Tag: El Pao

Cero

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

Transparency International Corruption Perceptions Index

Richard Barnes

In the mid 1980s I had the privilege of working with the Gideon’s organization. Every Saturday, rain snow or shine, a group of us would meet for breakfast in downtown Kalamazoo, Michigan, to review assignments and plan the upcoming weeks. Although our conversations covered just about everything under the sun, I’d often hear these men, all of whom were older than I, express gratitude for God, family, and country. In that order.

However, they were also realistic enough to gently tamp down my younger-man’s exuberance about America. In my naiveté I still believed that, if one would scratch beneath the surface across the country, one would tap into a vast reservoir of appreciation for our roots, both colonial and early republic. By that I meant, surely, the great majority of Americans understood that the truths we regard as “self-evident” are so because of the religious tradition undergirding our beliefs and our very lives and that to reject that heritage would lead to tyranny and ruin. 

My colleagues would point to Scripture, which has plenty of examples of nations whose names now gather dust in forgotten manuscripts and unvisited libraries. Nations that knew the Triune God but did not honor him. The words of Daniel to Belshazzar come to mind. Even the nation of Israel was judged for her betrayal. Sadly, it is the nature of men and women to forget, to deny, to dishonor.

John Stuart Mill, the great relativistic thinker, assumed that Christian ethics are permanent and hence we can take them for granted. He provides yet another example proving that “great thinkers” are not often wise.

I recalled my friends from Kalamazoo when I read the 2022 Transparency International Corruptions Perceptions Index comments on Venezuela.

Venezuela’s foundations differed widely from colonial and early republic America. However, she did have a basis for understanding the source of her prosperity in the first half of the 20th Century, a time when she enjoyed high levels of economic freedom which produced an environment of numberless voluntary transactions and unprecedented years of well-being with high growth rates. In 1960, Venezuela’s per capita income, at 45% of the US per capita income, was the highest in South America while her growth rate was higher than even Germany’s. 

Her great economic success fueled the transition to democracy in 1959. However, her democratically elected officials immediately began to curtail her economic freedoms in favor of Socialistic policies which eventually led to contractions and, by the end of the century, ushered in an authoritarian Socialist regime that, like a protean, angry octopus, has its tentacles in every nook and cranny of Venezuelan’s lives. By 2013, even the Carter Center, albeit belatedly, acknowledged the Venezuelan “elections” to be a sham (my word, not theirs; I don’t have to be diplomatic). By then the damage was done and the fix was in, and continues to be in, to this day.

Oh, but there’s more.

Transparency International’s 2022 report ranks Venezuela as the most corrupt country in the Americas. That’s “most corrupt”, as in more corrupt than Haiti, Cuba, and Nicaragua. Her rulers are reliably accused of leading massive drug cartels and having extensive ties to major international criminal organizations. Incredibly, illegal businesses account for 21% of Venezuela’s GDP. And her mining, especially gold and diamonds, are controlled by criminal groups who, with impunity, extort, enslave, prostitute, and murder the inhabitants, mostly defenseless indigenous peoples. 

In other words, Socialists are grossly guilty of what they delight in accusing Capitalists and Christians (they purposefully interchange the two).

In my youth, I would often hear the older generation’s assurances that Venezuela would not go the way of Cuba or Allende’s Chile. That she understood very well that liberty created her prosperity. As for her dalliances with Socialistic policies since 1960, those were very limited and did were not slippery slopes. I wanted to believe such assurances, even though my own family history said otherwise. Cuba, where my father was born, was also an economic miracle which went the way of all flesh practically overnight. At the time I did not know enough to ask my elders what made Venezuela any different; what would keep her from doing likewise.

And I certainly was not aware of Venezuela’s deeply infiltrated military, in cahoots with Castro and determined to rule Venezuela in Communist fashion, tyranny and all.

Venezuela “understood” where her prosperity came from. However, she ditched it nonetheless. 

The United States appears to be doing the same, with even less excuse.

Mourning the death of a child. In addition to the griefs which are the common lot of all, these peoples have been abused, murdered, displaced, and enslaved. Countless have fled to unknown destinies in Brazil.

