Tag: El Pao

La Sayona and La Llorona

Richard Barnes

Guest Post by Professor Cristóbal Lárez Velásquez

Mérida, Venezuela

Professor Lárez Velásquez was born in El Pao and currently works at the Polymer Group, Department of Chemistry, University of the Andes, in Venezuela. He has published numerous articles on chemistry and is also a full professor at the university.

Like myself, Dr. Lárez Velásquez is grateful for the nurture given him during his infancy and childhood in El Pao.

His post on his recollections about La Sayona and La Llorona is of a different kind. I do not recall ever hearing about La Sayona; however, I did hear about La Llorona from the maids and mining camp charwomen but was never interested in inquiring about her. 

Professor Lárez Velásquez does have a knowledge about the origins of the legends which I found entertaining as well as revealing about the superstitions which often grip folks of any land on this earth. 

Not to mention The Scarlet Letter nature of the origins of La Sayona.

Thank you, Dr. Lárez Velásquez!

Guest Post

In just about every town in Venezuela legends related to figures like La Sayona abound.

Briefly, La Sayona is supposedly a ghost or specter that arose when a very jealous woman named Casilda murdered her mother and husband suspecting they were having an affair. Her mother, in the agony of death, cursed her and henceforth, her tormented soul wanders without rest or peace, pursuing unfaithful men to conquer them and then murder them. 

Another legend is La Llorona (The Crying Woman). She is another mythical creature who haunts rivers, lakes, and lonely roads; she comes out at night, searching for her children who drowned. 

Such legends existed in El Pao and surrounding areas of my childhood, and persist to this day. 

Interestingly, many tales about some of these fabled beings were often narrated at wakes as late as the 1960s and into the 1970s. I learned several of them when we accompanied our parents to some of these events. It should be remembered that there was no electricity in the surroundings of El Pao at the time, so the lighting was quite eerie and, as the reader can imagine, the stories told at some wakes had a powerful, long lasting impact on many of those who attended — especially on the children.

One of these narratives told of a woman on fire who would emerge on black nights on the curve just above Vuelta de Correa, up the road leading to El Pao, near the entrance where the Navarro family lived. This woman would chase anyone who ventured alone there. Many people were afraid to walk there; even drivers in their vehicles hesitated to drive through alone on dark nights. 

My grandparents, Juan Velásquez and Gumersinda Rivas de Veláquez, had their grocery store near this site, in front of Mr. Mario Picarone’s old gas pump and a little further down from the bus stop. 

Whenever an incident related to this dreaded ghostly apparition occurred, the episode was recounted again and again in their grocery store. Obviously, the versions expanded with added color to some aspects as they were recounted by different narrators, some of whom felt so strongly about their yarns that it seemed as if they had experienced them personally.

For many years, it was also said in the area that on the San-Félix-El Pao highway, at the entrance to the Macagua dam, a very beautiful woman would appear inside the vehicles passing by. Nothing would happen if the driver, who was likely very frightened, treated her courteously. However, she would become terrifying to those who tried to seduce her. 

The fear was so great, according to the stories, that many fainted or went crazy for a few days. It was believed that these apparitions were meant to punish and discipline unfaithful men, because nothing would happen to those who behaved courteously and gentlemanly. In those cases, the woman would disappear as mysteriously as she had boarded the automobile. 

Many jokers (called “jodedores” in the “guayanés lexicon”), who fortunately have always been abundant in the area, even in the worst of times, said that these stories were told by the drivers to persuade their wives to forgive them for traveling in that area, which was known to be in the vicinity of several places of ill repute.

Unsurprisingly, in the wake of these stories, it was also common for some “brave” men to loudly express their desire for this woman to appear to them, to show them who was in charge, so they said. So, soon enough other places in the region were regaled by women appearing to lone drivers. For example, the place called Guayabal, on the El Pao-Upata highway.

As for El Pao itself, there is a story about its early years that seems difficult to imagine and paints a different picture as to the origins of the La Sayona legend. I knew this story first hand because one of the protagonists related it to me all the while assuring me it was true.

It is about a very tall being, dressed in a hat and a long white suit, who, midst the darkness and fog, which was quite thick in El Pao at that time, supposedly came down from Rankin High, around the back of the church, crossed the school road, and skirted the place known as “el bajo”, behind the houses where the telegraph and post offices later operated. 

If it sensed someone approaching, it [like Marley’s ghost] would drag chains that produced a terrific and chilling sound and continue walking quickly toward Las Casillas. There, it would wait to make sure it could ascend without incident to the front of Pasaje Bolívar, from whence it would pass to the back of the houses on Apure Street, and then walk quickly, dragging the chains again. 

It would reach the hospital steps, climb halfway up, and then descend through the center of what was, or later was, a playground with swings, reaching to the hospital road, crossing it and the road to the now disappeared Labor Office. Then it continued behind the houses on the Guardia Street until, finally, it reached the bachelors buildings and the police headquarters that were in those parts at that time.

