Tag: Orinoco River

Bands of Robbers

Richard Barnes

“Without justice what are kingdoms but great bands of robbers? And what is a band of robbers but such a kingdom in miniature? It is a band of men under the rule of a leader, bound together by a pact of friendship, and their booty is divided among them by an agreed rule. Such a blot on society, if it grows, assumes for itself the proud name of kingdom.” — St. Augustine

Before the inauguration of the Caruachi Dam across the Caroní River in the first decade of this century, the river was traversed by ferry (chalana). As a child, I preferred taking that particular ferry to the ferries operating in what became Ciudad Guayana.

I suppose my preference was due to the seemingly wilder or less tamed nature of the area around Caruachi — no towns or cities in the vicinity and the fishing and wildlife were more surprising at times.

Regardless, the Caruachi dam (which I never witnessed) changed all that.

The last time I saw and used the ferry was in 1987. Several of us were in Venezuela on an audit assignment and took our free day to visit the area around the confluence of the Orinoco and Caroní Rivers.

The milieu was very different from that of my childhood: a number of the men who crossed with us looked rough, even ruffian-like. I attempted to strike up a conversation with two or three but it was hard going. One of them did pull his hand from his pocket and opened it for me to see a gold nugget. I asked permission to take a photo and he quickly declined, which I of course honored.

He went on to tell me about the mining in the Bolivar/Amazon areas, which is where he and a number of the other men on the ferry were coming from. He said the area was quite wild and somewhat lawless. 

I asked if any of them would mind if I took a photo. Three of them agreed but only if I did not use their names. 

That incident was a foreshadowing of what was to become of that untamed jungle and river area of at least 35,000 square miles, now known as the “Orinoco Mining Arc”, which encompasses large swathes of the state of Bolívar, where I was born, as well as of the vast states of Amazonas and Delta Amacuro. This area contains bauxite (used for aluminum), coltan (used in the production of electronic devices), diamonds, and, of course, especially gold.

However, in a lawless country as Venezuela has become, any “designated” area is actually limitless. So, unsurprisingly, this “arc” has invaded the Canaima National Park, a UNESCO World Heritage site. Elsewhere in this blog I’ve noted Transparency International’s ranking of Venezuela as the most corrupt country in the America’s — yes, more corrupt than Cuba or Haiti, as incredible as that seems — with extensive ties to global criminal syndicates which exploit the mining area and the indigenous peoples who are unlucky enough to not have escaped before their enslavement.

(It is always a wonder to consider that those who hate Columbus and accuse him of murder, torture, and enslavement seem oblivious to how they project onto the great seaman what their own fellow travelers are actually doing now. It’s much easier to indict and delegitimize our founding than to see that the abandonment of our founding has led to the atrocities they so piously and hypocritically decry….)

According to the Center for Strategic and International Studies (CSIS), the arc is a giant hub for illegal mining, “where armed non-state actors and local gangs compete for control of key mining operations. The Maduro regime has used state enterprises and security forces to legitimize otherwise criminal mineral extraction, collaborating with criminal groups to mine, process, and transport minerals.”

In exchange for what? 

Well, the state-owned enterprises operating there serve to source the minerals extracted illicitly and, ¡Voilà! the minerals are then exported “officially”, thereby, legitimately. The bulk of these exports are to Turkey and the United Arab Emirates, according to CSIS. The state does not do this for free, of course. It carves its  handsome cut from every transaction.

However, that maneuver accounts for a fraction of Venezuela’s gold exports. The vast majority is shipped from the country as contraband and later “officialized” into the global market, with the State — both the top bureaucrats as well as the military leadership — receiving a major bite from the gargantuan profits. These profits are in addition to other fraudulent enterprises such as multiple military check points, each demanding bribes or multiple fuel depots supplying needed fuel to the illicit mines, also at large profits.

To give the reader an idea of the immense amounts of money involved, some top army generals are receiving gold in the equivalent of $800,000 per month in bribes. 

