Puerto de Hierro – The Pull Of The Land

If It Belongs To All ….

February 9, 2025February 9, 2025 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

Bocón, Caribe, Anchor Chain

September 14, 2019September 14, 2019 Richard Barnes

Having caught only one fish, and after trying for hours and catching nothing else, the boy set his bamboo rod on the barge and climbed down the iron ladder to the third or fourth rung from the ground from which he jumped to the shore where he scrambled to the large saltines can holding the lonely fish.

His father had placed the large “Nabisco La Favorita” can beneath what seemed to the boy to be the largest anchor chain in the world. It was fastened to a giant anchor screwed to the hill just beyond the shore, from whence it held the barge from floating away into the Orinoco current.

The cans I recall were red, but the shape and branding were as above. My father would use a large hand forged iron nail to punch holes into the can to allow air to circulate and thus lengthen the life of the fishes used for bait.

The nail looked something like this, only it was larger (as recalled by me as a young child). The head was large enough for my mother or father to hit it with the palm or fist to open cans or punch holes

The chain was large enough to provide shade for the fish as well as for the boy, who now crouched beneath it, watching the fish swim to and fro or at times just remain stationary.

He recalled the occasion when he had caught a piranha and his father had placed it in a can all by itself. They had taken it home to show his mother. Seeing the fish refused to move, his father, who did indeed know better, stuck his finger in the water to move it a bit only to see blood. He quickly pulled out and saw that the cannibalistic fish, having moved faster than sound, had bitten off the tip of his finger. They all had had a good surprise followed by hearty laughter.

In Venezuela, Piranhas are called “Caribe(s)”, after the Caribe Indians who ravaged Venezuela at the time of Columbus. As usual, current “scholarship” tends to preface their cannibalism with “allegedly”. However, contemporary accounts leave no room for doubt. One reason no Mayan or Aztec-like civilizations are found in Venezuela was the unrelenting warfare of the savage Caribes. Their tortures included holding subjugated peoples and biting (yes, biting) them to death, while also slicing them with sharp shells. It is no secret why the Piranha is known as the Caribe in Venezuela.

Piranha (Caribe). Not a fish to take home to mother.

The fish in the can under the chain was a Bocón, a “big mouth.” These were in great abundance in the Orinoco but usually during a certain time of the year. Clearly this day was not during that certain time of year, else the can would have been teeming with the fish, not just one.

He crouched in the shadow of the chain and contemplated the Bocón as it balanced itself lazily near the center of the can; his father remained on the barge, patiently waiting for the big one.

The barge was big, rusty, and seemingly abandoned. At least it was “always” there when father and son went fishing in or about that spot. Halfway across the wide Orinoco a dredging vessel and crew did its work. In 1952 U.S. Steel Corporation undertook the dredging of the Orinoco to allow deep water shipping which would eliminate the need to transfer ore from river boats to ocean going vessels. Once the dredging was done a few years later, the Bethlehem Steel closed its ocean port, Puerto de Hierro, and shipped ore from its Orinoco port, Palúa, directly to its massive steel works in Sparrows Point, Maryland. Puerto de Hierro was transformed into a Venezuelan navy base.

For years, Bethlehem Steel, and others, paid tolls to U.S. Steel for using the dredged river channels as its ships came to load and returned to the United States, laden with ore. After expropriation, the maintenance and usage of the channels continued, but by 2005, maintenance had suffered and deep sea shipping had become more intermittent, usually limited to high water seasons.

Dredging the Orinoco River. This photo was taken in the year 2000. Maintenance had to be kept up, otherwise the mighty river would soon render the channels unseaworthy. By 2005, shipping was limited to high water seasons.

The boy felt someone pushing down on him below the shoulders. He looked to his right, towards the barge and fleetingly saw his father holding the fishing line, facing the river, away from the boy. Fleetingly, because what was pushing him down unremittingly was the giant chain. The river’s undulation was bringing the barge down and that action was lowering the chain onto the boy. He yelled, but by then was crushed so tightly that no sound escaped his mouth. Not even a whisper.

From the corner of his eye he saw the shadow of his father jump from the barge to the shore and rushing up behind him. He saw that shadow grab the chain and seek to lift it. Lift it. Lift it.

He lost consciousness.

He opened his eyes as his father carried him running up the steep cement steps that led from the river back up to the camp. Then he lost consciousness again only to awaken in the camp hospital with the doctor saying that he was going to be OK.

We returned to the river to pick up our stuff and then headed for home. My father explained that he had heard nothing until a guard standing atop the stairs yelled at him, “Oiga! Su hijo le necesita!” (Hey! Your son needs you!”). That’s when my father looked to the chain and saw me, seemingly being flattened. I did not hear anyone saying anything, but I might have been passing out by then.

What surprised my father was that, in a day when everybody knew everybody, he had never seen that guard before, nor did he ever see him again. Not even when he finally reached the top of the stairs. There was no one around. In addition, of course, no man could have raised that barge from the river either.

When my father grabbed that chain and sought to lift it, it just kept bearing down, down. But Someone made the river swell. And the water rose. And so did the chain. He told me that, once the chain lifted from my back, I just fell to the side, doubled over like a clam. He thought for sure my back was broken, which I’m glad it wasn’t. Else carrying me up the stairs, although perfectly understandable, would not have been a good idea!

God lifted the tide and preserved my back from breaking. He also sent an angel to minister. I believe that if my back had been broken, that “guard” would have told my father and he would have called for an ambulance instead.

