baseball fields, bowling alleys, and who knows what else, do you see us telling you how to live? No, you do not. When you see us distributing food and offering excursions to historic sites, do you see us propagandizing for the United States government? No, you don’t see us doing that either.
“And yet, we hear radicalized teachers and professors, and, sad to say, even priests, maintain a constant drumbeat of propaganda designed to blacken the United States.”
“But, I guess I shouldn’t feel like the Lone Ranger, should I, Enrique? You not only dislike Americans, you also dislike Spain, don’t you? And the irony of this hatred is that the American elite and his English cousins had a hand in spreading the worldwide anti-Spain propaganda. Something for which I am not proud at all. And yet, you also believe the black propaganda, even though we Americans had a hand in spreading it.”
“Now, there’s an area where you could work to dispel bad history and where you could, rightly, accuse Americans of spreading falsehoods. All this we readily admit and stipulate. And, I’ll go even further: The United States are reaping the whirlwind as France now takes the lead in blackening our own reputation. We don’t like the lies being said of us; but, sadly, we spread many lies about Spain. So, you would be justified in saying to us, ‘As you brew, so shall you bake.’ All this I readily grant to you, Enrique.”
“But none of it justifies your actions and your attitudes towards me and towards my countrymen.”
“It is not that I dislike Spain, Sr. Adam. It is that I admire French philosophy and culture and literature, which is far superior to both Spain’s and America’s.”
“Well, I’m not so sure about that, Enrique. I think you would agree that Don Quixote, written about a century before either Voltaire or Rousseau, is a masterpiece. And it is far more rooted in reality than anything those two twits ever said or wrote. I will not even pretend to appreciate those two hypocrites. Rousseau left, what? 4, or was it 5 children in foundling homes because he refused to care for his own. And yet he insisted on telling the rest of us how to live! Oh! Wait! Isn’t that what you fault the Americans for?”
“I’ve always been impressed with your knowledge, Sr. Adam….”
“Stop the flattery, Enrique; I don’t like it at all.”
“My apologies,” this with extended vowels, highlighting that skin-crawling sarcasm, which Adam ignored.
“And if Rousseau was evil, Sartre is the devil incarnate. And yet you admire them, Enrique. Don’t you? You admire them because Paris is your Mecca, not Madrid. And Paris is no friend of the United States; certainly not in her existentialist literature and attitudes which are antithetical to the American traditional view of history and purposefulness and belief in a Creator Who rules and providentially cares….”
“Are you saying the Libertador was evil for preferring France to Spain, Sr. Adam?” Enrique impatiently interrupted. “As you know, Simón Bolivar was actually expelled from Madrid. So, yes, our founding owes much to France, especially 19thcentury Paris where Bolivar lived and imbibed the spirit of liberty. “
“It was in France, Sr. Adam, where the Libertador absorbed the revolutionary spirit which would come to free our lands from Spanish oppression. It was in France where he gained the courage to cast everything aside for the sake of liberty from Spain and from any oppressor. So, respectfully, if you expect me to apologize for my preference for French literature and philosophy over Spanish obscurantism and American superficiality, you will be disappointed, Señor Adam.”
“Enrique, I do not expect you to apologize for what is the foundation of your hatred for America and also, by the way, for thousands of Venezuelans who disagree with your attitude and predilections against us.”
“Of course, I fully understand that the revolutionaries of France and South America, despite being physically separated by a vast ocean, nevertheless shared the same ideals: ‘utter, blind faith in a political ideal over an ancient regime; the belief that the past was to be buried, not honored; an unquestioning assurance that the world was being transformed and that process of transformation was opening new paths to new men, new ideas, new ambitions.’ In other words, man was being born again; however, not from above.”
“But, I wonder if you’ve ever paused to consider another thing the French Revolution and South Americans had in common: incredible bloodshed and heinous tortures. Venezuela alone lost over one third of her population. One third!”
