Tag: El Pao

If It Belongs To All ….

Richard Barnes

After college graduation in 1975, my visits to El Pao were rather irregular yet not infrequent, with visits in 1978 and several times in the ensuing decades when I was able to swing by during business trips. My last visit was in 2005, which, although memorable, had its harrowing moments whose details will have to await retelling.

During my 1978 trip, for which I will be forever grateful, an old family friend and her older children engaged me in lively conversation over coffee and pastries in her home when, pausing and looking at me, which caused me to remain silent, she said, “Nosotros jamás pensamos que el campamento se pondría peor [We never thought the camp would get worse]”.

That was the elephant in the room: surely I had noticed the unkempt open spaces, which as late as 1975 looked like golf course greens but now were overgrown; or the swimming pool which looked like it needed cleaning and maintenance; or the bowling lanes which had clearly seen better days; or the houses, including my family’s, in which we had lived until a few short years prior but which now were almost jungle invaded and “occupied” by surly squatters.

I had noticed, of course; however, I also knew that there was no need to needlessly offend. Prior to and during the “nacionalización” María had been a loud voice extolling the virtues of “public” ownership versus the evils of “Gringo” ownership.

But now she was sincerely looking for a response from someone whom she knew had not been a fan of the jingoistic justifications for theft. Of course, those appeals had been disguised by distortions asserting that the Bethlehem Steel and all such steel and petroleum companies had “stolen” the minerals of Venezuela, had exploited the people of Venezuela, had imposed inhumane conditions on the working class of Venezuela, ad nauseam. 

Carefully, for she sincerely wanted to hear my opinion, I replied, “Bueno, María [not her name], a way to help us understand what we are seeing is to ask a simple question: if something belongs to ‘everyone’, then who, really, is the owner? In other words, who will take the risk to care for the object that is ‘owned’ by all?”

She just nodded, signifying that she understood.

Our conversation rushed back to my mind when, in the late 80s, I visited the even more deteriorated camp. On that visit, I took a photo of the last classroom I attended before leaving for the States (photo below). The ranch style schoolhouse still stood and gave promise of a still bright future if only someone actually owned it. But no one did. María, and many more, had abandoned the camp by then and more recent photos show the pool to be an empty, cracking husk.

A few years after Venezuelan nationalization, Communist Zimbabwe (Rhodesia ceased to exist in 1979) had the presence of mind to keep their elephant preserves in private hands and thereby saved them from ruination for decades. Interestingly, they did not allow their ideological blinders to blind them to the benefit of having their treasured preserves cared for by the actual owners. And they were rewarded with excellent results. Unfortunately, Venezuela opted for the conventional Socialist route with the typical depressing results now well known throughout the world.

María is long gone now but our discussion remains vivid in my mind. 

I had forgotten about that photo until a few days ago when my brother-in-law pulled some envelopes stashed in some corner and old papers and photos, including that of the abandoned classroom, tumbled to the tile below.

And I was reminded that the Bethlehem Steel had built river port facilities about 180 miles from the mouth of the Orinoco River plus about 35 miles of railroad tracks and road inland from there to the site of the ore deposits. Three self-sustaining camps were built: one, Palúa, on the river, the other, El Pao, at the mining site, and a third, Puerto de Hierro, on the Atlantic coast to provide a deep water port for shipment up north. By March, 1951, close to 3,000,000 tons of ore were being mined annually, with most shipped to Sparrows Point, Maryland for processing, with a considerable amount of tonnage stockpiled in Palúa.

In summary, the Bethlehem Steel operations in Venezuela were somewhat complex from a transportation standpoint. Ore was mined and transported from El Pao by rail to Palúa on the Orinoco; then 180 miles down the mighty river by four or five 6,000-ton river steamers, built by a company subsidiary, to Puerto de Hierro on the Atlantic Ocean, from where the ore was transferred to much larger company ships for the 2,000-mile journey to Maryland.