Mother and children in Brazil after fleeing criminal attacks in Venezuela’s mining arc.

Plaza Colon in Caracas, Venezuela, circa 1950

Caracas boy, circa 1950

The Unquiet Death of Peter Fechter

Richard Barnes

Most of us are not given to much self-analysis, but if I were to be asked what marked or set the long-lasting or permanent influences or directions for my life, I’d likely join millions in crediting my detestation of godless totalitarian regimes and philosophies. Of course, each of those millions came to his or her position via different paths.

In my case, my father’s unwavering condemnation of Communism — whether of the European, Asian, Latin American, or the American intellectual varieties made no difference to him — undoubtedly set my gut-level course far earlier than that of my heart and mind, which explained to me the religious basis for such a system and the importance of the historic Faith in defending and strengthening the liberties we have enjoyed.

For instance, as an elementary school pupil in El Pao, I instinctively questioned why the Weekly Reader, so popular in schools across the country, would seemingly tip toe around America’s role in the Cold War, such as its purporting to explain that MAD (Mutually Assured Destruction) actually made sense. It didn’t to us, but what did we know? We just wanted to win the Cold War over the Communists. We had to wait several more decades for that victory to be accomplished, albeit not in American faculties.

And then there was the Berlin Wall erected in 1961. After President John F. Kennedy’s inaction and failure to provide the agreed-upon backup in the Bay of Pigs operation, surely he’d act to stop this inhumane attempt to physically divide peoples in Europe, no?

Not even a peep from his administration.

Then, on August 17, 1962, close to the first anniversary of the wall, the utter cruelty, pitilessness, and godlessness of Communist philosophy and politics were laid bare yet again for the world to see and ponder.

In the early afternoon, two teenagers attempting to flee Communist oppression in East Berlin, ran towards the wall not far from Checkpoint Charlie. One clambered to the top as gun fire rained on them, yet stopped to look back for his friend who seemed stuck, unable to move. “Run! Come here!” he screamed, but his companion fell back to the “death strip” on the East Berlin side. Seeing this, the first boy jumped to the West, landing safely.

The border troop files later revealed that the two fugitives were shot at without warning. Four border guards fired at least 35 shots. Peter Fechter was hit as he jumped up onto the wall and fell backwards, leaning against the wall for support. Instead of arresting the defenseless young man, the guards took up new positions and continued firing until he collapsed to the ground.

Gravely wounded, he calmly, but loudly, pled for help, as East Berlin soldiers kept their rifles aimed at him, but did nothing to assist him. On the West Berlin side, American GI’s also remained impassive, doing nothing, one actually saying, “It’s not our problem.”

The wall cut right through the heart of what had once been a vibrant Berlin neighborhood, separating friends and family, in some cases for decades to come. One thing atheistic philosophies are known for is their contempt for anything outside the state. That would include church and volunteer associations; but most importantly, the family. Anything that weakens or divides the home is pursued with gusto, including incentives for family members to report on one another to the state.

So physically dividing a neighborhood is small potatoes for such regimes.

As Peter Fechter twisted in agony and called for help, men, women, and children on either side of the wall watched in horror from their apartments. There is one photograph of an elderly lady, covering her mouth with her hand as she beheld in dismay, unable to help.

His screams eventually ceased after 50 long minutes. Finally East German border troops carried him away and later pronounced him dead.

Pictures had been taken by western photographers and shown around the world, turning his death into a symbol of Communist inhumanity, thereby presenting a ticklish situation to all right thinkers and spineless or bought politicians.

The regime’s chief propagandist’s words should send chills down the spines of anyone alive the past three years of mandated lockdowns and faux medical mandates: “[This event] was good for and in the interest of the state…. The life of each one of our brave young men in uniform is more important to us than the life of a lawbreaker. By staying away from our state border — blood, tears, and screams can be avoided.”

Yes, to avoid unpleasantries, simply bow down and submit.

