El Pao – Page 7 – The Pull Of The Land

Mining Camp Memories (continued): Part 4

May 8, 2021May 8, 2021 Richard Barnes

With gratitude I am pleased to continue posting Michael John Ashe II’s recollections of his life in El Pao and related events. As he remembers certain individuals, especially those we used to call “the big guys and gals”, my own memory is awakened to recall those years, those folks, and the joys lived. Also, as readers know, I was one of those who had great fun running behind the DDT truck (see Clouds) and I do remember that green poisonous snake and the Picaojos and Conucos. Most of all, the lifelong friendships and life lessons. We were — we are — truly blessed.

I am grateful for Mike’s wonderful powers of recollection and his gift in putting these down so vividly.

Thank you again, Mike.

Mike Ashe:

Risks to be Considered:

Health care was an issue, in an emergency there were no good options. During the polio epidemic they would spray the camp on the roads with clouds of DDT. All the kids thought it was fun to run after the truck! Billions of tons of DDT were sprayed in the US and throughout the world with disastrous results, all on false premises offered up by the so-called experts. The Salk vaccines were made available in 1955. The spraying continued in El Pao to combat malaria. I believe DDT was banned in the US in 1972. DDT is currently being produced in China, India and North Korea but most of the world has outlawed its use.

My mother lost several children in child birth in a Mining Camp in Arizona, so when my mother got pregnant with my two brothers, she traveled to Pensacola FL to have them. Women with high-risk pregnancies rarely stayed in camp.

There was no dental care available in camp or elsewhere, the long-term impact of poor dental care and the lack of fresh dairy in the diet did impact children growing up in the camp. Any emergency oral issue would almost always guarantee an extraction by the one doctor in El Pao.

I can’t remember who had a serious stomach blockage issue that required emergency surgery, but the camp doctor had little to no surgery experience. Dad said several folks would read the surgical procedure during the operation while the doctor did his best to perform the operation. I understand that the patient had years of painful side effects and several additional operations but was lucky to survive an operation under such conditions.

I can’t imagine anyone surviving a major heart attack or stroke in the camp. I remember my brother Tim came down with amebic dysentery, which proved to be hard to treat. At one point they did consider asking that the company plane be used to get him to a hospital in Caracas. Thankfully, that was needed.

Snake bites were the main concern for parents, I was bitten several times but the snakes were not poisonous. There was a green snake that hunted in the tree tops which are very venomous so we would always look for green snakes and bee hives before climbing. My mother would find snakes in her washing machine which was on the back porch. I don’t know how they got in there, in her garden and on the front porch. I was told when they built the RR and cleared the land around El Pao workers suffered some serious safety issues including many venomous snake bites. The dozers used to clear trees would be equipped with safety steel enclosures and wire to guard against falling trees and snakes. Workers would also sport leather snake bite leggings.

Boys will be Boys:

One of our sports was to crawl into a very long storm water culvert pipe running though the bottom of the staff camp — “not too smart”. We would also play in the Johnson Grass (grass would cut you) and there were bees’ nest in the grass. I happened to grab a nest and the bees would attack the eyes. My mother didn’t recognize me when I came home. It was a miracle that I didn’t get really sick from the poison. Richard Barnes calls them “PICAOJOS” (well named).

Sling shots were very popular in Venezuela. Every self-respecting boy in camp had a well-crafted homemade sling shot and a machete. We would practice shooting rifles but ammo was rather scarce so the sling shot became the go-to weapon. All of us became expert with a sling shot. One of our fun sports was to get close to a bee hive (hanging from the trees and shoot at them with a sling shot and run. The killer bees would chase you for quite a while (slow runner would sometimes pay the price!).

There were not too many boys my age in camp. I had four friends during the time I lived there, John Tuohy, Jorge Menendez, Antonio Ristorcelli and Herman Gerbrecht at different times during my stay in camp. Jorge was my first friend in camp and on occasions we would fight and Jorge would always win, but Jorge had a younger brother Carlos who used to beat us both up. So anytime I had an issue with Jorge, I would get Carlos on board! We managed to get in a little trouble, but kept most of the things that would get us in real trouble to ourselves.

When not in school we would be gone from sun-up to sun-down. The jungle was always a great place to build forts, practice shooting with our rifles. The road up to the water tower was a favorite spot. Whenever we ventured into the jungle, we took our machetes, how would today’s parents react to that! My brothers Herb Ashe Jr and Tim Ashe I think were too young to remember much about El Pao. When I left Venezuela, they were only 4 and 5 years old.

