Puerto Ordaz – The Pull Of The Land

Lizbeth and Cyril

July 19, 2021July 19, 2021 Richard Barnes

I am pausing the series on the Cuba – Venezuela nexus in order to pay my sincere and loving respects to two childhood friends who (after my family) are among the first memories to come to mind every time I think of El Pao or Venezuela. And I think of El Pao or Venezuela on a daily basis.

Elizabeth (Lizbeth) Beran was born on a Saturday in 1953, November 7, to be precise. I was born exactly 10 days after she. We often joked about that. Children in my generation sought to be adults as quickly as possible. So, for instance, I did not like to wear short pants, because those were children’s clothing; I fought long and hard to graduate to long pants and after I did I never looked back. So, to me, Lizbeth was 10 days ahead and I could never catch up, no matter how hard I tried!

She was kind to me and always courteous to my parents. Once, in class (5th grade?), the teacher asked us what would be the proper thing to do if we were at a dinner and found that we could not properly chew down a piece of meat. I proposed that the proper thing to do would be to surreptitiously wipe your mouth with a napkin, deposit the offending morsel therein, and later dispose of the napkin. After several equally imaginative solutions offered by my classmates, Lizbeth finally spoke up, “You should use your fork and take the piece out of your mouth and place it on your plate,” she offered. And, of course, she was right.

I was fond of penguins in those days; therefore, when the class worked on a paper mache project, I made a penguin and offered it for sale, “It is yours for Bs (Bolivars) 20! And, if you buy 2, you can have both for Bs 40!.” That was my pitch. She smiled. Later that evening, at the club, before that night’s movie, her father approached me, “Ricky, if you have a product for Bs 20, and you want people to buy 2, you should offer the two for something less than Bs 40.” She was too embarrassed for me to tell me to my face. So she told her father.

Cyril (Cirilito) Serrao was born in British Guyana 5 months after Lizbeth and I were born. His family then came to El Pao and we became close childhood friends. A very vivid El Pao memory, one of the first that comes to mind whenever I think of Venezuela, is my racing, along with several buddies, down “the hill” of the mining camp. The hill was steep enough to propel us to high speeds. It was one of our daily adventures for a while in our early childhood. On one occasion, I had come down the hill, exhilarated and happy, had set my bike aside, and then waited for my fellow cyclists to come on down. As I strained to see who might come next, I saw Cyril expertly taking the next to last turn, a left from “up-the-hill” down towards the mess hall where he would then have to take a right towards the club’s parking area. But as he flew towards the mess hall, his countenance took on a look of horror (his brakes had failed) and he realized he would not be able to turn right. He let out a loud, guttural yell as he opened his eyes as wide has I’d ever seen them. Sure enough, he missed the turn and catapulted into the 4 foot deep ravine. We ran to him, fully expecting him to be dead. But no, he was OK and was bravely extricating himself from the wreck, saying, “I’m OK. I’m OK.”

His family moved to Bethlehem, PA, in 1962 and he and at least one of his brothers deeply missed El Pao for many years afterwards. His brother was the little boy I told about in my June 29, 2019 post, Gone Fishing. He had “run away from home”, telling a baffled policeman that he wanted to be taken to El Pao. We stayed in touch for many years, including my visits to Bethlehem and Los Angeles, where he lived for a while. He always sought to help me with my Uncle’s case and was one of the first to call me upon the death of my father in 1982. Once, when we had sought to look into some leads on my Uncle’s death, he said we should be called The Hardy Boys.

Lizbeth and Cyril have been the source of good memories and are reminders of the importance of decent childhood friends. I thank the Good Lord for having known them.

Lizbeth passed away yesterday. Cyril passed away in May this year, but I only learned about it a few days ago.

I miss them dearly.

Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God Who gave it.

Lizbeth at one our birthday parties in El Pao, circa 1958.

Lizbeth to my left, as I spoke with Mr. Beran in Puerto Ordaz, Venezuela, 1978.

Cyril at an El Pao birthday party, circa 1959.

Cyril (left) with his brother Gregory (center) and me years later, when we were more mature.

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….

Why Such High Crime Rates in Venezuela? Addendum.

July 1, 2020July 1, 2020 Richard Barnes

The image below gives us an idea of the massive migrations from Venezuela:

Unlike other parts of the world, Venezuelan migrants are usually family units or women with young children, as opposed to young men traveling on their own or in groups as has been seen in other recent mass migrations from other parts of the world. This is significant but is not the focus of today’s post, which is an update to comments posted recently (here).

