Tag: Venezuela

Christmas Sorrows

Richard Barnes

“Hey, why are all the Christmas lights off?” I had said to no one in particular one night. My mother and father were out. So I dutifully began plugging all Christmas lights back into their respective power outlets, fully expecting hearty congratulations the next morning, for having had the self-initiative to have covered my parents’ gross oversight in not having switched on the season’s bright and lively bulbs.

Reactions, congratulatory or otherwise, would not have to wait till morning.

As I was plugging in an old, petrified Orinoco bough laced sparingly with small, white lights — a lovely, natural Christmas-embellished furnishing with a place of honor in the front, enclosed porch from where it could be enjoyed by anyone passing by on the lower side of the block — my parents drove up.

I was stunned, expressionless, as they rushed in, unplugging every light they came across. “The Christmas lights are on!” my mother anxiously exclaimed as she reached to the nearest socket and pulled the plug. My father was outside, pulling the plugs there.

What on earth? Christmas season in the camp extended well beyond the 25th of December. Festivities lived on at least through January 6th, Día de Reyes Magos (Epiphany), and in many cases beyond, especially in the labor camp.

I looked outside, through the porch screens, and noticed that neither of our immediate neighbors had a single light on. I suppressed the urge to run outside to see if any lights were on in the entire block. I rightly suspected that none were.

Standing there, in the middle of the passageway between the porch and living room, my father’s voice explained the matter, “Son, I realize you were thinking we somehow forgot to turn on these lights tonight, but did you forget that Mr. Fuentes died today?”

Of course I had not forgotten. Mr. Fuentes was a corpulent, true-to-stereotype jolly man who delighted in greeting children at the club and elsewhere in the camp. A Spaniard who had left Spain for greener pastures in Venezuela, he was well-liked. His wife possessed a sharp wit and hearty laughter, yet retained that lighthearted femininity so characteristic of Spanish women. They had one young daughter.

He had suffered a heart attack as he drove a company pickup to the Otro Campo (labor camp). The vehicle had gone over a small cliff of about fifty feet. Mr. G____ had been driving behind him and raised the alarm. But, according to the camp’s doctor, he had expired before the pickup had crunched to a stop at the bottom.

Afterwards, as the weeks and months went by, every time I accompanied my father or mother to the Otro Campo, as the automobile approached and passed by the spot where Mr. Fuentes had gone over, I would look, conscious that no one paused. Cars came and went by that spot as if nothing had ever happened there; as if he had been forgotten as quickly as he had died. Life is for the living, and must go on.

But there is a time for sorrow and the entire camp was in mourning that Christmastime; it was understood no festive lights would be switched on for at least two days, if not three. Grief was a shared passion there. I now felt I had violated that shared spirit of compassion and felt utterly miserable. My father pulled me to himself, “I know you meant well, son. We should have told you clearly why we left the lights off.”

That was his way of apologizing. And my love and respect for him increase all the more.

That year, the block without any lights shining those nights was sorrowfully dark indeed. The joy of Christmas outweighed the sorrow, but did not erase it totally. The season was joyous, yet serious. Like the profoundly evocative Wexford Carol, it bade all to consider well and bear in mind its eternal as well as temporal import — after all, the world has never been the same since that first Christmas. This juxtaposition of joy and quiet seriousness may have appeared contradictory to more sophisticated, technically oriented observers, but not to me as a boy.

Paradoxical perhaps, but not contradictory.

So, still being within the twelve days of Christmas, I again wish you all a Merry Christmas and also a most prosperous new year. We may not know what the year brings, but we certainly do know Him in Whom all things consist, including every single day of our lives.

Venezuelan nativity scenes tended to be elaborate and memorable.

Christmas, 1959

Richard Barnes

Yes, it’s my favorite season. You can blame my parents for that. They abused us by making every effort to ensure we children experienced the joy of Christmas every year we lived in El Pao. Did they not realize that those memories they took such pains to create would endure throughout all the years of our lives? For shame.

They also forced us to receive visits from my mother’s side of the family who, every Christmas, drove over an hour on the dirt/rock road (later, when the road was asphalted, it took 45 minutes or so) to our house in El Pao for Christmas dinner (something we’d reciprocate by visiting them, every year, on New Year’s Day). Ah, what visits! All the laughter and joy. How did we ever endure such mistreatment?

