Tag: Venezuela

About That Rescue

Richard Barnes

The Argentina embassy saga began months before the July, 2024 Venezuela elections. In a nutshell, the Venezuela state regime, headed by Nicolás Maduro, well aware of its deep unpopularity with the Venezuelan people, began arrests and disappearances, and issued arrest warrants against the key players of the united opposition who in turn sought asylum in the embassy. 

Arrests began with a frenzy, including Dignora Hernández, 56-year-old political secretary of an opposition party, violently taken from her home as she cried for help and roughly pushed by goons into a state vehicle. This was caught on video surreptitiously and went viral. She is still detained, 413 days later.

Six remaining opposition leaders sought asylum from Argentina, which was granted the same day as the aforementioned arrest, in March, 2024. From that embassy, surrounded by Venezuelan military and intelligence forces, which at times would cut off water and power and even food, these six were still able, not only to mobilize millions to vote in July, but also to get election monitors to access official vote tallies which demonstrated a landslide victory for the opposition.

Therefore, when the regime announced its “victory”, the evidence loudly belied it and various countries found themselves obligated to not recognize the regime or to “pretty please” ask them to publish the actual tallies. Such polite requests still await replies.

Massive multitudes protested after the farce of an election, but the state’s response was brutal. And effective. The opposition candidate, Edmundo González, fled to Spain, having been granted safe passage, loudly and with state-approved photos.

Parenthetically, it is important to remember that the opposition candidate was Corina Machado originally. However, the state declared her too popular inelegible and struck her off the ballot; she therefore convinced the 75-year-old González to run instead.

The months slipped by; the Venezuelan state broke diplomatic relations with Argentina whose personnel evacuated; Brazil “took charge” of the embassy, whatever that means; and the asylum seekers remained.

In December (2024), one of the six, Fernando Martínez, agreed to evacuate; eventually leaving the embassy in a Swiss diplomatic automobile. He died two months later.

Yesterday, after 412 days of captivity, the world learned that the remaining 5, along with Ms Machado’s infirm mother, had been “extracted” from Venezuela, ending the ordeal for them, but not for the stricken land.

As usual, the folks on the ground, in this case, local (Venezuela), independent sources, are perhaps more accurate, although we cannot be sure until more details are made available.

With that caveat, what we are hearing is that this was a USA operation, which took place while Maduro was in Moscow where he received a call at 3 AM, Moscow time. The message was, “Estados Unidos liberó a todos los que estaban en la embajada argentina. [The United States has freed all who were in the Argentina embassy].”

If that report is accurate, it certainly was not happy news for the strongman who is now no doubt intent on finding out who betrayed him. There will be scapegoats for sure and it won’t be pretty.

Few details are known, other than what a local said, “Fue de película [It was an action movie — rough translation].”

A word of caution, however. The apparatchiks are insisting that this was a negotiated release long in the works. Although I tend to discount such pronouncements, I am intrigued as to how such an operation could have taken place in the heart of Caracas, next to other embassies, including the Russian, and surrounded by Venezuelan security.

On the other hand, when Mr. González left the country for Spain, the state made it a great propaganda coup. Why not this “negotiated” action? 

Could it have been an “extraction” over time — one per week or day?

I hope I am wrong, but I believe this event caught the state by surprise, during the absence of the “duly elected president”, no less. If I am correct, then we will see retaliations which will make those which followed last July’s elections seem like child play.

So, again, I do hope I am wrong.

Meanwhile, Ms Machado, although very happy for the successful extraction, is still in hiding in Venezuela. 

And inflation is in triple digits.

Pray for Venezuela.

Edmundo González, photo published in local media upon his having been granted safe passage to Spain where he sought asylum in September, 2024. This event was widely published by the state.

The five hostages: Magalli Meda, Claudia Macero, Pedro Urruchurtu, Humberto Villalobos, and Omar González

The original six. Fernando Martínez, bottom row, center, evacuated the embassy in December and died two months later.

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.