When asked, many refugees cite the economic reality gripping the country, but in the same breath they also cite “crime” as a major concern to them and their families.

Of the top ten most dangerous cities in the world, based on murder rates, five are located in Mexico, and those rates are principally due to the drug wars. Of the remaining five, three are in Venezuela, and two in Brazil. Only one capital city has the dubious distinction of being on the list: Caracas, Venezuela, earns the bronze at third place.

The other two Venezuelan cities in the top ten are Ciudad Bolivar and Ciudad Guayana, both of which readers will recognize as I’ve mentioned each frequently in these posts. My father used to pick up the company payroll in Ciudad Bolivar and sleep under the stars on the long drive back in the 1940’s. Ciudad Guayana is the new metropolis composed of the old town of San Félix and the U.S. Steel mining town of Puerto Ordaz. By the time I left the land of my birth, Ciudad Guayana was a 40 to 50 minute drive and Ciudad Bolivar, about 2 hours from home.

In 1978, during a 3-week visit there, I had the doubtful honor to be present in Ciudad Guayana when it witnessed a shoot out worthy of Hollywood’s Gunfight at the OK Corral. A gang of armed thieves cased, broke in, and robbed a major jewelry shop while holding the owners and customers hostage. As they exited the store, they were met with a hail of bullets from the National Guard. Two slipped back into the store, tended their wounds, and discussed their escape. One ran out the back and was stopped cold in a volley of gunshots. The other ran out the front and he too was met by a broadside but somehow managed to crawl and limp into another store. Then he came out firing away, à la Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, before being cut down for good.

But most crimes do not end so spectacularly as they devastate homes and businesses, leaving a wake of innocents of all ages and sexes dead or physically and/or mentally maimed for life.

Venezuela has been struggling with violent crime for more than a generation but it is now experiencing widespread crime not seen since the devastations of the Caribs (if you don’t count the massive bloodletting during its early 19th century revolutions). We should not be surprised that Venezuela, a 20th-century immigration magnet for much of the world, is now a massive source of emigration whose numbers in the 21st-century have exceeded 4 Million, over 10% of its population. Just to give an idea of the scale, comparable number in the United States would be over 30 Million.

Those who point to Socialism as the cause of this desolation and havoc will get no argument from me. I would only suggest that the elephant in the room is not Socialism — everyone can see Socialism and its history of failure and death. What few see or are willing to acknowledge is the wreckage of the home in Venezuela (here).

And, going a bit deeper, seeing that the home is a divine institution established by the Triune God, that elephant also points the need for a return to Christianity.

Not only in Venezuela.

The Venezuelan refugee crisis is the largest ever recorded in the Americas. Sadly, there is precious little reporting thereon in the United States media.

Ciudad Bolivar, on the Orinoco River, the 10th most dangerous city in the world.

Ciudad Guayana, the world’s 7th most dangerous city, on the Caroní River (background) near its confluence with the Orinoco River (not pictured).

Caracas, one of the most beautifully situated cities in the world and the third most dangerous. The only capital city in the top ten.

The Elephant in the Room: the need for healthy homes and families

https://www.worldatlas.com/articles/the-most-dangerous-cities-in-the-world.html

Alas! Alas! Puerto Ordaz!

January 20, 2020January 20, 2020 Richard Barnes

The following is a post by Rafael Marrón González which is making the rounds in Venezuela. For a refresher on Puerto Ordaz (sometimes incorrectly referred to as Ciudad Guayana) refer to posts, Life in an American Camp and Mining II and Guayana: The Reverse Miracle.

I came to Puerto Ordaz in December, 1963, and here I stayed.

I have witnessed the rise and the fall of one of the greatest cities of Venezuela. In the era when I arrived, Puerto Ordaz was beginning to “see the world” and, in its intimacy, due to it’s noble call to lead the development of great swathes of the country, it generated the 20th century’s last harmonious, multi-racial community on the planet.

I saw, day after day, the wonder of its architectural growth, both commercial and industrial. In her bosom, arose the most significant and complex metallurgical industry of Latin America. In those days, to go to America from Europe was to board a ship or plane to Puerto Ordaz to seek one’s fortune. She was sort of a modern Babel, that wonderful Puerto Ordaz, composed of an adolescent population that persists in the memories of those of us who populated its streets with the dizzying dynamic of youth. How it hurts to see her today, prematurely aged, poorly bathed, and worstly dressed, with her depressed facades and her sidewalks burst through by unpruned trees with abandoned coronas infested with guatepajarito [parasitic bush: untranslatable].