We even believed in Santa Claus! Yikes!

I recall rushing through our front screen door, which led to the screen-enclosed, spacious porch area, sparsely outfitted with a rattan lounge chair and small sofa to the left, and a tall wooden bookcase, built to order by Señor Montaño, the camp’s carpenter, to my right. These furnishings seemed, to me, to be permanently covered by what appeared to be clear plastic shower curtains to protect them from the mists and drizzle which would drift in through the screen windows during the rainy season. However, since Christmastime was not the rainy season, the diaphanous coverings were absent. But I’d see them anyway.

Then I’d hear the at once familiar diapason sounding forth from the living room, where the record player sat. The vinyl disc was a Christmas album by The Randolph Singers whose broad tessitura instantly announced the upcoming joyous season. It must be 1959, because we are only two children. To this day, whenever “The Boar’s Head Carol” or “The Wassail Song” or “Fum Fum Fum” is  performed on radio or stage or disc, I can’t help but to compare such to The Randolph Singers.

A few nights later, the camp would shine with a host of blinking white lights interlaced among the scores of steady, multi-colored bulbs entwined throughout overhangs, bushes, and large boughs, and stately trunks and throughout the vast coronas of the Araguaneys. The lights were so many that the camp seemed a mini-Times Square in the eye of the jungle, forever stamping in my memory an enduring association of lights with Christmas.

A most apt association indeed as Jesus Christ is the Light of the world.

The aguinalderos would soon begin their sporadic visits, going door to door, singing with good cheer and hilarious make-them-up-as-you-go carols. The aguinalderos were the Venezuelan version of 20th century descendants of the medieval jongleurs, or English and French minstrels. These men were adept at playing the “cuatro”, a four-string, mini-guitar, the tambour, a lightweight, slender, but sufficiently long and loud percussion instrument, maracas, and, often, the guiro, a conical instrument with washboard-like grooves across which the musician would rasp a small wooden board.

But these men were even more adept at making up songs with pointed, relevant lyrics, often detailing some physical characteristics of the house at which they sang, or quirks of its inhabitants, along with some historical anecdotes about them; but all tying back to Christmas somehow, and all at the spur of the moment. Those who knew Spanish, would laugh uproariously, fully understanding and marveling at the jokes, the light sarcasm, the sweetness, but most of all, the agility. Those homes with little or no Spanish knowledge enjoyed the lively music, but only for a little while because it quickly began to sound repetitious, which it was to those not understanding what was being said.

Another two memories which come immediately to mind at Christmas. 

Mrs. Bebita De La Torre had a beautiful and sweet singing voice. At Christmastime, events would be held at the camp club. One Christmas season night, it seemed the entire camp population fit into the main club hall and we stood around the hall about two lines deep and sang “Silent Night” in English and Spanish. I happened to have been placed right next to Mrs. Bebita. To me, her voice seemed to waft, to carry across the hall, even though it was not loud or overwhelming, and certainly not ostentatious. Towards the last verse, I just pretended to be singing, because I preferred to just hear her as she sang “Silent Night” next to me.

And then there’s “The Christmas Song”. The record player sits across the room from the tree under which many wrapped presents are placed and we children are being readied for bed. The silky soothing voice of Nat King Cole issues forth from the player and I know it is Christmas night.

https://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=the+randolph+singers&view=detail&mid=91822C3C81A5C580039B91822C3C81A5C580039B&FORM=VIRE
Should you like to hear one of The Randolph Singers Christmas albums

Should you like to take 6 minutes to see snippets of a family Christmas in 1958. You’ll see four generations here, including the pipe smoking great-grandmother. This is around the same time of the events in this post.
Should you like to bask in the late, great Nat King Cole’s voice singing “The Christmas Song”
Christmas 1961, the last Christmas in the “old house”.
Early Christmas season, circa 1964, in the “new house.”
Uncle Alfred and Cousin Janis, early Christmas season, 1960, Miami. Aunt Sarah in background.

Ikeya-Seki, 1965

Richard Barnes

I did not remember anyone talking about waking us up at, what? 2 A. M.? 4 A. M.? 

But there was my father, shaking me awake hours before dawn on a weekday morning. 