For decades thereafter, the young man’s family was subjected to state-sponsored harassment, which ended only after the defeat of East European Communism. His sister, Ruth, expressed herself through her attorneys to no longer “be damned by passivity and inactivity.” She told how the family had felt powerless to act against the public denunciations instigated by the state.

One of the more dastardly characters of the “Cold War”, Willy Brandt, was then mayor of Berlin. He called for “calm and prudence”. Even as a child, I felt negatively toward that man. And that sense only intensified as I matured and saw that he always took the Soviet line, no matter what the provocation. 

Brandt resigned in 1974 when it was discovered that his close aide was an agent of the Stasi. When the wall fell, no one in authority called for the prosecution of the brutal and pitiless Erick Honecker, dictator of East Germany. Could it be they took seriously his threat to reveal “interesting interlocks” with the former West Germany’s political class, including Brandt, should he be prosecuted (cf Judgment In Moscow, Vladimir Bukovsky)?

But we did not act honorably either. American City Commandant, Albert Watson, ordered all our men to “stay on our side!” He then called John F. Kennedy’s White House to ask for direction. Kennedy was in California at the moment and was called, “Mr. President, an escapee is bleeding to death at the Berlin Wall.” But no answer was forthcoming. Hours later, Watson called again to say, “The matter has resolved itself.”

For the first time since the war, the call “Ami, go home!” was heard. A sign with the words, “Protecting forces? Murder condoners = accessories to murder” was seen at demonstrations. Cars drove back and forth outside the US Mission gates, honking in protest. When a US patrol was harassed by a passerby, the military dispersed the crowd using M14 rifles with mounted bayonets.

US politicians and media were also unsympathetic, calling the protesting Berliners a “mob”. The US State Department refused to rule out military force against the protests in West Berlin, without a peep of dissent by her mayor, Willie Brandt.

Western European newspapers tended to be more realistic, with one article declaring, “In Communist systems, it’s a good thing to shoot citizens who harbor the wish of escaping from the system.”

As with the Bay of Pigs matter in April, 1961, then the initiation of the Berlin Wall construction in August, 1961, Kennedy, also did nothing in the face of the cold blooded murder of Peter Fechter in August of 1962. Such timidity led to the “Cuban Missile Crisis a mere two months later, in October, 1962.

Peter Fechter was not an “activist”. He was a bricklayer who was close to his family and was used to visiting his sister and her loved ones in West Berlin. When the wall went up and the totalitarian character of Communist East Berlin no longer had the escape valve to the West, he and his friend decided to escape. They simply said in their hearts, “Give me liberty or give me death.”

This post concludes with the words of Peter Fechter’s sister: 

“My parents were broken by [his murder]. My father died young, in 1968, at the age of just 63. He couldn’t get over the death of his son. My mother went to the cemetery every day after the funeral. That was her home. At first, she was always observed by Stasi people during her visits. By the next day, freshly planted flowers had been ripped out or were gone. My mother couldn’t get her head around the fall of the wall. She always said, ‘We just drive to the West and no one shoots, but they killed Peter for it.’ My mother died at the age of 76 in 1991.”

Peter Fechter (1944-1962)

Peter Fechter pleaded for help for 50 minutes. In great pain he finally bled to death in agony before the Communists “rescued” his cadaver.

August 18, 1962. This photo of President John F. Kennedy at a California beach was published in newspapers around the world as West Berliners protested US inaction as Peter Flechter, in great pain, pleaded for help.

Apprehensive East German soldier helps a young boy who had been separated from his family pass through, in 1961. The soldier was seen by his superior and dismissed. Germans affirm that he was shot, although nothing was officially heard from or about him since that day. The wall (obstructions) went up overnight with strict orders to not let anyone pass.

Scolopendra Gigantea (Giant Centipede)

Richard Barnes

My last visit to Venezuela was in 2005 during which my cousins took me to visit the massive Las Macaguas Dam in Ciudad Guayana. As we walked the site, we eventually entered, in the “innards” of the structure, a small museum dedicated to the creatures encountered during the years of study and construction of Las Macaguas and also the even greater Guri Dam, the second or third largest in the world — sadly saddled with colossal incompetence resulting in far reaching failures for the entire country.