By 1964 US Steel had dredged a 32-foot deep canal down the Orinoco for which other companies, including Bethlehem Steel, paid usage tolls. This allowed deep water shipments directly from Palúa, so Bethlehem shut down the Puerto de Hierro operations and ceded the ports and the camp to the Venezuelan government. All families were transferred to the other two camps.

As the reader can imagine, the capital investment implied in the above cursory descriptions is gargantuan. And that is only one company. In the first half of the 20th Century Venezuela received such investments from many such enterprises in the oil and ore industries.

At the close of 1974, the Venezuelan government nationalized all foreign owned ore properties, agreeing to pay book value, not market value.

And a mere four years later, my friend, María, asked why the camp had deteriorated….

My old classroom. Photo taken circa 1987

Photos of recently-built El Pao mining camp, circa 1953

Doña Tura

Richard Barnes

Doña Tura’s Spanish vocabulary and grammar tutelage over me was not very long, if memory serves: one school year, maybe two, max.

However, her impact was lifelong. 

She lived in the “otro campo” — the labor camp. Her house served as a school for younger children. She had one or two assistants, probably relatives, who helped keep tabs on the young and restless, or, in my case, hyperactive scholars. We may have been restless, however, we also knew that to irritate or otherwise provoke Doña Tura with our inability to sit still for at least a while, would likely result in a stern warning, loud enough to turn us into innocent pussycats.

In one of the classes, I sat next to white curtains which separated two rooms, similar to the flimsy drapes which separate business from economy class in some airplanes. In my infantile and energetic curiosity, I wondered if I could twist those curtains together and began doing so. The more I turned the cloth, the tighter it got and began to take the form of a nice torsion or spiral. Pretty neat, I thought.

Next thing, I heard a deafening voice, seemingly right in my ear, demanding I cease and desist — “¡Deja esa cortina!” I released the object of my curiosity and swung around so fast that the room spun, as the curtains unraveled back to the state intended by Doña Tura.

My age at the time of attendance at her school, was likely 6 or 7. She drilled us with vocabulary and grammar and penmanship. I was too young to question why my parents would take me there when I was already attending school at the Campamento Americano, and while my mother also drilled me at home.

Of course, years later, my parents’ actions became clear to me. The only other Spanish grammar and vocabulary instruction I ever received was by a teacher who came to our camp when I was eleven. He succeeded in tutoring us in the accent and other, more advanced grammar rules. Both his and Doña Tura’s training were instilled in me for life. 

However, had I not had the privilege of Doña Tura’s early guidance, I doubt that the teacher who came later would have made any progress whatsoever with me.

In Gentle Regrets, Roger Scruton wrote, “The purpose of the school was not to flatter the pupils but to rescue the curriculum, by pouring it into heads that might pass it on.” Even as children, we understood that, if only intuitively. We understood there is a real distinction between knowledge and opinion; Doña Tura taught us accordingly. We knew she was doing more than merely “drilling”; she was imparting knowledge unto us, knowledge we would use the rest of our lives.

So, for instance, when she drilled the Spanish alphabet into us … “Aa, Bb, Cc, CHch … Nn, Ññ … ” she did so knowing she was teaching us the basic facts of the beautiful Spanish language. And she hoped — she had faith — that we would use that knowledge and, over a lifetime, gain wisdom.

We may have failed her in that “wisdom” part; if so, that was not her fault, but ours.

I believe the last time I saw Doña Tura was during my three week visit in 1978 — however, it might have been during an earlier visit; I am not entirely sure. What I am sure about is that she still lived in the Otro Campo but in a different section. Of course, she had aged, but was still very energetic. Her hospitality was impeccable and as we sat across from each other, during a quiet moment, I thanked her for having been my teacher. I’m not sure she remembered — she seemed to hesitate, but then replied simply, “Oh, de nada.” 

That is a common reply to a “Thank you” — “For nothing”.