Antonio Ristorcelli and I might have been the original skate boarders at least in El Pao. We would set a board over a skate and sit on the board lift our legs up and cross them and proceed at great neck speed from the top of the camp to the bottom about a half mile all the while shifting our bodies to turn the skate. Needless to say, we’d crash a lot and ruined our jeans (clothing came from the States and I only had two pairs to last the year) not to mention some very badly scrapped knees and arms, but thankfully no head injuries.

Reading was an important part of my life in camp. Books provided a lot of entertainment and I read every book I could get my hands on. It’s too bad that kids now days don’t have that opportunity.

Other things:

Bob Brundage was the Company’s Railroad Superintendent. He had a Trinidadian assistant Mr. Oscar (both were true brothers and great guys). They built a series of miniature rail cars along with a locomotive that was powered with a lawnmower engine (kids would ride on top of the cars). Bob and I laid tracks around his family’s camp house. Great fun for camp kids. I understand when Bob and his family left El Pao they shipped the train and track to the US.

Puerto Ordaz was a nice town we use to travel there sometimes it was an outing since we would go by a two/three car ferry. I understand that the ferry has been replaced by a bridge across the Caroni and Orinoco. They would have the annual soap box derby races there which was always a fun event. Ted Heron Jr would enter the races and all of us would work on his car. Cheap hydro power resulted in a surge in industrialization in the area.

L-R Herman Gerbrecht, Me, Mary Ellen, A man Cannot make him out. Mom. Herb, Tim and Dad Watching Soap Box Derby in Puerto Ordaz.

Conucos:

Conucos, Fincas and Fincas Granderas are the three main agriculture systems in the 1950’s. Conucos or family farms, typically a small leased property for subsistence living. When we lived in Venezuela a feudal system in agriculture was in place where 80% of the land was controlled by 2% of the owners. After we left Venezuela the Government began a land reform program but do not know the results. Most of the Fincas are located in the Llanos (plains).

Conucos lined the road from El Pao to Palua which was typical in a jungle environment. Farming used slash and burn farming techniques.

Traveling by air:

We would only travel to Ciudad Bolivar to catch a flight out to the states. We stayed in Caracas only once, since there was a coup in progress when we landed in Maiquetia and all domestic flights were cancelled. I think we stayed in the Tamanaco Hotel which was beautiful, but under siege, so we had to hunker down in our rooms. Entrance of the Hotel was sandbagged and armed guardia troops on guard outside. Dad said that there were some small arms battles in the street in front of the Hotel, too bad I didn’t see that!

We ended up staying there a couple of days and didn’t get to see Caracas at all. IMCOV had an office in Caracas, my friend Jorge Menéndez’s father ended up being the top executive in Venezuela. He was the right choice for that position since he was from Cuba, but became a Venezuelan citizen and I understand was very well respected and qualified. My recollection of Mr. Menéndez was that he had a Pancho Villa mustache!

Leaving El Pao for the last time Liesha Ten Houten and I managed to get a ride on the company plane (usually reserved for upper management and their families not Liesha and me). Liesha was a very sweet girl with blond hair and glasses and she was scared to death of flying. We sat in seats right in back of the pilot and held hands. Approaching Maiquetia and viewing the Andes on one side and the Caribbean on the other from the cockpit was an amazing experience.

To be continued….

Mining Camp Memories (continued): Part 3

May 3, 2021May 3, 2021 Richard Barnes

With great pleasure and gratitude I continue to post from the Mining Camp Memories by Michael John Ashe II (Mike). These arise from his and family’s sojourn in El Pao from 1953 to 1961.

I think General Lew Wallace had an understanding of the pull that childhood has on the rest of one’s life:

… some there will be to divine [such] feelings without prompting. They are such as had happy homes in their youth, no matter how far that may have been back in time — homes which are now the starting points of all recollection; paradises from which they went forth in tears, and which they would now return to, if they could, as little children; places of laughter and singing, and associations dearer than any of all the triumphs of after-life.” Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ, Book Sixth, Chapter 6, by General Lew Wallace (1827-1905)

Thank you again, Mike!

Mike Ashe:

Organized Entertainment:

Below is a picture of the Castillo de San Francisco de Asis on the Orinoco which is located about 15 or 17 miles downstream from where Dick and I would fish. The company would organize a day trip for the whole camp (once a year) we would all travel by rail to Palua board the YaYa Tug Boat travel down river to the Castillo and have fun exploring the fort. The company would arrange lunch for us. Built by the Spaniards in 1685 to tax travelers on the river by raising a chain until tolls were paid. Children and Adults would have a great time.

Looking at these pictures the Castillo was built on top and around a large boulder. These boulders were everywhere in the Orinoco and the river banks for miles which only adds to the river’s beauty.