Corporate media reports, including Wikipedia, blame droughts for these life-threatening failures. However, to put it as diplomatically as possible, droughts did not suddenly show up with Chavez and Maduro. For further reading on the deterioration of Venezuelas electrical grid, refer to my posts on the Cuba-Venezuela nexus, such as here.

As we walked the museum we were awed by the variety and gigantic sizes of the insects on display. Childhood memories flooded back as I recalled seeing many of those or similar specimens live-and-in-color as we tramped about El Pao or fished in the Caroní or Orinoco rivers.

A recent email exchange with George and Richard Scheipe, the sons of a gentleman who taught school in El Pao in the 1950s, brought those memories back. George tells of John Tuohy, one of the “older kids” in El Pao, who had come to visit his brother, Ted Heron, Jr., in Pennsylvania, and had brought a dead giant centipede in his suitcase. The mischievous ones hid the critter in aluminum foil in the backyard and “would torment the local kids, including me, with it.” 

These centipedes are the Scolopendra gigantea and are found almost exclusively in South America (but also southern Mexico) with many in Venezuela. They are venomous and their bite can be fatal to small children. In 2014 a 4-year-old in Venezuela died from a bite he incurred when he picked up an empty soda can into which a Scolopendra had hid. In 2015 a 19-year-old man was hospitalized in San Tomé and when he worsened he was taken to a major city for better care. He recovered.

These centipedes can grow as large as 12 inches and are very quick. They are carnivores who feed on any other animal it can overpower and kill, including other arthropods, insects, small birds, lizards, frogs, and snakes. Students have investigated their feeding on bats, something which was not known until relatively recently.

They “climb cave dwellings and hold or manipulate their heavier prey with only a few legs attached to the ceiling.” A study done in southern Mexico discovered that, contrary to earlier belief, bats were killed by these giants pursuant to clever hunting tactics.

It had been believed that the centipedes killed the bats in reaction to being disturbed by the latter when flying in or out of their caves. Careful observation disclosed that the hunters attach themselves to the high walls or ceilings waiting for their prey to fly close, upon which the Scolopendra pounce. “We have observed that, during the trajectory taken by the bats, some perch momentarily. It is during such brief stops that the giant centipede attacks and kills [he who hesitates is lost!].” Also, it is probable that as a bat flies very close to the walls it is also attacked and killed.

I appreciate the recollections of folks who lived in or who have some connection with mid-20th-Century El Pao. Truly we were blessed and had memorable — sometimes frightening — encounters with a unique flora and fauna which so fascinated great explorers such as Alexander Humboldt and others.

Don’t try this at home

Nor this

Represa Las Macagua in Ciudad Guayana, Venezuela

Papito

Richard Barnes

With deep sadness we saw the rapidly deteriorating physical condition of Cousin Louis (Papito) Max Rodriguez. He had been stricken with a type of bone cancer which was unforgiving, but which was also all in the the hand of our Sovereign Lord Who called Louis home early this morning, Tuesday, December 20, 2022, exactly 7 years to the day after the passing of his mother, Aunt Sarah, and one year plus one day after the passing of Cousin Max (Papaito). 

Louis, the eldest of the Barnes/Rodriguez cousins, was born in Miami, Florida, July 13, 1949.

His mother, Aunt Sarah, was and continues to be an ever-present influence on us all: dearly loved and honored. I’ve written about her before, such as her insistence on having us faithfully attend church, including Easter sunrise services, as well as participate in outings. These events had lasting emotional as well as educational — not to mention spiritual –impacts on me and I’ll be forever grateful.

Louis was her first child and she loved him as a devoted mother can love her firstborn. He would be the first to tell you he went through some rough patches in life; however, his mother never ceased to pray and to care for him and, over time, Louis remembered the old paths she had pointed to him in times past.

In times like these, memories flood the mind.