Only it was certainly not for nothing. And now, many years after her departure from this earth, I again say, “Gracias, Doña Tura”. 

Aerial view of the “Otro Campo” (the labor camp) where Doña Tura lived and where she taught me. Unfortunately, I could not find any photos of her.

Pilgrim Thanksgiving Documents

Richard Barnes

After arriving late the prior year, fifty percent of the Mayflower’s company had perished in the harsh Massachusetts winter. They were buried without rites for fear the Indians would take military advantage of the company’s severely diminished numbers.

However, it turned out the Pilgrims and Indians became friends and allies, signing a treaty that endured for seven decades. And Bradford’s journal tells of their celebrating and communing together, in one another’s abodes. 

The Pilgrims’ survival was nothing short of miraculous and wonderful and served to encourage them in their convictions and determination.

I remember our annual Thanksgiving meal in the El Pao club where all families were invited and many if not most came and joined in the memorable celebrations.

Historians tell us there are few original (primary) sources from that first Thanksgiving in 1621. 

We have Edward Winslow’s Journal of the Plantation at Plymouth (modern spelling):

“Our harvests being gotten in, our governor sent four men on fowling, that so we might after a special manner rejoice together, after we had gathered the fruits of our labors; they four in one day killed as much fowl, as with a little help beside, served the Company almost a week, at which time amongst other Recreations, we exercised our Arms, many of the Indians coming amongst us, and amongst the resst their greatest king, Massasoit, with some ninety men, whom for three days we entertained and feasted, and they went out and killed five Deer, which they brought to the Plantation and bestowed on our Governor, and upon the Captain and others. And although it be not always so plentiful, as it was at this time with us, yet by the goodness of God, we are so far from want, that we often wish you partakers of our plenty.”

And we have Governor William Bradford’s, Of Plymouth Plantation, 1621 (modern spelling): 

“They began now to gather in the small harvest they had, and to fit up their houses and dwellings against winter, being all well recovered in health and strength and had all things in good plenty. For as some were thus employed in affairs abroad, others were exercised in fishing, about cod and bass and other fish, of which they took good store, of which every family had their portion. All the summer there was no want; and now began to come in store of fowl, as winter approached, of which this place did abound when they came first (but afterward decreased by degrees). And besides waterfowl there was great store of wild turkeys, of which they took many, besides venison, etc. Besides, they had about a peck of meal a week to a person, or now since harvest, Indian corn to that proportion. Which made many afterwards write so largely of their plenty here to their friends in England, which were not feigned but true reports.”

Finally, we also have the letter of William Hilton, passenger on the Fortune, written in November, 1621:

“Loving Cousin: At our arrival in New Plymouth, in New England, we found all our friends and planters in good health, though they were left sick and weak, with very small means; the Indians round about us peaceable and friendly; the country very pleasant and temperate, yielding naturally, of itself, great store of fruits, as vines of divers sorts and in great abundance. There is likewise walnuts, chestnuts, small nuts and plums, with much variety of flowers, roots and herbs, no less pleasant than wholesome and profitable. No place hath more gooseberries and strawberries, nor better. Timber of all sorts you have in England doth cover the land, that affords beasts of divers sorts, and great flocks of turkey, quails, pigeons, and partridges; many great lakes abounding with fish, fowl, beavers, and otters. The sea affords us great plenty of all excellent sorts of sea-fish, as the rivers and isles doth variety of wild fowl of most useful sorts. Mines we find, to our thinking; but neither the goodness nor quality we know. Better grain cannot be than the Indian corn, if we plant it upon as good ground as a man need desire. We are all freeholders; the rent-day doth not trouble us; and all those good blessings we have, of which and waht we list in their seasons for taking. Our company are, for most part, very religious, honest people; the word of God sincerely taught us every Sabbath; so that I know not any thing a contented mind can here want. I desire your friendly care to send my wife and children to me, where I wish all the friends I have in England; and so I rest, Your loving kinsman, William Hilton”

The first formal proclamations came later; they all acknowledge the God of all comfort for His blessings and mercy.