There, it disappeared for a long time. Afterwards, the ghostly creature would reappear and return along the same path, always in darkness and under heavy fog, sometimes in a persistent drizzle.

The legend had been circulating in the camp for some time, supposedly told by some drunks whom no one believed, although later told by people who were going to work the night shift and had to pass near some of the aforementioned places along the way. And, it seems, a competition arose among some young people to follow the mysterious entity, which they began to call “La Sayona”, and if possible, to catch it.

One of these groups of young men, who were around 17 or 20 years old and drank liquor “encapillados (drank in secret)” in some of the many places in El Pao where they did so (without causing much of a fuss because otherwise people would complain and the Guardia would come), set out to catch La Sayona. 

According to my source, they were on the verge of success several times, but something always happened that saved her. The most common cause of her escapes seems to have been the fear that paralyzed all the young men with terror when La Sayona stopped, and began to rattle her chains. 

However, one day, when they were under the heavy effects of alcohol, two of them managed to catch and subdue her. And, finally, the secret of La Sayona of El Pao was revealed. 

The two “brave” ones negotiated with her and promised to keep the secret, for which they received a small, monthly gift from her. However, because these two “brave” men, true to blackmail in general, increasingly increased their demands, La Sayona decided to move out of the camp.

According to the story told to me by the man who supposedly caught La Sayona, she was a beautiful, married woman, unfaithful to her husband, who under cover of the El Pao darkness and fog would betray her husband in adultery.

Unfortunately for this story — or perhaps not — my source never revealed the identity of La Sayona of El Pao.

El Pao plaza in the memorable, dark fog. Photo provided by Profesor Lárez Velásquez, courtesy Alfredo Sánchez FB

Postscript To If It Belongs To All….

Richard Barnes

If It Belongs To All….

In my research for the second to last post, I saw some comments online which, unfortunately, I failed to source. Nevertheless, I believe the reader will appreciate them and if anyone knows the source, please advise and I’ll give due credit. 

They are not my words, but they encapsule my memories as well as my gratitude. I’ve linked to prior posts which expand on the subject or comment, as necessary. I’ve made no changes or edits to the comments, other than grammatical corrections for ease of reading.

Comments Online

El Pao has a very cool tropical jungle climate with rainy periods from April to November each year. Minimum temperatures reach 19º C [66° F] and maximum temperatures reach 31º C [88° F], with an average of 24º C [75° F].

The Betlehem Steel corporation carried out explorations on the El Florero hills, discovering large iron deposits in this area. Eduardo Boccardo transferred the mining rights to Bethlehem Steel, which began to develop the project for exploitation, creating the subsidiary company Iron Mines Of Venezuela. In 1940, the project to build a road and a railway to the port of Palúa on the right bank of the Orinoco River began, but these were delayed by the events of the Second World War, and exploitation actually began in 1950.

The El Pao camp, as it was known, was divided into three urban groups: “Rankin High” where most of the teachers and nurses lived [my Madrina lived there with her mother], and the Catholic Church was also located there; “San José Obrero” where the workers lived [known to us as “el Otro Campo“], there was a primary school, a commissary, a hospital, an evangelical church, police, a national guard, a hotel, and a workers’ social club; and “El Florero” where the administrative staff, doctors and engineers lived, mostly North Americans in the 50s, 60s and 70s. They had an American primary school and a social club (with a swimming pool, tennis court and bowling alley).

El Pao, a magical place in permanent contact with nature, where every day at 3 in the afternoon we were shaken by the explosives that exploded in search of iron, and the train with its slow and heavy step was the sound of progress, work, and hope. 

Thus, a modest but comfortable [mining and] urban center was built, where the first inhabitants, apart from the peasants from the region, were the immigrant employees who were in charge of carrying out the work of the mine, one of the most significant in all of Venezuela, from which, until 1996, at least 111 million tons of mineral were extracted.

In 1974, the management of the mine passed into the hands of the Venezuelan state, and in 1975 the company, Ferro-minera Orinoco, belonging to the Venezuelan Corporation of Guayana, joined the exploitation works.

Reply from a reader of the above comments:

Greetings from Caracas. Reading this whole story takes me back many years because I was born and raised in El Pao, exactly on Bolivar Street. 

My mother worked at the hospital when the [Americans] left. She had 30 years of service. 

Those were unforgettable times. If God asked me what I would like to repeat in my life, I would tell him to return to El Pao as I lived it, its streets, its green grass, the streets full of mangoes, me going to the commissary, the school — by the way, the best in the state of Bolivar — the best hospital, ufff, everything first class, the pool…. 

Well, friend, I congratulate you for all that I have read, without being able to contain my eyes from clouding with tears when I read or see something from my dear and beloved El Pao, remembered forever. 

I am a Paoense in soul and heart. Greetings.

Paoense. I don’t remember having heard or read that word before. But I fully relate.

View from the administrative camp towards the warehouse and mine, circa 1965

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.