His visit with us in El Pao in the early 1960s. One evening, in the early 1970s, he talked garrulously about that visit and the friendships he made with Herman Gerbracht and John Thuoy, both of them among the “big boys” that I looked up to whenever they returned to the mining camp for summer or Christmas. 

He also got many years worth of mileage having seen me run to catch a fly ball, going over a steep incline at the end of the field, and promptly slapping a nest teeming with angry picaojos (“stingeyes”). In Louis’ version, I first disappeared over the edge, and then bounced right back and ran like the wind towards the house, slapping my face, yelling at full volume. I know he was concerned, like the rest, but after I went to the hospital and was put on some medication and therapy, knowing all would be well, he began his years’ long, hilarious narrative of the event.

His recollections helped me remember some incidents and relationships centered around El Pao — here again, that mining camp is present with us a lifetime later. I most certainly would have forgotten some of these forever had he not mentioned them on that early 70s evening.

His invitation to visit Fisher Island with him in the late 1980s. Having breakfast in the cafe, we ran into Bryant Gumbel, whom we only knew from sports news broadcasts, but who was right at home doing whatever he was doing on the island. Neither we nor Louis were anywhere near the per capita income levels of the inhabitants, yet Louis was right at home, unpretentious, loquacious, and helpful as always.

His invitation to go sailing with him when we had a one-day layover in Miami in 2001. There were 12 of us then plus a Great Pyrenees puppy. “Bring him on board! Plenty of room!” And so we did, along with Aunt Sarah who had prepared a paella that I can still taste, some 21 years later. We had a ball and the event was stamped on my children’s minds. And mine.

His telling us about Shake-A-Leg charity for children with disabilities, a work he thoroughly enjoyed and for which he was well suited as it combined sailing with working with children.

The last time we saw him was in late 2015, shortly before Aunt Sarah’s death. A small group of us had lunch together at a Cracker Barrel north of Miami. He had been as jovial as always but then suddenly turned to me, and to my astonishment, “Hey, Rick, I wasn’t too hard on you as we grew up, was I? I mean, do I owe you an apology?”

Stunned, I first looked at his face to see if this was a joke, but he was serious. Then I searched my mind and heart to try to remember if I had ever held anything against him. And nothing coming to mind I replied, “No, Louis. You’ve been a good friend and I am enjoying spending time with you today.”

He was content. And that incident said more to me about Cousin Louis than a well written and researched encomium could ever do, not least his childlike inquiry seeking to ensure all is well.

My second to last conversation with him took place about four weeks ago, shortly before Thanksgiving: “I look forward to coming to see you soon when I get out of here…how is Lillie? How are the children?” Over the phone, his voice was strong and energetic. But we both knew the condition was serious.

Then, about a week later, I called him to see if he was OK to have some of my children drop by to say hello as they were in the state. His voice was not as strong and he politely demurred, saying to visit in the clinic was a hassle and it was quite a bit out of their way. Of course, I fully understood and so did my sons and daughters. I wished him well and we agreed to speak again.

The last time I spoke with him, last night, he was unresponsive, but I agree with his sister, Cousin Vivian, who believes that one should assume a patient in such a condition can somehow hear. I spoke to him, assuring him of our prayers and love. And then I prayed with him. Later, Lillie and the children gathered around the phone to sing Silent Night as Vivian had the phone on speaker for him to listen.

My sadness cannot be compared with that of his surviving sisters, Janis and Vivian, and their husbands, Pete and Rick, and their children — Louis’ nieces and nephews — to all of whom I extend my deepest sympathies and love.

This is not an adiós but an hasta luego, for we sorrow not as others which have no hope (I Thess. 4:13).

All is well with you now, dear cousin. Rest in peace.

From left: Sarita Barnes, Janis Rodriguez, Eileen Barnes, Louis (Papito) Rodriguez, Max (Papaito) Barnes, Vivian Rodriguez

Louis (Papito) at left and Aunt Sarah, seated in front of him, along with Janis and Pete, Vivian and Rick and their children

Louis with Charles Barnes (2) and Lillian Barnes, Fisher Island, Florida, circa 1987

Cousin Louis (Papito): 1949 – 2022