A picture of the river near Ciudad Bolivar-note the amount of river current. The mighty river was wide in the rainy Season it swells to a breath of 14 Miles. Average depth of 165 feet in the rainy season to 50 feet in the dry season

Another camp outing would be to travel down to the Caroni River during the dry season, when the water level was low exposing a sandy beach from the tree line to the water’s edge in some places 100 feet. The Caiman would leave their tracks in the sand from the tree line to the water’s edge, which was kind of neat. The families would go swimming in the river and I would go fishing downstream from them. Never told the swimmers that piranhas (AKA Caribes) were all that I was catching, and a lot of them.

The communal restaurant at the Club served good food (big night was Sunday for families) and the swimming pool was also very nice and all of us kids would spend a great deal of time there, mostly swimming. We would also get our haircuts there. The barber had a nude woman tattooed on his forearm and Dad would get a kick out of how I would be eyeballing the barber’s forearm-he never said anything to me about it.

We had movies twice a week. Everyone would bring lawn chairs and watch/wait until the projector malfunctioned!

My favorite person in Venezuela was “Juan the Bartender” Juan like many folks in the camp and in Venezuela, were there to escape the economic collapse in Europe after the War. Actually, I was godfather to his son one of the highlights of my life in the little Church in the labor camp. I did speak with Richard Barnes about Juan who had left before the mine closed. While working in El Pao he had made enough money to buy a bar in Soledad (across the Orinoco from Ciudad Bolivar) which he later sold for a nice profit that enabled him to return to Portugal with his family. Juan’s importance to the community was never recognized and in that he was special.

Encounter with wild beasts and diversity of wildlife:

On one occasion I ran into a rather large Tapir while on a fishing trip on the Caroni River bank circa 1957-58 during the dry season. On the way back from my position on the river bank to the pickup (the rest of the fishing party was waiting to head home) I entered the tree line and I froze, the Tapir was about 15-20 feet away from me. I wasn’t afraid of it but knew that it was a big wild animal and I really didn’t know how dangerous it was. If I had known, I would have started running. When we made eye contact, it turned and moved away, I remained calm but as soon as it was out of sight, I picked up the pace and got out of there. I told everyone what I saw but didn’t get much of a response. No big deal. This actually was a very big deal and I was blessed to be able to experience a contact with an endangered animal. A Tapir (shown below) typically spends a great deal of time around rivers. I would also expect them to be around more in the dry season (calmer waters provided easier access). Their primary predators in addition to man would be the Jaguar.

I ran into this guy “a Tarsiers” (above) while looking into a burrow and it scared me to death.

The diversity of wildlife was amazing. We had pet parakeets, toucans and a remarkable parrot called Big Parrot. I am convinced that a lot of the birds in Venezuela have not yet been cataloged. Big Parrot was an amazing bird; had long feathers surrounding the back of its neck and when excited the feathers would raise up creating a crown around its head.

The Herons lived next to us; a sloth meandered into camp one day and ended up in one of their trees- stayed there a couple of weeks and died.

There was also a large Burro that wandered into camp when I was 10. I took care of it and would ride around camp. One day the Burro disappeared (did not know how or why) but I was devastated. Somehow the Burro reappeared only to die in the Wrights (Dad’s Boss) front yard.

Silke Gerbrecht had a pet Ocelot in camp a beautiful animal but not too friendly. I never did see a Jaguar but hunters would sell their skins in the worker’s camp so they were not too far from camp.

Each year the camps were invaded by a relative of a cane toad, that littered the roads as road kill. I understand if they are kept in captivity, they will live for 35 years.

We made several trips to Cerro Bolivar (US Steel mine) to visit Art Ruff and his family. Art was a snake expert he had horses so we would go out in the bush looking for snakes. When he spotted one he’d jump off the horse and capture it with his bare hands. Dad and Art went off on one trip and caught a 10-foot red tailed boa. Art skinned it and sent it over to Dad. I don’t know what ever happened to the skin but someone could have made a lot of boots with it!

We ran into a lot of anteaters and porcupines. Our dogs would invariably have run ins with porcupines and come home with white spines all over their noses. Both are dangerous; the Giant Anteater has large front claws and are hunted in Venezuela primarily for the claws.