In my torpor I figured we were going fishing, but the little voice in the back insisted and persisted in affirming that today was a school day and it would be highly unlikely for him to encourage us to play hooky.

By the time I was on my feet, shuffling to the living room, I saw that my mother had already awakened my sisters, who, equally perplexed, waited for me in the living room. We were too sleepy to speak or even grumble. The house was silent.

Our parents led us through the long kitchen and someone drowsily asked whether the Flor de La Medianoche (Midnight Flower) was blooming that night. A most reasonable question, which would unlock tonight’s mystery.

However, there was a difference: trumpets usually (always?) preceded the Flor de La Medianoche spectacle. Throughout the day, the talk around the camp, among children as well as adults, would reflect the excited anticipation of getting up at midnight to witness the event. We’d go to bed knowing that we’d be awakened to go outside and gawk at this magnificent, aromatic flower which buds at midnight. Sometimes, at that hour, we’d receive visitors who did not cultivate it but who enjoyed its beauty and would come over to celebrate with us. Photos would be taken. Other families around the camp who cultivated the flower, would do likewise. 

The flower not only blooms at midnight, but it also begins to die almost immediately. As I recall, this was a biannual occurrence. 

But tonight was different. Too quiet, for one thing. No excited talk the previous day, for another. It was as if the adults had thought about engaging in whatever it was that we were about to do, but did not commit, given the nuttiness of the hour.

My father held the kitchen door open and we all, no longer shuffling, marched out to the carport as he ordered us to get in the car. In our pajamas? Really? 

Mother and father said nothing or very little or very quietly or I was too sleepy to capture any conversation. We three children (at the time) just sat in the back seat as we rode along the familiar camp road out, past the club grounds, and to the alcabala (security gate) whose guard dutifully opened for us.

I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I recall is coming to Rankin Hill, a residential section of the labor camp (otro campo) with a clearing at the edge, which afforded an expansive overlook. As my father sought a space to park, we saw many (many!) people, from both camps, gathered there. Through the windshield we beheld the most spectacular constellation of lights, with a brightness that surpassed the moon’s, and an apparent proximity which felt as if we could reach out, just beyond the hill, and grab a handful of stars.

We walked, hurriedly, to the clearing; everyone knew everyone and greetings were continuously exchanged, but always the gaze, the commentary, the wonderment was towards the spectacle displayed against the tropical night sky. The brightness was powerfully magnetic, like a consuming fire which doesn’t allow you to look away. 

“Ikeya-Seki”, someone said. What? “Ikeya-Seki!” And what in the world is an Ikeya-Seki? A new constellation appearing next to the earth?

It was a magnificent comet, discovered by Japanese scientists in 1965, just a month or so before it became visible to the naked eye as it swept within 500,000 miles of the sun. This was brighter than Halley’s. I had seen photos of Halley’s. I had read about Halley’s. Halley’s was a good friend of mine. And this was way more impressive than Halley’s. 

Ikeya-Seki was confirmed to have been the brightest comet of the 20th century; indeed, of the past one-thousand years. Some called it “The Great Comet”.

Scientists tell us it was 10 times brighter than the full moon. From a child’s perspective, it seemed like another sun, only broken into  countless, infinitesimal pieces, with a 75 million-mile long tail that looked like a curtain majestically splayed across a massive night stage. From Rankin Hill, the comet shot downwards, with a tail stretching up into limitless space. We looked almost straight up, as if standing at the foot of the Empire State Building and looking up to try to see the observatory deck. The tail seemed to “hang” down from infinity, and lowering our gaze to behold it horizontally, we could see its width extending across, and its length dropping behind the jungle horizon. To say it dominated the sky would be the understatement of the ages.

Ikeya-Seki continued to own the sky throughout the month of November, 1965.

Seems that someone from the labor camp had called our parents and encouraged them to come, and to bring us along, as the sight was one for a lifetime. 

And that it was.

I had never seen anything like it; nor have I since. 

It’s due to return in about 1,000 years. 