Men of El Pao

Richard Barnes

David Quintana kindly sent me the below photographs, for which I am most grateful. (If David reads this, I hope he emails me again as I had not checked my emails for months and only saw his emails recently — months after he sent them — and am unable to contact him now although I have tried.)

The gentleman in the center of both photos is the late Herb Ashe, the father of Mike, who has written a number of posts published on this blog, beginning with Mining Camp Memories.

The gentleman on the left in the first photo, is Sam Wright (I’m borrowing from Mike’s memory here as I did not remember him off the bat). The gentleman on the right in the second photo is Mr. Elmo Belfonti. The gentleman on the right in the first photo and the left in the second photo is the late Ted Heron, whom Mike mentions in his posts and who was a close, lifelong friend of Herb Ashe, Mike’s father.

I remember these men and am a better man for having known them. 

How can that be when I certainly did not interact with them other than in social events and interactions? 

Well, as I put it in Part 5 of Mining Camp Memories: 

“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.”

Photos are circa 1960

Father and Baseball

Richard Barnes

In memory of my father, this post is an overview of him and his love of baseball.

He was not tall, maybe 5 feet 8 inches or perhaps 9. But he was naturally, effortlessly muscular and always stood straight, like an athlete in his prime. In fact, he was an athlete: first string in his high school basketball and baseball teams in Massachusetts.

He was high scorer in a championship basketball game and hit a winning home run in a championship baseball game: both events were featured in the respective next day’s newspapers – I was always astonished by newspaper clippings about my father, hidden in a dresser drawer: my mother had shown me the clippings and had, helpfully, shown me where they were hidden and given me permission to seek them out whenever I wished to.

This I did frequently. My father’s pictures in those old newspapers demonstrated that, apart from thinning hair, he still retained much of that youthful, virile look, down to his straight nose and firm chin.

He was fast in his movements when he needed to be, surprising many younger men. And he was quick to learn new sports. For instance, the camp had built a two-lane bowling alley; boys were paid to set up the pins. Despite never having played before coming to Venezuela, he bought and practically memorized Andy Varipapa’s book on bowling and quickly excelled at the game, not only in El Pao, but also in Puerto Ordaz.

But, when it came to sports, baseball was his true love. He had been recruited by the New York Yankees in their heyday and played in their farm league. However, he decided to accept the Bethlehem Steel offer and went to Venezuela. I remember, as a child, telling him, “But why didn’t you stay with the Yankees!?”

He laughed, “Well, if I had, then you’d never have been born.”

“That’s OK! You’d have played with the Yankees!”

He laughed and hugged me.

He would drive to the labor camp and join the men who’d gather every afternoon, after the 4 o’clock whistle. He immediately earned their respect and admiration by playing ball competitively and with scrappy excellence. The days came and went and within months, my father had organized those men, and others who had joined up, into teams, assigning several “naturals” to the positions most suited for them.

He was a player-manager who also pitched and the days he did not pitch, he played left field. The company purchased pin-striped uniforms for the team’s home games and gray for the road. Bold lettering in front read: Iron Mines, short for the Bethlehem Steel subsidiary, Iron Mines Company of Venezuela.

The company also graded the field and built stands and El Pao found itself with a regulation sized baseball field and stadium ready to host the arduous daily practices as well as, eventually, home games for the team.

And they indeed did begin a celebrated career, achieving Double A status and earning two national championships in the 1950s.

My father was a strict manager, which paid off richly. And he was fearless.

He laid down strict rules about drinking, smoking, carousing, and all-around honesty – somewhat like an American high school coach in that era might lay down to his charges.

In season, he worked every day, after the 4 O’clock whistle, with the team and he expected each member to give his all. And it was hard work, as several had not even seen a baseball until my father recruited them to the team. In brief, in less than 5 years, he had transformed them into a championship team.