Birds by the Thousands:

William Phelps a North American from New York City, and Harvard Educated was an ornithological explorer and businessman who arrived in Venezuela Circa 1900, in the states of Sucre and Monagas. He became like myself, fascinated by the country and its birds. In San Antonio de Maturin he met British settlers, the Tuckers and fell in love with one of their daughters Alicia Elvira. He continued his studies at Harvard and returned to Maturin to sell coffee and pursue ornithology. His son William Jr founded the Phelps ornithological Collection considered the largest in Latin America. There are over 80,000 birds in feathers and thousands preserved in alcohol and over 1000 skeletons. William also founded Radio Caracas Radio (RCR) which was only shut down when the communist dictator Hugo Chavez came to power. The collection I believe is still in Caracas and continues to grow.

We ate a lot of bananas in Venezuela. Dad would buy a whole stock of bananas and hang it outside on the porch. The birds would feast on the top of the stock and we would eat the rest as it ripened.

The bird population in Venezuela is simply spectacular in terms of diversity, quantity and habitats. One of my favorites is the Crested Oropendolas that weave sock like nests that hang high up in the jungle canopy. There would be thousands flying into and out of their nests as we drove down the dirt road to Palua.

This is a Hawk Headed Parrot, our pet Parrot in Venezuela-simply called Big Parrot. When he got angry or disturbed the head feathers would go up on his head. He was a great friend and companion. We had several dogs in Venezuela, but Big Parrot was always my favorite.

Insects by the Millions:

Ants were my favorite insects. Army ants are actually scavengers that can swarm and consume a dead carcass in minutes. They provide a great service in keeping the jungle floor clean. When they are in the march they number in the millions and leave a bare trail about 8 inches wide for miles.

The leaf cutter ant is an amazingly strong creature able to carry leaves to the nest in great numbers. They all can and do bite which is always painful.

Beetles came in all types and sizes, we would play with them for hours, we’d get two large Hercules and/or Rhinoceros beetles and arrange gladiator fights just like in the Roman Colosseum. Blood thirsty jerks that we were!

Termites were everywhere, they would magically appear overnight on the walls of our company cinder block home. They would scale the walls inside a mud tube from the floor to the ceiling; don’t know what they were in search of maybe roof rafters (maybe wooden). Anyway, it would always freak out my mother.

Butterflies:

There were over a 1000 species of butterflies in Venezuela. The ones in the rainforest where we lived were amazingly colorful and evolved to blend in, some with wings that looked like eyes.

(I’ll briefly interject here to note that Andrew Neild from England published The Butterflies of Venezuela some years ago. Many of his specimens were from the area surrounding El Pao. If the reader is interested in this, he or she can search for Andrew and find him — RMB)

To be continued….

Mining Camp Memories: Chapter 2 (continued)

April 26, 2021April 26, 2021 Richard Barnes

…Mom would always say that the best time of her life was in El Pao with all her children about her….

Moving In:

I can’t be sure but I think we moved to Venezuela in 1953 (I was 6 and my sister was 2). Dad was an IMCOV employee hired as a Mine Foreman and left there in 1961. Our first on Delta DC7 going from New Orleans stopping in Havana, Kingston, Montego Bay and onto Maiquetia (I can’t be sure but I think flight time was 7 hours). From Maiquetia to Ciudad Bolivar on a bumpy DC3 (Plenty of barf bags on board) and by company vehicle to El Pao. Our first night in camp was really something. Red Howler monkeys would growl like lions and all of us were too afraid to sleep. My sister Mary Ellen and I ended up in bed with the folks for a couple of weeks! The camp weather was nice all year round including the rainy season-no HVAC.

Most of my memories were from a kid’s perspective and Venezuela was a great adventure for me but I knew it was very different for an adult. It takes a special person to spend a lifetime in a place where there is considerable isolation in language and culture not to mention the absence of family connections (my Grandmother the daughter of a New York City policeman lived in a mining camps in Chile and Mexico for almost 40 years). Outside, communication was not possible when we lived there, we had a short-wave radio and when atmospherics were right about 7-8PM we would get the news from the US, but not too often. The mail service was always touch and go. The commissary was in the labor camp. I remembered my mother would bake bread twice a week and would have to sift the flour to get the hundreds of black bugs out. We still managed to get some protein from the bread even after the sifting. Sanitary conditions were not optimum there. I remember that the women would travel to the Oil Fields to get frozen vegetables and Ice Cream about 3 times a year. Meat processing was done at labor camp the which took sanitation to a whole new level.

Bo Johnson was an exciting character, a geologist and a Pilot with a lot of flight hours in Venezuela and other parts of South and Central America. He would take off and land on the top bench of the mine until the day he crashed landed. He and Ted Heron salvaged most of the plane and stored the parts in the machine shop with the idea of rebuilding it. I left for school in the states around that time, so I don’t know if that ever happened. If anyone could fix something it would be Ted. Ted and Dad worked together in Inspiration Az-(Anaconda Copper) Ted’s expertise was in mining equipment maintenance.