But wait! There’s more! Clandestine flights carrying gold are given safe passage, for another nice cut; the state has given ownership of individual mines to many of the country’s state governors and other political leaders to ensure their loyalty; ad nauseam. 

This post is already too long, so I’ll skip over the very real environmental devastation, including mercury poisoning in the rivers whereby fish taken to market as far away as Colombia are contaminated and causing serious harm to the health of regular folks.

We do not know how many laborers are involved in the illegal mining operations, but I’ve seen some estimates as high as 500,000. About half are children; most are from local indigenous villages and practically all are coerced. They work under threat of punishment by armed groups and gangs. Men and boys are subjected to atrocities by violent, pitiless mine owners who know they are “protected” against any and all actions they might take. 

We have eye witness reports of arms and hands being mutilated or amputated; forced prostitution; murders. Per CSIS, “Dozens of massacres have been reported in Bolivar state as well as reports of mass graves in the area.” In addition, the sex trafficking of young children is heartrending; venereal diseases have spiked; disappearances are common. 

And, yes, one of the most powerful crime syndicates ruling in the Orinoco Mining Arc is the Aragua Train, better known as Tren de Aragua. As a criminal enterprise, they not only ruthlessly run mines, they also establish pricing and rations for daily goods and groceries and woe be to him who disobeys or seeks to supply himself independently. Americans need to wake up to the reality that Tren de Aragua and the Venezuelan state are an allied enterprise. And neither of them messes around. 

St. Augustine in his The City of God wrote that a people that denies or refuses to be governed by God’s law (justice) will become ruled by “bands of robbers”. The history of the 20th Century with its totalitarian regimes, including Communist dictatorships resulting in 100,000,000 deaths by the state (see The Black Book of Communism) amply justifies Augustine’s affirmation. Not only do “bands of robbers” run rampant through the land, the state itself acts hand in glove with national and international crime syndicates all of whom share the common goal of personal empowerment and enrichment and grotesque pleasures at the cost of the lives and well being of their own peoples.

And before we get too smug, be gently reminded that we have legislators who have become very wealthy while in office. Few are they who, like many of our Founders, actually became poorer when they entered public service. As we ourselves have cast God’s precepts aside, we too are facing the increasing rule by bands of robbers. 

And it is not a pretty picture.

FYI: Claritas, a major mining area, is controlled by Tren de Aragua. Guasipati (not noted) and others are as well. The value of gold extraction in some mines, including Claritas, exceeds $1,000,000 per day.

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

Black Jaguar

Richard Barnes

“I wish I had been there” is a familiar lament for many. It certainly applies to me with regards to the incident which follows.

In the camp’s early days, my father would travel to Ciudad Bolivar to pick up the month’s payroll. This was long before the bridges which now span the Caroní River and the multiple lane highways which came years later, during my lifetime, in fact.

Back in the 40s, the trip was very long and also required him to spend the night under the open sky, something he did not mind and did not consider dangerous, even though he carried the camp’s month’s pay, in cash. He was never threatened with theft.

On one of those trips my father was rewarded with a sight he often recalled: a black jaguar.

My father had a copy of Fauna Descriptiva de Venezuela, by Dr. Eduardo Röhl, published in 1949. As a child I would avidly thumb through that edition, pausing here and there to read more carefully when the subject especially struck my fancy.

I have my father’s copy with me and regarding the black jaguar it says that it “lives in the jungles of the Orinoco, [and] is a case of melanism”, meaning a genetic issue which causes the skin to hide the spots to greater or lesser degrees and highlight the black color. In Venezuela the terms jaguar or tigre are interchangeable, but all agree that the black version is rarely seen.

This comports with the Wikipedia article which affirms that black jaguars have been sighted throughout Central and South America, but rarely.