Photo taken in southern California in late October, 1965. This is not the view I had in southeastern Venezuela, but unfortunately I cannot find photos taken in the vicinity of my childhood. Maybe someone took a photo, but I’ve had no success thus far in 
tracking it down.
Midnight Flower
My sisters enjoying the Midnight Flower in our El Pao home, circa 1967

Thankfulness, Data, and Commentary

Richard Barnes

Thankfulness

From a column by Scott Johnson on his friend, the late Peter Collier:

“Peter reflected long and deeply on his days as a radical. My favorite of these reflections is his essay ‘Coming Home,’ in Second Thoughts: Former Radicals Look Back at the Sixties.

“In this essay Peter recalled the trip he took with this laconic father to South Dakota, where his father had been born, while his father was dying. During one long stretch of Nevada highway, his father announced: ‘You know, I’m glad I was born a South Dakotan and an American. I’m glad I saw the beginning of the twentieth century. I’m glad I lived through the Depression and the War. I think these things made me a stronger person. I’m glad I came to California, because I met your mother there. I’m glad we had you for a son.’

“Peter commented: ‘It was the longest speech I’d ever heard him make…It was a moment of acceptance and affirmation by someone whose life had often been disfigured by hard work and responsibility and for whom words had never come easily. What he said and how he said it was so different from the chic bitterness and facile nihilism of my radical friends that I was shaken. It was like hearing speech, real and authentic speech, for the first time in years.'”

I was drawn to Mr. Johnson’s column because I had recently thanked God for having been born in Venezuela, for my Venezuelan-citizen mother and American-citizen father, for having worked in Puerto Rico, where I met my wife, and for the children He had blessed us with. A spirit of thankfulness had stirred within me and I can only wish for that to occur more frequently.

Recently a dear aunt passed away in Venezuela. She was utterly selfless, having sacrificed to enable her grandson to emigrate to the United States, knowing she would never see him again on this earth. I am glad I knew her and that I knew her mother. And that such a people still pull me to imitate that which is good.

Data

Commentary

As a reminder, for the most part, this blog leaves current events and commentary to other mediums, which are plentiful. However, every once in a while, we will publish or report or link to a commentary or report on the current situation in Venezuela. The link below is one of a series penned by Christian K. Caruzo, born in Venezuela, and witness to its deterioration. 

https://www.breitbart.com/national-security/2019/10/13/my-socialist-hell-20-years-of-decay-in-venezuela/

Venezuela then and now

An Empire Named San Tomé

Richard Barnes

I am unable to track down the author of the below. It was an email which found its way to me. 

Having read it several times I can attest to his description of life in an American camp, in this case, a petroleum camp, Mene Grande, a Gulf Oil subsidiary. Refer to my prior post, “Memories of San Tomé” (November 2, 2019) for more detail. 

The email was written in Spanish by Vinicio Guerrero Méndez, whom I’ve done my best to track down, but with no success. Since his email was clearly sent as a “blast”, I am confident he would be pleased with my translating and sharing it here.

As you read, you will become aware of his subtle (or maybe not so subtle) narration which, in effect, builds a stupendous contrast with life in Venezuela today, where scarcity is the everyday experience of the majority, especially the poor.

Many are the souls alive in Venezuela (or in exile) today who recall better times.

Tuesday, 21 October, 2014. 

In 1930, long before I was born, Juan Vicente Gómez [for more on Gómez, see my July 22, 2019 post, “Apple Foot: A Road Trip to Mérida”] had paid off all foreign debt, as a posthumous homage to Simón Bolivar on the centenary of his death. But he cared not for the education of his people, he outlawed all opposition political parties, and he severely punished delinquency, while amassing a fortune of more than 155 million Bolivars.

When I was born in the hospital of San Tomé (a petroleum camp), General Marcos Pérez Jiménez governed the destinies of our country where he had established a political dictatorship, but his mandate was characterized by the growth of the petroleum industry via concessions to American [U.S.A.] companies, which opened the way for contractors, American and Venezuelan, which in turn abundantly increased resources and countless job placements to the residents of nearby villages, towns, and scattered populations. Great and grand public works were realized, and also corruption. He too left no foreign debt.  

The process of my birth cost three Reals (“tres reales”, about 30 Venezuelan cents) and this was discounted from my father’s pay up to six pay periods, with no interest. Medicines were available in abundance and were prescribed to us at no charge.