“And it was in Venezuela where one of the bloodiest racial wars of all time took place. A little while ago you were criticizing my country for its supposed despising of “lower” classes, and this despite our private and public philanthropic work to all classes of peoples around the world. But have you ever paused to consider the blood that was spilt in Venezuela, much of it on the basis of class and race?”
“And as for the Libertador, you’ll forgive me for not being an uncritical fanatic. I agree he was a heroic figure. Surely the great treks across the Andes Mountains and through much of South America will, for ages, grace the annals of history. But he also needlessly spilled much blood.”
“You must also know he was a great admirer of Napoleon. He was in Paris when Napoleon was crowned; but he refused to attend because he felt Napoleon — whom he had adored up to that moment — had betrayed the revolutionary spirit. But Bolivar blithely, and ominously for Venezuela, ignored Napoleon’s rationale: the tendency of a people who cannot govern themselves is sanguinary anarchy; therefore, a king is necessary. Mr. Bolivar did not even pause to ponder why Napoleon allowed himself to be crowned.
“But you are right, in its terrible 19th century Revolution, Venezuela was closer to France, philosophically, than to Spain. I would not consider that a compliment. But it is true.”
Enrique did not have any desire to continue the faux Socratic dialogue. “Sr. Adam, I am not interested in your opinions about the great Libertador. To you, everything is either black or white. A cut and dry sort of thing! You come to another country and expect us to behave or to believe as you do in North America. We have a different culture; a different history. You would be wise if you recognized that!”
Adam turned, “I agree that our cultures have differences. However, you must agree, in turn, that some things are universal: murder is bad; cowardice is bad; disrespect to elders is bad; attacking an older, defenseless man is bad! Do not be such a fool as to hide behind the ‘class’ or ‘culture’ fig leaf to justify the unjustifiable. You should be ashamed of yourself, Enrique. Good-bye.”
Enrique stood, as if rooted in the dirt street, one of three running through the center of the town.
He looked at Adam’s back, suppressing the urge to assault him.
“One day, it will be you lying in the dirt, eating your own blood and vomit,” he hissed, thinking Adam could not hear him.
Napoleon Bonaparte (1769-1821), admired and later rejected by Bolivar. Simon Bolivar (1783-1830), as taught to and seen by most Venezuelans. Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712-1778) who delighted in telling us how we should live and what the General Will is. I certainly would not want to live under his care. Pretty writing; ugly example. His influence is with us to this day. French writer and existentialist philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre (1905 – 1980). (Photo by Express Newspapers/Getty Images) Jean-Paul Sartre (1905-1980). Very popular among radicals in the 20th century. An existentialist who, nevertheless, “sided” with Fidel Castro and other Communist causes, even though such positions contradicted his existentialism. The woman with him is Simone de Beauvoir, a brilliant feminist whose “open marriage” to Sartre became a model for many. Note Che Guevara behind de Beauvoir. Guevara, from his youth, read Sartre. Sartre waxed lyrical eulogizing him on his death. Later, Sartre, to no avail, pleaded with Castro to spare Cuba of Stalinism. Sartre’s and de Beauvoir’s influence on Latin America, including Venezuela, was great and deserves more study and consideration. San Felix in the mid 1950’s, about the time the dialogue took place on a street similar to this one. A few years later, a Baptist church was built in the area to the left, where the jeep is parked. Its ministry prospered greatly. Araguato (Howling Monkey). At sundowns they sound like roaring lions in the jungle Section of the Páramo de Pisba, where Bolivar crossed the Andes. Over 2,000 men and women died in the crossing, at times at 13,000 feet. However, he surprised the Spanish in Colombia and defeated them in the Battle of Boyacá, a tremendous victory. May Day celebration in Venezuela, May 1, 2019. The Venezuelan government portrays Bolivar as a founding father of Latin American Communism. However, many Venezuelans are insulted and deeply offended by this use of Bolivar.
This in no way is the opinion of a coffee connoisseur; just an anecdote in the ongoing education of a layman who likes coffee.
