Childhood memories are notoriously deceptive. I had a friend who painted his childhood with broad, black strokes. Gothic does not come close to describing his lurid remembrances. Years later, talking with other members of his family or with his friends, I came to see his memory wasn’t totally fair. From all appearances and recollections of others who had no reason to misrepresent, his childhood was not so terrible.
On the other hand, I’ve known someone, a decent fellow, whose recollections are of wonderful, funny, and happy times of childhood. Yet, in that case, I know, for a fact, having lived nearby and in “real time”, that all was not well. But his remembrances were of broad rose strokes and I certainly would not attempt to convince him otherwise.
I cannot objectively say where I fall in that spectrum but my recollections are happy and when talking with my mother and parents’ friends, as well as perusing old correspondence, it appears my memory is not far off the mark. Anecdotes are for the most part confirmed or, when modified, never beyond recognition.
One of those reminiscences is of my father and the Venezuelan cachicamo.
As brief background: when my father was a young man, before he went to Venezuela, he was a member of a team of agents who worked for the United States army. In those days, the early 40s, part of their training was on the Harvey Firestone (founder of Firestone Tire and Rubber Company) property in Miami Beach, Florida. About a decade later, the Firestone estate would serve as construction headquarters during the building of the famous Fontainebleau Hotel until the estate was torn down to make way for the hotel’s famous gardens and pool.
Early in the mornings, his fellow agents would see my father go out on the water where he’d start tossing jelly fish out of the way to make room for a morning swim. Henceforth, they called him “Tarzan”.
A few years later he worked for the Bethlehem Steel Company in Venezuela, first in Palúa for a few years and then El Pao for the rest of his career at the company. While in Palúa my father would sometimes dive off the ore bridge into the Orinoco River below. This was an astonishing feat not only to his fellow employees but to the many locals who’d gather along the shore to watch him. His “Tarzan” nickname was well earned.
When I was about 8 or 9 years old, I recall a trip with my father to the American Consulate in Puerto La Cruz, on the north coast of the country. This was, for me, an exciting drive, usually overnight, including a ferry crossing over the Orinoco River, endless miles on the Venezuelan Llanos, dizzying heights on the mountain ranges hugging the spectacular coastline, and astonishing views of some of the most beautiful beaches in the world.
(Although Puerto La Cruz is in the state of Anzoátegui, it borders the state of Sucre and that is where many of my memories reside, principally due to that state’s magnificent beaches.)
About two hours after ferrying across the Orinoco, we saw a cachicamo scurrying across the highway. My father slammed on the brakes, pulled off the road, disembarked and ran after the critter. I remember a car whizzing past but not so fast that I could not discern its driver and passengers looking at my father, first in wonderment and then in howling laughter, which, of course, I could not hear.
He caught the creature and placed him in a box he had on the back seat floor. We continued on our journey. And heard loud scratching, which we at first assumed was that of the bored animal doodling the inside of the box. Then as a car passed us the driver blew his horn to catch our attention. As we looked over he signaled to our rear. We looked to find the cachicamo now against the back window scurrying back and forth. It had to have jumped up there only a second or two prior. We stopped, opened the door and shooed the beast out. We then inspected the damage his scratching had done. We had picked him up in the Llanos and kicked him out in the high mountains. Hope he did OK.
Back in El Pao, on another occasion, my father again jumped out of the car to catch another cachicamo. This time critter and human both slid, scratched, and rolled down a steep embankment at the foot of which my father grabbed the animal and carried it back up the jungle hill, slipping, sliding, falling, but not letting his prey escape.
The cachicamo, like the armadillo, has little hair and can weigh over 20 pounds and measure 5 feet long (see photo below). Whoever attempts to catch it must be very much aware of its long and devastating claws. (The Venezuela Cachicamo Gigante is another story altogether which will be for another day.) This large rodent eats ants, worms, larvae, and also meat. And, yes, folks eat it: they tell us it tastes like chicken, beef, rabbit, and pork. I’m not sure I understand how it can taste like all those meats, nor, at this remove, am I aiming to find out.
Mr. and Mrs. H, good friends of my parents had told my father that they would be happy to prepare any cachicamo he’d bring them. So he dutifully slaughtered the critter and took it up the hill to them and they made plans for dinner later that week.
For some reason I was up that night when my parents returned from their dinner at Mr. and Mrs. H’s home. As my father tossed his suit coat on the sofa, he said with a hint of exasperation, “Remind me to never again catch a cachicamo!” To which my mother replied, “Oh, sure. You’re a new man.”
The next morning I was regaled with the story.
As they drove up the hill to Mr. and Mrs. H’s home the night before, my father was in eager anticipation of the Venezuelan dish that the lady of the house was preparing from the game he had caught that week. They parked the car, walked up the front steps, and knocked. Mr. H exuberantly opened the door and, with great alacrity, ushered them in while endlessly chatting on how happy Mrs. H was in preparing and cooking that night’s pièce de résistance: Cachicamo on the Shell.
What Mr. H did not seem to notice was the stench that had greeted my progenitors when the front door had opened. “What is that smell?” they had both thought but could not ask out loud just then.
Mrs. H came out through the swinging kitchen door in high spirits and pulled them in to observe the final touches on that night’s cuisine. To their horror, they realized the fetid aroma originated from the cooking area.
But, again, they said nothing.
The stew of cachicamo, who by now was the object of silent maledictions from my mother, was placed, in all its glory, heaping hot, and in its shell, at the center of the table. And all were joyously served therefrom.
My father bravely ate his full dish. An act of courage and manliness which, after leaving, my mother rebuked: “If you knew that smell came from our main course, why on earth would you eat it so quickly and thereby give opportunity to be offered more?! Not even Tarzan eat so fast?”
“Oh, Charles! I can see you really like this! Here, have some more!” Mrs. H had exclaimed heartily and joyfully over my father’s courteous demurrals. But his “Oh, no thank you’s!” were too late: she slopped another heap of local color on his plate and he, having been taught since childhood to always eat what is served, dutifully and painfully ate the whole thing.
My parents’ theory, most reasonable, is that Mrs. H had neglected to have the shell properly boiled. Not to put too fine a point on this, the cachicamo being a rodent, the smell that greeted the visitors that night was that of a dead rat.
Many years have passed since that event. Even now, as I write this, I smile and even chuckle, holding the loud laughter in.
As a family, that became one of our favorite stories. I shared it with my youngest sons just three days ago as we drove to church. They too howled with laughter.
Thank you, father and mother, for a happy childhood.