In 1953-54 El Pao had a serious maintenance problem. Dad convinced management to hire Ted to solve the issue, which he did. When Dad went to Mexico in 1968 there were a similar maintenance issues with the Autlan’s Molango Mines and Ted was back in business. As I recall, Bethlehem Mines had a longwall shipped there from “I think” Mine 131 Boone Division that was giving them fits I don’t know if that problem was ever fixed.

Camp School:

The camp school was a one room structure. There were two teachers, Mrs. Dorsey and Mr. Shipe. Mrs. Dorsey’s husband had died in El Pao, but she continued teaching there. When my mother went to the States to have my brother Tim, I stayed with her, a great lady. I had one year of Mr. and Mrs. Eller. Both were very nice, however I thought Mr. Eller was a little strange wearing sandals in the jungle which was always a topic of conversation with the kids. Mrs. Ivanoksy was my piano teacher. She was a very eccentric but a wonderful French lady whose latest husband Boris Ivanosky was a huge Russian, who drove a very small sports car and always wore his French beret while driving. Both of them were getting up in age and she would sometimes speak to me in French, sometimes in Spanish and rarely in English. She would always have a snack for me after practice to soothe my invariable headaches? Needless to say, I really didn’t progress very far as a musician but loved my teacher.

Top picture is circa 1955; bottom picture is circa 1958

The Mine:

I spent a lot of time at the mine with my Dad most likely to give my mother a break (I was a handful). The crusher was a constant issue and the greatest bottleneck in the operation, so we spent a lot of time there. There were a couple of nasty crusher accidents one incident involved a third shift worker who had climbed onto the conveyor belt for a nap and didn’t wake up when the crusher started up in the morning. He was dismembered when he reached the head frame, just an awful accident. There was another accident (luckily no one hurt) when a dump truck unloading clay overburden tipped over while unloading and ended up about half way down a very steep and high dump site (a buildup of clay inside the bucket might have caused the accident or maybe operator error). Shortly thereafter one of the trucks was outfitted with a device to scrap clay buildup off the buckets, improving productivity and safety.

I got a chance to operate dozers and went to countless blasts with Sam Wright and my Dad which was really fun. The shovels would be positioned outside the blast zone and we would go inside the shovel bucket for protection. Dad or Sam would keep the pickup running, light the fuse, jump in the pickup, and race down the bench out of the blast zone (which was relatively large). The blasts were really something and everyone was different, a cloud of red dust and large sized debris (mostly 2-4” rock projectiles) flying in all directions. I was almost killed by a dump truck driver, so I was confined to the pickup after that when the mine was operating. IMCOV safety is a little less stringent than Bethlehem Steel’s!

Labor Unions were strong there. I remember one time Dad had a rather nasty disagreement with the union and he was arrested by the Guardia and put in jail. In Venezuela the police were actually not local but a Federal Military force called the Guardia Nacional. I do believe that Dad was taken into custody for his own safety but really not sure of that. I always thought the Guardia was a good organization but who knows nowadays.

Fishing Tales

_{^{Full Fine Print Disclosure}}I hate eating fish- so catch and release was the operative action.

Actually, there was considerable risk in living in a remote mining camp. Dick Guth was my Fishing Buddy and we went fishing at least a couple times a month. He would pick me up at 4:30 and drive down a dirt, sometimes gravel road to Palua (with Conucos on both sides of the road). It was right before daybreak that we would be on the Orinoco. It was beautiful calm water like glass with flocks of parakeets, parrots, and occasional guacamaya overhead. We would go downstream to our favorite fishing bend in the river and during the dry season come ashore. During the rainy season the Orinoco would overflow its banks flooding the surrounding low lands then would recede during the dry season, leaving behind lagoons full of fish (great opportunities for the Caiman and us) We’d head back (Orinoco would begin to get rough at midday) and troll upstream.

We would always get a Payara strike-AKA saber tooth barracuda great game fish average size 30-40lbs with two 2-3” long fangs in its lower jaw and go up to where the Orinoco and Caroni merged (amazing line of clean “Caroni River water and Brown Orinoco Water”) just upstream on the Caroni past Puerto Ordaz and back to Palua and head home.

I didn’t think about it at the time but it would have been a real problem if the outboard 30HP motor would have quit on us when we were downstream from Palua – since the banks of the Orinoco were impenetrable at that time. Amazing rivers full of fish, river dolphins, tarpon, sharks Crocodiles. I’m sure you know that the camp water was pumped up from the Caroni. Pumping station was slightly downstream from the amazing Falls (which was somewhat ruined by the dam). See below:

Somehow I misplaced my pictures of catches. This is a stock picture of a Payara. When landing one, you needed to watch out for their teeth!