One star pitcher became something of a prima donna. One day he arrived at the 4:15 PM practice quite drunk. It was not the first time.

My father kicked him off the team: “My team is on the field right now. And they are sober!” He told him. “Go! And bring me your uniform tomorrow without fail.”

The uniform did not appear.

After a few days, my father drove late one night from El Pao to a two-story apartment complex in the outer purlieus of San Félix on the Orinoco, knocked on the door, and, upon the fired pitcher’s opening the door and freezing upon seeing him, demanded the company’s uniform back forthwith.

He returned to El Pao with the uniform.

I heard this story from others; my father didn’t tell me.

When asked by his superiors why on earth he’d risk his life for a lousy baseball uniform, he shrugged, “I didn’t risk my life. That uniform is company property. If we allow a cry-baby to stomp off with company property with no consequences, we open the door to all sorts of malfeasance. I know the folks in San Félix and they know me, and they know the company. There was no danger.”

It was incidents like these that generated my father’s reputation for honesty, persistence, and a desire to make things right.

He was not universally liked; however, many younger men, mostly from the labor camp loved him. He taught them not only baseball, but also discipline and sportsmanship.

I remember once overhearing him tell my mother about a Pittsburg Pirates scout who had seen the team play in Ciudad Bolivar and had approached him after the game to recruit him for the Pirates. My father laughed heartily as he remembered telling his age to the scout and seeing the scout drop his jaw.

I also recall one game in El Pao when the opposing team’s power hitter had batted the ball over the left field fence. Or so it seemed. My father ran like a gazelle, hit the fence, then climbed the fence, jumped up, caught the ball, and fell to the ground, while holding the ball in his glove. I felt like the stands were going to fall, so loud were the cheers and yells and so strong the stomping and slapping. I’ve not often seen joy like that since.

In one game I did not see, as it took place before my birth, my father ran to catch a line drive but the ball was going too fast and he would have missed it if he attempted to catch it with his glove. So he launched himself horizontally and caught the ball with his bare hand.

When he left Venezuela, word spread and the old timers came from around the country and surprised him with a farewell game. He pitched three innings.

My father and the men he trained are mostly all gone now. But I am very grateful for the memories and example he left behind. He always missed the USA. But he made his years in Venezuela count to the utmost.

As a postscript, in 1978 when I visited Venezuela on what is perhaps my most memorable trip, while in Puerto Ordaz one evening, I had inadvertently taken a left turn at an intersection where such a turn was prohibited. A police car immediately pulled me over and the officer rattled off my infraction and hauled me off.

At the precinct I tried to explain that I did not see a “No Left Turn” sign but was willing to pay any fine. But they insisted on putting me in jail and see a magistrate whenever one became available.

After about an hour going back and forth, and seeing the police were not budging, in subdued exasperation I said, “I am very saddened that after leaving El Pao and returning to visit the land of my birth, my compatriots are about to jail me.”

I said this, remembering that my father often advised me that, when in trouble, to remind folks that I am “one of them”. That might move them to see me in a different light.

“You are Venezuelan?” asked my chief interrogator.

“Of course, I am! I was born about an hour from here in El Pao.”

“Barnes …. Barnes…. What was your father’s name?”

“Charles. Charles M Barnes.”

At this, the officer broke into a big, open smile and almost yelled, “When I was a little boy I used to beg my father to take me to see your father play! I saw him as often as I could! He was the best ball player I have ever seen. Is he well?”

“Yes. He is well.”

After another 15 or so minutes of reminiscences about my father, they released me with their best wishes.

Thank you, dear Dad.

Happy Father’s Day.

Iron Mines team, circa 1956. My father on front row, far left.

On an exciting trip down the Orinoco River to Puerto de Hierro, Venezuela — Circa 1963

Newspaper account of the farewell game in honor of my father — 1976. Note: he was also known as “The Cubano” because he was born in Cuba where my grandfather, Max A. Barnes stayed after the Spanish American War.