Walking about the lonely streets, empty joints, closed malls, centers, and streets abandoned for fear as soon as the sun begins to set, I do not recognize that city that never used to sleep but rather led a loud and long night until sunrise. Her best views have been invaded by the misery severely imposed by demagogic powers. A city now disrespected in her privileged spaces. There is no limit to the degradation of her expected end. Chaos is her daily bread.

Begging for food is now ubiquitous and neighbors on street corners despair for any transportation. Ignorance imposes preferences of poor taste; long held cultural practices now abandoned; ancient crafts are gone; and foolishness is now dressed up, crowned with titles on the anemic social pages. The cretinism of the newly (and suspiciously) rich, is heard by their loud applause at trashy performances, as they demand another grilled meat with cassava in the flea market of gastronomic decadence.

Her once florid freeway gardens have withered and a swarm of bars shout out the uncertainty that life has now become. A city that in her day, not so long ago, gathered the best in thought and technical expertise, both national and international, now displays its toothless ruins in Matanzas [the site of the city’s teeming, massive industrial works], its enthusiasm now overwhelmed, shut down, and known by the flapping of bats’ wings in its giant industrial sheds.

The ancient stacks that once announced prosperity, today herald diseases of the skin and lungs. Their toxic excretions poison the waters of the Orinoco. Children are born with aluminum inside their skulls; neurological effects camp nearby.

Her basic enterprises, Venezuela’s pride, undulate — like a canoe in rough waters — between the impact of intermittently paid salaries, technological obsolescence, and dashed productivity. Her laboring class now become engrossed in parasitic sadness in the service of an empowered ignominy which has emptied it of any conscience. Her history hides that tab that once she ostentatiously paid for suits and parties but now cowers with the embarrassment of being a have been. A swarm of damnable, protected thieves imposes sentences against dignity and permeates what’s left of the night life with their nauseating presence, while those who labor and have labored for lifetimes, stand aside.

I am not sure if I have succeeded in manifesting my indignation.

What intolerable infamy! What ugliness! What filth! Dirt, grime, and grease are now the identity cards of “equality.” Mold is now the strident patina of false brotherhood.

Alas! Alas! Puerto Ordaz! Now a mere gibberish of yellow pages and abandonment. A site of processions of thugs and murderers; of rude and gross speculators and carpetbaggers all looking for quick and easy money, of misery rooted in deplorable suburbs. A city of late awakening and shortened evenings. Of crime imposed for any posible error of interpretation. Of dead traffic lights, announcing at top volume the irresponsibility of brutish governors who accuse those who challenge them for their strident ineptitude. Like the underworld, they cannot be called out. There is no real authority. Only a payroll that demands paid vacations.

Alas! Alas! Puerto Ordaz!

I have lived 53 years in her and refuse to exile myself. But when I drive its desolate streets, as I pass each corner or enter a long forgotten passageway, I oft recall the intensity of it’s snatched life. She did not deserve this assault of inmoral and inept rulers. This violent aggression of barbarians and savages in taxis, motorcycles, and trucks, all dubiously acquired.

How much they hated a city that was on its way to being another Germany! Now reduced to a solitary shack, run over by caretakers focused on the furious selling and transportation of gems on gondolas carrying riches from the proud north of Brazil. Not only isolated, but dependent!

Alas! Alas! Puerto Ordaz!

One of the bridges crossing the Caroní River from San Félix (foreground) to Puerto Ordaz (background)

One of the many commercial/residential centers that began to dot Puerto Ordaz in the 1970’s and beyond.

Puerto Ordaz is in background, across the Caroní River, the “blueish”, darker color waters. San Félix is in the foreground, with Palúa, the Bethlehem Steel port, ships awaiting loading, in center of photo. The Orinoco is the “muddy” colored river. It runs about 200 miles from here to the Atlantic Ocean.

Through the early 1960’s, the Caroni was crossed to Puerto Ordaz via ferry. Photo shows Caroni River crossing from San Félix to the Puerto Ordaz site. Puerto Ordaz was, in effect, founded by the US Steel Corporation in 1952 for shipping ore from it’s operations in Cerro Bolivar to the United States. San Félix was founded in 1724. Both were “united” in 1961 to form Ciudad Guayana.

Puerto Ordaz began to rise in the 1960’s.

The owners of the jewelry store (with Omega signage) were very kind to us.

I do not know who this is. But I include the photo as an example of the type housing that US Steel built in the Puerto Ordaz area. Similar to 1950’s United States suburbs. Above photo is from the mid-1960’s.

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.