Dick Guth, Ted Heron, Ted Jr. and I would go spear fishing off the coast. We would travel to Puerto la Cruz take two Zodiac type boats and motor out to an uninhabited island about 1- ½ mile off shore and stay there for 3-4 days. Great adventure for all of us. The water was very clear and relatively calm. We’d catch Longostinos (Spanish for little lobster) and boil them over an open fire. We were all strong swimmers and would sometimes venture out into blue water. On one occasion, I had gone out pretty far and Dick and Ted were yelling and screaming for me to get out of the water. I thought they were yelling because I was out too far. As it turned out they were yelling because there was a large shark close to me which I failed to see.

As you might have already guessed, fishing was really an important part of my life since organized sports of any kind was not an option for me. It didn’t stop when I was not in Venezuela. My Uncle Bob Broadley (a great angler) taught me a great deal about fishing during summer trips to Pensacola Florida. We would go out early mornings stop off at B&B Donut shop around 5:30 and off to the Pensacola Beach Pier on Santa Rosa Island and fish for Kings and Lings (Cobia). If the fish weren’t biting there, we would go to the pier at Fort Pickens and fish for Spanish (Spanish Maceral).

No one would believe the number of 8–12-foot hammer head sharks that used to circle the Pensacola Beach Pier. In those days the beach was packed with swimmers! Uncle Johnny McCluskey was another angler that I loved dearly. He was a great man of character, that I was fortunate to be a part of my life. He took an interest in my life and was always my buddy. He was a boxing fan and we would watch the Gillette Saturday fights together along with his son Mathew McCluskey. Just great memories. Johnny would fish for Mullet with a net since that was the only way to fish for Mullet.

Also, it’s important to understand that, although it was fun to fish, the relationships with my fellow anglers’ memories of them were and still remain the most important for me.

Many of us mining camp brats can appreciate how much our mothers sacrifice for their families. They are the true heroes of the mining camp life. Without them we would have not survived it.

My mother a Pensacola, Florida gal, met my Dad on a blind date in 1943. Dad was in flight training in the Naval Air Station there and after a six-month courtship they were married in Jacksonville, Florida.

Pensacola was always home base for us. Even today we always manage to return often to visit my brother and parents’ gravesite there.

Mom would always say that the best time of her life was in El Pao with all her children about her.

To be continued….

El Pao Society and Class Struggle

March 11, 2021March 11, 2021 Richard Barnes

“It began to dawn upon me uneasily that perhaps the right way to judge a movement was by the persons who made it up rather than by its rationalistic perfection and by the promises it held out. Perhaps, after all, the proof of social schemes was meant to be a posteriori rather than a priori. it would be a poor trade to give up a non-rational world in which you liked everybody, for a rational one in which you liked nobody.” — Richard Weaver, “Up From Liberalism” (1958)

“We must address broader issues, social boredom, wants, the mind, the heart — nothing to do with politics, or very little so.” — Russell Kirk

“The State exists simply to promote and to protect the ordinary happiness of human beings in this life. A husband and wife chatting over a fire, a couple of friends having a game of darts in a pub, a man reading a book in his own room or digging in his own garden — that is what the State is there for. And unless they are helping to increase and prolong and protect such moments, all the laws, parliaments, armies, courts, police, economics, etc., are simply a waste of time.” — C. S. Lewis

“And Judah and Israel dwelt safely, every man under his vine and under his fig tree, from Dan even to Beersheba, all the days of Solomon.” — I Kings 4:25

Earlier this year, I was asked whether social gears ground with difficulty living in El Pao, considering the differences between the Anglo and Spanish Americans not only in culture but, in some cases, also in class. The question forced me to pause and think back on my childhood in El Pao.

Upon reflection, and not meaning to be a Pollyanna about this, I must say that, in El Pao, I lived among the type of people I would ally myself with in the quest for the good life, that life of finding and pursuing your calling with all your might knowing that you will have the support, the criticism, and the encouragement you need to realize that life.

For those readers who grew up in small town America, I believe your experiences were most likely very similar to mine and to those of my childhood friends, especially early childhood.

Long before the television show, Cheers, gave us the refrain, “Where Everybody Knows Your Name”, I knew this to be the case, not in a bar, but in El Pao. We could name every person, not only in our school, but in every house. We could not get away with dialing the telephone and hanging up unless we did this only once or at most twice. Beyond that, you were very likely to be caught. Doors were left unlocked, your teachers knew not only your parents but every sibling and cousin, and upon your return from a long vacation or from an even longer absence for school, everyone knew all about where you were and how you had been doing.