On one particular trip, late at night, my father was driving the stretch from Ciudad Bolívar to Puerto Ordaz, the confluence of the Caroní and Orinoco rivers, grateful for a full moon by which he might see the outline of a tree under which he could spend the night.

However, the moonlight rewarded him with a more dramatic sight that night. The landscape was clear even though it was late at night. The brush and sandy loam had the grayish, yellowish hue so common to a full moon. And then he sensed something to his immediate left, outside the driver’s door and open window.

It was black and it was running like a gazelle parallel to the car on the left side of the road. It seemed as if the perfectly formed, graceful creature were racing the car. My father could see the light of the moon reflected off the jaguar’s shiny black coat. The sight was mesmerizing. He kept looking, while quickly glancing to the road, as it ran and ran and ran. And then it swerved to its left and disappeared in the thickets and brush.

My father slowed the car and looked through his open window hoping to see the animal one more time. But, of course, he did not.

The jaguar is a nomadic creature with no fixed pathways for his nocturnal journeys. Its prey ranges from the clumsy Chigüire to tree-based monkeys of all kinds. During Humboldt’s years of discovery, the jaguar was the greatest enemy of the river turtles in Venezuela, which, by the time I left the country in the 70s, were often seen but nothing close to the abundance described by the great explorer.

Mami

Richard Barnes

I was blessed with a happy childhood. Part of what enabled that blessing was having a mother and father who did not allow a complaining spirit in the home and who were astute enough to remind us of our blessings and daily provision, not least of which was food on our table every day.

I tended towards a bit of “shyness” but my parents did not allow me to shrink away from social events or gatherings; on the contrary, they pushed me into them, which sort of “forced” me to swim or sink. And I am grateful, because to this day gregariousness is not my strong suit; nevertheless, I remember my parents’ and now “force” myself, instead of relying on mother or father to do so.

Ada Barnes, née Rodriguez, was born September 30, 1930, in Upata, Estado Bolívar, in the interior regions of Venezuela. Her home was typical of the era and the region: a rustic, colonial type structure, meaning a front door and heavy wood casement window facing the dirt street. Beyond the door was a small rectangular receiving room. Farther on, an entryway led into an open hallway which led to the kitchen, and beyond it, a larger garden area with fruit trees, chickens, turtles, and pigs.

My mother’s earliest memory was of the men who would be hired to come and slaughter a pig for food. It was a very loud affair and she would run as far away as she could within the house, find a corner, and stop her ears. That memory stayed with her to the end.

She had formal schooling through the third or sixth grade (I heard both versions and was never able to confirm either), however, her grammar was impeccable and her handwriting, beautiful. After a secretarial course, she was hired by the Bethlehem Steel and worked in San Félix until she met and married my father who also worked at Bethlehem, known to all as he who “nos pagaba todas las semanas (he paid us every week)”, as an elderly friend recently wrote to me. But he was better known outside the company as a wonderful baseball player and manager who skippered his rag tag team into Double A championships. Mom was his biggest fan.

They moved to El Pao and our family grew to four children: two girls, Brenda and Elaine, and two boys, Ronny, the youngest of the four, and me, the firstborn.

In that time and era, our parents’ friends were also our friends. So, I remember with great fondness, Mr. and Mrs. Berán and Ninoska, and their patriarch, Mr. Axmacher, and matriarch, Mrs. Panchita. Also, the Belafonti’s and Jackson’s, Carmen Luisa, who was also my godmother (Madrina), Mario Pérez and his wife, Oladys, Paco, who ran the camp gasoline station, and also Sr. Medina, Dad’s mechanic, and Mercedes, his wife, and Mr. John Tuohy and his wife, Clara, and Mr. Giliberti and his wife, Lucila, and Charles Abaffy with whom my father had a hilarious, continual repartee, Mr. and Mrs. Ivanosky from Russia. Those are the names that come up immediately, and more and more also are making their way from my memory banks, but I must stop. The point is that all these folks were adults who, later in my life, were also my friends and advisors. My parents’ friends were my friends. Practically all are gone now. But my gratitude remains.