“Take heed that ye despise not [look down on] one of these little ones; for I say unto you that in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my Father which is in heaven.”

That’s as good an explanation as any.

This is the closest I can find on the “Bocón” that we used to fish in great numbers in the Orinoco. When we fished from the shores of the Orinoco or from the barges, we’d mostly catch smaller sizes than seen in the image, and we used them for bait as well as taking them home for grilling or frying.

The port of Palúa. The events alluded to in the post occurred beyond the ore bridge in the photo’s background.

Arial view of the port. Note the ore bridge on the right.

The Orinoco River heading across from the company port. Sailors compared this river to the ocean.

Life in an American Camp

May 18, 2019May 18, 2019 Richard Barnes

In the initial euforia of concessions by the Venezuelan government to American oil and iron ore companies, was any thought given to where these companies’ employees, many of whom would come from countries other than Venezuela, would live?

As it turns out, President Marcos Pérez Jimenez had given it much thought and had requested such companies establish “open cities” wherever possible. Puerto Ordaz, the crown jewel of Ciudad Guayana, whose impetus was The US Steel Company, was one result of the open city policy.

El Pao, where I was born, was more of what most folks think of when they conjure up images of an “American Camp.”

Jimenez understood that not all camps could be open cities. El Pao was deep in the Venezuelan jungle, relatively shut off from potential commercial centers, such as a major river, highway, airport, railway, etc.

On the other hand, the future Puerto Ordaz was situated at the confluence of two major rivers, one of which is the mighty Orinoco, the third or fourth largest in the world, measured by average discharge, meaning the river’s flow rate. I had to look this up and, from a layman’s perspective, this is probably the best illustration: “The volume of an Olympic-size swimming pool is 2,500 cubic meters. So the flow rate at the mouth of the Amazon [the world’s largest] is sufficient to fill more than 83 such pools each second.”

The flow rate at the mouth of the Congo and the Orinoco (second and third largest rivers) would each fill 16 such pools per second.

By the way, of the 10 largest rivers in the world, 5 are in South America.

As for El Pao, this area was explored by the Spanish 5 centuries ago. The Indians told them about a mountain which, when struck by lightning, would give off bright flashes. The Spanish investigated for themselves and confirmed the tales. They named the mountain, El Florero, meaning, Flower Pot, since the flashes looked like flowers on the mountain peak.

Actually, the area was rich in orchids and also an abundance of “purguo”, a tree which yielded very high quality rubber. In fact, the era in which the ore was discovered, was known as “la fiebre del balatá” (the balatá fever). Balatá refers to a natural gum of high quality found in the purguo. Mr. Aturo Vera, whom, years later, my father would often contract to drive us to fishing spots on the Caroní River, explored that area with his own father in the 1920’s. On one such journey, father and son espied a splendid ore specimen and took it with them to their home near the Caroní.

Word spread quickly and a miner, Simón Piñero, accompanied by his boss, entrepreneur Eduardo Boccardo, also explored and contracted an engineer, Frank Paglucci, to stake a claim. Mr. Vera, seeing all the excitement, also staked his claim, and rightfully so.

The ore was analyzed by American laboratories, found to be of extraordinary quality, and the Bethlehem Steel Company assigned their geologist, Earl H. Nixon, to the site.

On June 3, 1944 (3 days before D Day) , The New York Times reported, “The Bethlehem Steel Corporation’s big Venezuelan iron ore development, first disclosed as a prospect a few weeks ago, is now under way. Twenty American engineers and technicians are in charge, with some 600 native Venezuelans, skilled and unskilled, at work on the big project.” This project represented capital investments of $50 million ($1 billion in today’s money) and more in Puerto de Hierro (Iron Port), their deep sea port on the Atlantic.

By July, 1950, the first train load of ore was transported from El Pao to Palúa, the company’s river port on the Orinoco for transshipment to Puerto de Hierro. And in 1951, the seaport yielded its first shipment to the United States. The March 23 New York Times headline read: “First Cargo of Venezuela Iron Ore Arrives for Bethlehem Steel Plant; Sparrows Point Pier in Maryland Is Scene of Significant Ceremony Marking Start of 3,000,000-Ton-a-Year Shipments.” The article’s lead sentence read, “Vessels laden with iron ore have docked here for decades, but special significance attached to the arrival of an ore boat this morning.”

We’ll speak more of life in an American camp in future posts. For now, I’ll end this post by quoting some recent comments by folks who, when children, lived in Puerto de Hierro. This will give an idea of life in an American camp in Venezuela and also the pull of the land.

“That is the place of enchantment and he who has lived or even visited it will remember it for all of life. And I had the fortune of having been born there. Those good years of the 1950’s, 60’s, 70’s, 80’s…. The best …?”

“My! All those wonderful people who worked there are beautiful I tell you! I salute that wonderful and dear place and people!”

“The best town and the most beautiful place in Venezuela; the only beach with a diving board in the ocean. I developed my life there along with my parents and siblings. Eternal memories and the best times of my childhood and my youth. My best friends of my life were from there.”

“My beautiful town. I can never forget you, although all is different now.”

“What wonderful memories of my childhood, of my parents, of my siblings, of my neighbors who once lived and those who still live. I embrace you all!”

“My beautiful town. Now, it is not even the shadow of what it once was. How much sadness it brings me to see the ruin that it is now!”

“My town! I was born there in 1961. How I long to go and run there again. My adored land. Venezuela, how much sadness you bring me now! My dear Lord!”

“I could not have asked for a better childhood.”

Neither could I.