No one expressed concerns when you and your buddies, rifle in hand, explored the surrounding jungles, unless you stumbled upon the secret dynamite depository, which we did on one occasion. However, once the national guard ascertained who we were, they let us go with a mild admonition, but not before they requested us to demonstrate our shooting skills (which duly impressed them, I might add).

Our friends included Venezuelans, Americans, Chileans, Cubans, English, German, Spanish, and Russian. From all “classes.” This was in addition to relatives, friends, and acquaintances outside the camp, who lived in San Félix, Puerto Ordaz, and Ciudad Bolivar, along the Orinoco, Puerto de la Cruz on the northern coast, Caracas, and more.

I do not recall hearing the social gears grind, let alone bumping into them, until well into my adolescence.

Those gears ground so smoothly for all those years because we, in a very real sense, lived in a classless society.

I do not mean there were no distinctions, for that will simply never be. We had distinctions, whether fathers, mothers, and children, or priests, pastors, and laity, or teachers and students, or bosses and subordinates, or general managers and miners, or heads of households and gardeners. Distinctions abounded all around us. We respected them; we gave honor to whom honor was due. But, paradoxically, we didn’t notice, let alone dwell upon them. And skin color did not even come into our thinking.

Recently, many years later, I’ve come into contact with childhood friends who, invariably, tell me that El Pao was a paradise to them. I can relate.

Why was all that collaborative, dare I say, loving, spirit buried under class and race warfare? Like Steve McQueen asks at the end of The Sand Pebbles, “What happened? What the [expletive] happened?”

Well, the man whose most famous publication, The Communist Manifesto, that strident, profane booklet, which, in my opinion, everyone should read, alongside the Bible (that way you know what both sides are thinking) is part of what happened. The Manifesto states, “The Communists … openly declare that their ends can be attained only by the forcible overthrow of all existing social conditions.” Marx made it very clear that progress can only come by means of violence. For that to happen, the home and church must be destroyed. So, it calls the home a brothel, wives and mothers, whores, religion, an opiate, and more. UNESCO registered that insufferable screed to its “Memory of the World Programme”. Why am I not surprised?

The idea of class struggle was not new or original with Marx; what was unique was his re-writing of all of human history with class warfare at the center. The concepts in the Manifesto, published in February 1848, were reinforced with the publication, in 1859, of Darwin’s On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, or the Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life.

One would think that, with all the contemporary concern with racism, we would hear much more about Darwin’s contribution on “Favoured Races”. One would think so in vain.

As Engels said in his eulogy to Marx in 1883: “Just as Darwin discovered the law of evolution in organic nature, so Marx discovered the law of evolution in human history.” And each made organic nature and human history something ugly.

If you would like to see a contrast between pre and post-Darwinian/Marxist thinking, set aside some evenings to watch the BBC’s The Blue Planet. It is a strikingly beautiful production marred by its constant, almost unbearable allusions to death and sex time and time again. I watched every episode, but as each episode screened, something about it increasingly darkened the beauty that it supposedly intended to convey.

In contrast we have Gilbert White’s publication, The Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne, published in 1789 and never out of print. This parish parson, Gilbert White, spent his entire life in Selborne parish serving his flock and observing and drawing the different plants and animals and natural history of his region. It is an achingly and evocatively beautiful record reflecting the harmony of creation and how everything in nature “fits” perfectly, a reflection of nature’s God.

Both the BBC and White observed the same creation, the same nature. But one saw only blood and sex in the struggle for food and species preservation; the other saw harmony and beauty, reflecting the glory of the Creator.

I would say that my early childhood in El Pao was more akin to White’s Selborne, whereas my later adolescence, for a shorter period of time, saw more of Marx’s Manifesto, although not exclusively. I believe that anyone with a sense of beauty and love and harmony would prefer the former. And, notice, there was no politics in the former. Or very little so.

“Everything was politics. Too much politics. That’s no way to live.” — Mr. Tuohy, my parents’ friend, who later became my friend also, speaking to me about Chile after Allende’s ascent.

“The trouble with Socialism is that it takes too many evenings” — Sounds like Yogi Berra, but is attributed to Oscar Wilde

The popular show, *Cheers*, where everybody knows your name. Everybody in El Pao knew your name, with or without the bar.