In 1978, I had planned a 3-week vacation to Venezuela. My plans were detailed and efficient — I had packed lots of experiences into that period of time. Or so I thought.

Then I shared my plans with my mother, who immediately thrust a list — a multi-page list — of names with telephone numbers into my hand. She insisted that I visit each and every one of the people on her list. 

“How can I fit these visits into my plans?!” I asked, with a bit of exasperation. 

“You must”, was the simple reply.

And I did. I visited every single family or person — with only ONE exception, and that was because the husband was ill and the wife was indisposed, or so they told me over the phone. Later, as I dutifully reported my obedience to her, when I came to the one couple whom I had failed to visit, my mother smiled, “Well, at least you called them. They cannot say they were ignored. And I am not surprised at their refusal. Life has many people like that, but you must not be like them.” 

So, she figured they’d tell me to hit the road and still she included them in her list! That’s my mother.

I must say, of all the trips or vacations in my life, including spots in exotic places of the earth, that 1978 trip, jam-packed with visits to friends and family, was among the most memorable because it was focused on people — men, women, and children who meant very much to my parents and to me.

Not too many young men can boast unapologetically that their mother planned their exotic vacation. I am proud to say that my mother planned mine on that occasion, and it turned out to be among the most memorable of all. And it was a lesson that has remained with me to this day: what endures are the personal relationships — friends, family, dear ones — more so than the spectacular sights or experiences. Life is short, too short. But we were created to live forever. In the Lord, friendships, family, brethren will live on. And we will see them again.

My mother widowed on October 9, 1982. She had no interest in remarrying and remained a widow until her own entrance into glory on September 6, 2023, 24 days shy of her 93rd birthday.

The last weeks of her life as she steadily weakened, the last thing to go was her mind. She remembered me immediately each time she saw me or upon hearing my voice. But not only me: it was the same with her other three children, and her grandchildren, and even her great-grandchildren. She was alert, even when appearing to be asleep. At times she’d exclaim, “Me duele el cuerpo“, or “¿Qué me pasa?“, or at the end of a prayer or the reading of Scripture, with great effort, she’d say, “Amén” or she’d be able to utter, “Dios te bendiga“. 

Such utterances became more difficult and infrequent.

Shortly before her passing, we received a visit from Carmen Herminia, one of our childhood friends whom we had not seen for over four decades. It is difficult for me to describe that joyful occasion, other than to say that it was impactful to my mother, who by that time could not speak. She had tears of joy as Carmen Herminia played voice mail messages from several ladies from the church in El Pao and as she heard them express their gratitude to my mother and to my father for their years of service there and their impact on their lives and their consistent reflection of love and devotion to the Triune God and the Christian faith. We sang hymns and prayed and Mami was content.

In addition to her husband, Charles, her parents, Julio Rodriguez and Eleana Pérez also preceded her in death. She is survived by her children, Richard M. Barnes (Lillian), Brenda E. Barnes, Elaine M. Childs (Christopher), and Ronald M. Barnes (Heather); 21 grandchildren; 15 great-grandchildren; many nieces, nephews, and extended family.

She is the last of the fathers, mothers, aunts, and uncles with whom we grew up. My sadness is deep, but so is my gratitude. She died midst her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. 

Thank you, Mom.

This is not Upata; however, structure on the far left offers an idea; my mother’s birthplace front facade was a single door and casement window in a space slightly wider than what is seen above just left of the utility pole.

This gives a clearer idea; however the above is far “nicer” and beautified for contemporary consumption.

From left: Aunt Sarah, Uncle Wichy, Father, Mother, Miami, Florida, circa 1956. Mom was the last surviving member of that generation in our family.

Mother and Father, September 25, 1957

A day where most but not all her children and grandchildren visited. She talked and smiled much.

Mom received children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. The photo does not reflect her gestures and smiles, but they were there. She was content.

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