What’s so strange is that even former president Jaime Lusinchi worked there. [Dr. Lusinchi was president in the 1980’s. He was socialistic and Venezuela continued her descent during his tenure. Lusinchi knew better.]

The doctors were honorable and totally dedicated to their profession: men such as Dr. Tulio Briceño Mass who was my godfather and eventually became the Director of Dermatology at the Vargas Hospital in Caracas. 

As far back as I can remember, my father’s car ran on gasoline assigned by the company, even though my father was a laborer. His assigned car was changed for a new one every three years. Should any mechanical fault have arisen, he would take it to the “Motor Pull” [pool] for repair and while they worked on it, the company would assign him a used car replacement. Repairs rarely took a week, depending on the fault. We did not pay for fuel, which would be provided merely on the basis of my father’s signature. 

Also, included with his vehicle, was a complete toolbox of the brand “Snap-On”.

As far as living, the camp was divided into two sectors: North Camp and South Camp. In the South Camp lived technicians and laborers and in the North Camp lived the Americans and any Venezuelan with a professional degree or who, over time, acquired a responsible position. In other words “the chiefs”. 

In the South Camp, the living quarters were all the same. Of course, the North Camp’s quarters were more commodious and nicer-looking. But we did not lack any services such as gas, water, electricity, phone, etc. We either paid nothing for these, or, if we did pay, it was a token amount. 

The same applied to schooling: it was without cost, and so were the books and the transportation. My mother made our uniforms, or dusters, as we used to call them. 

We studied eight hours per day and we also took music classes so as to not forget our national hymn nor the Alma Llanera. We had religious conferences at least once per week and they invited us to mass on Sundays.

As for food, we were serviced by a large commissary which was well stocked with all the basics and more. I remember we would buy various brands of milk: Rosemary, Klim, and whatever other brand of the thousands stocked there. Without exaggeration, we’d sometimes exit the commissary with two full cartloads of goods. 

My father received a salary as well as regular bonuses and even an additional sum in January, called, if I remember correctly, “liquids”. This was a payment to help employees who might have overextended themselves during the Christmas season. With these “liquids” funds, my mother would take us to Curazao every other year or so to buy clothing made by the Empire.

We had excellent recreational and sporting sites all over, as in Medina Park, etc. 

In Carnival our celebrations gained the reputation of being the best in Venezuela and were known as The Black Gold Carnival. 

On Easter Week we all went to Mass and we rejoiced when father Arias would rebuke us. 

Christmas was a portent because the departments would strive to be the best when it was their turn to host mass that day. They gave away candy, “pastelitos,” firecrackers, fireworks, and innumerable gifts. There was always money for Santa Claus or the Child Jesus (by the way, I was 15 when I learned that both were my parents). 

And then, as if the above were not enough, on the 6th of January, the Magi made their appearance.

I asked for the moon in my letters to Child Jesus: whether pistols, or “chácaras” [noisy toys]. I could not begin to imagine how there were so many toys at such low prices in that toy store that was at the other side of the commissary.

My father was sent to Mexico for a training course, all expenses paid. He brought me a beautiful Longines watch as a souvenir. In these days, should I use the watch, they’d call me “El mocho.” [dude; dandy; not a compliment today].

When we’d visit the baseball stadium, Francisco Pinto, “Owl Face”, was the Sporting Section boss and neither teams nor uniforms were ever lacking when celebrations took place. Even Enzo Hernandez (may he rest in peace) hit a homer and I said, this guy is going to be a major leaguer [he played for the San Diego Padres in the 1970’s].

As you can see, it was very hard living with those American imperialists.

Note: If a resident of that era can add or correct something in the above, I would be grateful.

Mene Grande San Tomé Camp 
Mene Grande Commissary
Mene Grande Hospital
This plaque commemorates the beginnings of the Venezuela oil exploration in 1914, a century before Mr. Guererro’s email. The site of the above photo is on the coast of Lake Maracaibo and Mene Grande (Gulf Oil) also had massive investments there. It is now a scene of desolation.
Alma Llanera is one of the few “typical” songs or pieces of music that are known throughout the world. I heard it played in Saudi Arabia (Khobar). It is a landmark song, whose composition coincides with the beginnings of oil exploration in Venezuela: 1914. To begin to appreciate Venezuela, you might parcel out two minutes and see the video.