I often wondered why coffee tasted so good in Venezuela but so bad in Colombia. The conundrum was a challenge because having brought both Venezuelan and Colombian coffees to our home in Michigan and, later, Texas, preparing and drinking the Colombian was a delight, whereas the Venezuelan was a bitter memory. This neatly inverted my experience when actually drinking coffee in the respective countries: in Venezuela, coffee good; in Colombia, coffee bad.
Why was that? Why was coffee so flavorful in Venezuela, whether in fine restaurants or on street corners or in middle-of-nowhere joints, but so insipid in similar venues in Colombia? And yet, when you took the same coffees out of the country, the experience was exactly the reverse?
During an assignment in South America in the early 1990’s, I was invited for dinner at the home of a European executive and his wife. They served exquisite coffee.
“This coffee is very good. I assume it’s Colombian,” I said.
“Well, no. It’s Venezuelan,” our hostess replied. And then she and her husband laughed. They went on to explain that the reason coffee tasted good in Venezuela is that, although Venezuelan coffee is, in general, really not very good, the country’s bistros, restaurants, street corners, and country kiosks were equipped with the best European coffee makers, whether simple, Italian-made stainless steel stove top expresso makers (not to be confused with made-in-China Bialetti’s, whose coffee soon has the whiff of aluminum) or the marvelously complex, Swiss-or-Italian-made stainless steel commercial barista-operated machines.
“That is not the case in Colombia, for the most part. Yes, their coffee is indeed superior, but they go cheap on the coffee-making equipment and hence their coffee suffers.”
The point they drove home was that, for a tasty cup of coffee, the coffee maker can be more important than the coffee itself. Experts may disagree with their statement, but my own experience, anecdotal and unprofessional as it is, bears it out. And did I mention that the executive was a longtime employee of one of the largest food and beverage companies in the world? He likely knows what he’s talking about.
Once, in my mid teens, during a 24-hour drive from the interior to Maracay (a city to the west of Caracas), my father was not comfortable stopping for the night given that the inns we had inspected were, shall we say, not family friendly. He decided to continue driving but asked me to assist given that my mother was too sleepy to do so. I was excited for my first opportunity to drive on one of our excursions but was just as sleepy as he was. My father knew that the large cattle ranches in the area (known as hatos) would at times have giant kiosks with generators and excellent coffee along some roadsides. Around three in the morning, we saw one, like an oasis bathed in bright lights piercing the stark darkness. It was open air and the cowboys could be seen from the road as they leaned on the massive mahogany counter chatting and sipping their “negritos”, a very strong espresso-like concoction. My father ordered two. It was my first ever and it kept me awake and wired through the rest of the dark hours and into the middle of the morning when we drove into the city.
Three impressions stay with me from that incident: first, the bright lights in the darkest period of the night; second, the vaqueros in their boots and large hats as they leaned and talked and took their coffee; and, third, the intricate and polished espresso machines which, to a boy, seemed to extend the length of the wooden counter. This was an example of the Italian-made coffee makers one would find in the remotest corners of Venezuela, producing a coffee so excellent, that it would make Venezuelans dining in Paris bistros yearn for that homemade brew.
Venezuela once rivalled Colombia in terms of coffee production (not taste, except for rare artesanal coffee). Sadly, Venezuela’s coffee production has been in steep decline, especially since early this century when the effect of state regulations interfered with and disrupted coffee growers’ operations. In this regard, Venezuela has more in common with Cuba than to its neighbor. In Venezuela, power is now officially rationed but we can be grateful that, unlike Cuba, coffee is not.
Well, Colombia and Venezuela were supposed to be one country, not two. Maybe they’ll agree to unite one day, for the perfect cup of coffee.
A recent photo of Caracas at dusk. Notice the absence of lighting. An astounding contrast to the lighted kiosk in the “middle of nowhere”. About twice the size I drank that dark morning, only without milk and thicker (if boyhood memory serves) And, for breakfast, hard to beat corn arepas accompanied by that coffee. Venezuela coffee farm surrounded by mountains My father clowning around while enjoying his Venezuelan coffee break, circa 1950