*The Natural History of Selborne*, Folio Society edition

Unvisited Tombs

December 31, 2020December 31, 2020 Richard Barnes

“The growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.” — George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans)

George Eliot lived and worked during the Victorian Era, hence, despite her atheism, her works were imbued with a Christian ethos. Unlike today’s fellow atheists, she did not overexert herself to hide her Christian presuppositions, given that these were considered to be discoverable by mere human reason and tradition, not needing supernatural revelation.

Since the early 20th century, vast evidence of the solitary, nasty, brutish, and short nature of atheistic life has been accumulated, including 100,000,000 extra-judicial deaths in atheistic, Communist lands (if your stomach is strong, see The Black Book of Communism for details). Given that reality and much more, contra Eliot, skeptics have been more careful to deny or obfuscate anything that might point to Christian presuppositions in their efforts to demonstrate moral virtues without Christianity. It’s not an easy task.

But this year’s end post is something of a salute to Eliot’s quote above, which is easily reconcilable to Biblical teaching.

When year’s end approaches, I often find myself thinking about Juan el bartender.

Juan the bartender?

Juan was Portuguese. He came to Venezuela to earn money which he would send to his family in Portugal. He eventually made his way to the interior of the country where he was hired by Bethlehem Steel to serve as the El Pao Club bartender. Near every year’s end, Juan would treat some of the boys by giving each a ride on his motorcycle. He would take his rider to the labor camp (otro campo) for a short spin around the area, saluting friends and other kids, and then he’d return them to the El Pao Club.

It was years later before I came to realize that what seemed a mere kick to me, required Juan to sacrifice part of his lunch hour in order to give a few boys something to remember for many years later, in my case for many decades later. That was very kind of him and tells me much about his character.

He eventually sent enough money to Portugal that he resigned and returned to Portugal, hopefully to rejoin his family and to live a productive life there. I am sure he also gave joy to children in his little corner of the earth.

I also think of Mr. Serrao. Every New Year’s Day, he would drive his and as many other camp children who could squeeze into his station wagon, around El Pao and then to the labor camp, honking his horn, and encouraging the kids to scream, blow their own little party horns, hang their torsos out the windows, and clap their hands as they yelled, “Feliz Año Nuevo!” as loudly as screeching parrots. The folks in the labor camp always expected this and would join in the festivities by clapping, laughing, and yelling back, “Felíz Año Nuevo!”

As with Juan el bartender, it was years later before I came to appreciate Mr. Serrao’s New Year’s practice. This took precious time from him, including having to awaken early on New Year’s Day, when I am sure he would have preferred sleeping in. At least a bit.

And to have a multitude of kids jam pack themselves into his vehicle was no walk in the park. But he was cheery and happy along with us and seemed to genuinely enjoy being a highlight of the year for us.

Mr. Serrao and his family lived next door to us for a number of years; his sons were very good childhood friends. He requested and obtained a transfer back to Bethlehem and that was the end of the Serrao New Year’s festivities. But they live on in my memory.

Juan Villanueva was the pastor of the small protestant church which met in the labor camp. Each year, he would celebrate a New Year’s Eve service designed to last until the chiming of the bells announcing the new year. I would lie if I told you I looked forward to this annual service. I did not. However, I would also lie if I told you I did not enjoy it, once there. I did. And, looking back, I deeply appreciate those services.

Here again, we have a man who took precious time to prepare for and celebrate a service designed to encourage us to remember that our days are in the hands of Him Who created us and all things about and around us, including the very days of our lives. It was both joyful and sobering to be so reminded, year in and year out.

Juan Villanueva left El Pao and pastored a church near the Orinoco River. I last visited with him in San Félix, in the early part of this century. It was a most happy meeting. He passed away this year. The world is a better place because of him.

One New Year’s morning, amid the hustle in our kitchen, my father laughed and told us about a report he had just heard on his short wave radio which was tuned to Voice of America. The broadcaster said something along these lines: “Many people went to sleep last night thinking of great resolutions they would embark upon today; many others went to sleep apprehensive about today; many other people lay in bed last night wondering and worrying about what the new year might bring; and a vast number of people went to bed last night as if it were just another night in their lives with nothing special about it at all.”

Thanks to people like Juán el bartender, and Mr. Serrao, and Juán Villanueva, and millions of others unknown but to God, with tombs unremarked and unvisited, “things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been….”

As we stand at the door of a new year, why not determine to be blessings to those with whom we interact, whether family, friends, and even strangers?

With Thomas Gray we can say of those who are unknown, unheralded, and unvisited:

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

….

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

….

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Thomas Gray, Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard

Although the above stanzas seem sober (because they are), they also serve to bring joy. Our lives serve eternal purposes, regardless of whether or not they are remembered by proud men. God remembers. And that is all that really matters.

I wish you and yours a very happy 2021!