Tag: Maiquetía

Macuto Sheraton

Richard Barnes

That name likely means little to most, if not all, readers. But for many who lived or worked in Venezuela in the mid-20th Century that name brings a flood of memories to both children and adults.

In brief, after the Caracas-La Güira Expressway was inaugurated in the early 50s, enabling better access not only to the international airport but also to the spectacular beaches north of Caracas, entrepreneurs saw the potential for a 5-Star hotel/resort. This project was launched and successfully completed in 1957; however, January of the following year brought the coup overthrowing the Pérez Jimenez regime and the ensuing upheavals and political posturing delayed the inauguration, including the determination of just who would administer the property.

Finally, in 1963, after a bidding process, Sheraton Hotels was awarded the property on a royalty-type basis. This was the first Sheraton hotel in Latin America and the Caribbean.

Up to that point, most international travelers would spend the night in one of the Caracas hotels, such as El Conde or the Hotel Tamanaco before leaving early the next morning for the 30-minute drive (before the expressway was built it took about an hour) to catch a flight from Maiquetía.

The Macuto Sheraton was a leisurely 20 minute littoral drive from the airport. It rapidly became the preferred spot not only for Americans (and international flight crews) but for Venezuelans on either an overnight stop during travels, a weekend get-away, or a family vacation. The Spanish Meliá chain had built a major hotel near the Macuto Sheraton in the early 90s. The competition had energized both hotels and both operated successfully during the 90s.

In 1999 the catastrophic Vargas cataclysm hit the area. The Macuto Sheraton was not greatly damaged (nor was the Meliá) and it rapidly converted to a shelter for the thousands left homeless. Although the victims were eventually re-housed away from the hotel, the cost of repairs and refurbishing added to the immensely aggravated political and regulatory environment brought on by the Chávez regime eventuated in Sheraton’s decision to cede the property and its administration to the Venezuelan state. However, the property itself was mostly intact at the time.

Despite promises and assurances of converting the property along with the neighboring Meliá Hotel into a major 6-star resort, such visions remained as ephemeral as the utopian dreams of Socialists everywhere. 

Our family stayed in the Macuto Sheraton during a trip to Venezuela in 1994 when we had four children, the youngest being about a year old, and we can attest that it was still a great family friendly, bustling property. 

If the 1999 Vargas tragedy nevertheless left room for hope of an eventual restoration, the 2026 earthquakes put the kibosh on such. The materialization of the Macuto Sheraton and Meliá under whatever names the Venezuelan regime might favor is now out of the question. At least for my lifetime.

(This area of Venezuela has had two name changes since my childhood. It used to be known as the Central Littoral, a section of Caracas to the north, on the coast, where the major airport and seaport are. In 1998, the area was turned into Vargas state, named after Venezuela’s first civilian president, elected in the early 19th Century. In 2019 the name was changed once again, this time to La Guaira, the country’s largest seaport. So when reading Litoral Central or Vargas (such as when discussing the terrible mountain slides of 1999), or La Guaira (such as when reading reports of the earthquakes last month, they are the same area.)

Last week I was in a tiny Caribbean coastal town where one shoreline reminded me of my childhood on the coast along the Macuto Sheraton, even to a leaning palm tree silhouetted against the gentle sea at dusk. And that sight brought the above thoughts to mind.

And such thoughts in turn brought to my memory a trip I took to Venezuela when I was in my mid-teens. Having departed late from Miami, the flight arrived at Maiquetía (Caracas’s airport) late at night. An elderly, American gentleman and I found ourselves, with our baggage, waiting for a taxi. When one finally arrived, he asked me where I was headed, “Macuto Sheraton,” I replied.

“Well, that’s where I am going so would you like to share the taxi ride? There don’t seem to be many taxis tonight.”

We agreed to board the same taxi and we headed to the hotel.

Having paid the fare we approached the front desk. The American spoke Spanish although with a bit of difficulty and he did not notice that the hotel clerk was assuming that he and I were father and son. 

So I spoke to the clerk directly to advise that he was to check in the gentleman separately and then he was to take care of me. If he would check the hotel reservations he would see that our names were different. I explained this to the gentleman and he was surprised at the confusion since he thought he had clearly told the clerk the same thing!

We eventually got checked in and bid our farewells, never to see each other again.

On another occasion, also in my teens, I arrived with limited funds, having determined to surprise my family. I walked up to the hotel desk letting them know that I only had enough money to pay for a taxi to return to the airport the following morning. 

But I offered them my watch and assured them that my father would arrange to have the Bethlehem Steel pay for my night and my father would reimburse the company. The young men behind the desk were a bit taken aback but after checking with their manager, they accepted my watch and gave me a key.

I arrived in El Pao the next afternoon to the great shock and surprise of all. My father arranged for the company to get my watch and pay the hotel on his behalf which he of course reimbursed. 

There was at least one other time where I arrived late, with little money. On that occasion, the taxi driver would not take me to the Sheraton because I had told him how much I had and he and I calculated it was enough to go a certain distance, pay the absolute minimum for an accommodation and pay the fare (discounted!) to the airport the next day. 

So he took me to a very dilapidated, shady looking joint and spoke to the clerk on my behalf. I paid the lodging, went to my room, placed my luggage against the door, and went to sleep. The next morning, as promised, the cab driver came right on time and took me to the airport. 

“I am sorry you had to stay in that place, but it was safer than to have stayed on the street or at the airport,” he said.

“Oh, no problem at all. On the contrary, I thank you for taking care of me,” I replied. He had truly been very kind.

Although, at first glance, it seems to be the case that times were different in those days, that is actually not true. 

It was that the people saw themselves as responsible first to God and second to one another. In other words, it’s not the times that change, it’s whom people see as their gods. If we see ourselves as completely autonomous beings — our own little gods — or as products of blind forces of chaos, we feel no moral obligation to anyone. If, however, we see ourselves as responsible to our Creator, we will be kind to our neighbors, who are made in the image of our Creator to Whom we will one day give account.

The Macuto Sheraton is now gone. As, very likely, are that elderly American gentleman and the cab driver. The clerks may still be around. As am I. We’ve seen and lived among people who remember Whose image we bear. And we’ve seen and lived among people who forget Whose image we bear.

And we agree on this: the former is better.

“Thus saith the Lord, Stand ye in the ways, and see, and ask for the old paths, where is the good way, and walk therein, and ye shall find rest for your souls. But they said, We will not walk therein [Jer. 6:16].”

The Macuto Sheraton, circa 1975

View from a room circa 1967

A few short years after Sheraton bowed out and the property was officially expropriated in 2002

The below YouTube video is in Spanish but is a good birds eye view of the Macuto Sheraton’s history.

The rise and fall of the Macuto Sheraton: the hotel that marked the Venezuelan coast.

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

Mining Camp Memories (continued): Part 4

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….