Vivian

Richard Barnes

During the early part of the 20th Century, our grandparents succeeded in keeping our family “close”, despite the greater part of the family being in Massachussets and another part being 1,600 miles away in Cuba. Many years later, I remember having our parents’ cousins visiting us in Miami or we visiting them in Stockbridge, and, later in life, visits in Georgia. At the time I did not think anything of it — taking it for granted.

Our generation — our parents’ children — also stayed close to one another. Annual visits to Miami were taken for granted — at least by me. And as the years went by we stayed close for the most part. I cannot speak for others but as for me my cousins were my brothers and sisters. Year after year we visited, lived in one another’s houses, fought, or simply rejoiced in happy company. 

When death visited us, we took it hard. But not one of us was surprised by that reaction. We grew up in a time when saying “I love you” to siblings or cousins wasn’t “a thing”. But we knew we loved one another; later in life, we actually did begin saying so.

My last conversation with cousin Vivian was one such time. On the phone, 1,500 miles away, I told her that I loved her and she, with what very little strength she had left, said the same.

Vivian’s speech was low key and soothing. She came across as perennially unperturbed, because she always knew and trusted in the Lord that all would turn out well, no matter what the crisis.

In supreme pain, during my mother’s final illness, Vivian visited her if not daily, certainly multiple times a week. Her focus was on Mami, not her own debilitating and painful cancer.

She finally succumbed to that cancer on February 22, 2025, age 69; just one day shy of her and her husband, Rick’s, 50th wedding anniversary. Although we knew the day was close, death is still a slap in the face. 

And will continue to be so until that Day of the “manifestation of the sons of God”, as St. Paul puts it, referring to the Day of Resurrection; a Day Vivian believed in with all her heart, having known her Lord and trusting in Him, to the very end.

Vivian had two siblings: Cousin Louis (Papito) who passed away in December, 2022, and Cousin Janis. Janis and her loving husband Pete are both battling cancer and I earnestly pray and hope their treatments are fully successful. 

In December, 1972, the family met in Miami, Florida, to participate in and celebrate the wedding of Cousin Sarita, Uncle Max and Tía Carmencita’s eldest daughter. We took a photo on that occasion and 34 years later, at a family reunion, we saw that most of us were still here. That is no longer the case, unfortunately.

At Vivian’s burial, and the meal afterwards, two members of the “next” generation spoke about arranging periodic family reunions. I told them I was all for it, but they would have to take the lead on that. My generation — this is my personal opinion — did not do as good a job as our grandparents and parents in keeping the family close. I know I did not and I regret it. Maybe these two young ladies will pick up the slack that we’ve left them.

I hope they do.

Rest in peace, dear Cousin Vivian.

Photo taken the day before Papito’s memorial service, February, 2023.  From left to right: Janis, Pete, Vivian, and myself.

September, 2023, shortly before my mother’s passing. Vivan is to the right: standing, solid peach blouse

December, 1972. Thirteen (13) are now gone. But we trust to see them again.

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

Doña Tura

Richard Barnes

Doña Tura’s Spanish vocabulary and grammar tutelage over me was not very long, if memory serves: one school year, maybe two, max.

However, her impact was lifelong. 

She lived in the “otro campo” — the labor camp. Her house served as a school for younger children. She had one or two assistants, probably relatives, who helped keep tabs on the young and restless, or, in my case, hyperactive scholars. We may have been restless, however, we also knew that to irritate or otherwise provoke Doña Tura with our inability to sit still for at least a while, would likely result in a stern warning, loud enough to turn us into innocent pussycats.

In one of the classes, I sat next to white curtains which separated two rooms, similar to the flimsy drapes which separate business from economy class in some airplanes. In my infantile and energetic curiosity, I wondered if I could twist those curtains together and began doing so. The more I turned the cloth, the tighter it got and began to take the form of a nice torsion or spiral. Pretty neat, I thought.

Next thing, I heard a deafening voice, seemingly right in my ear, demanding I cease and desist — “¡Deja esa cortina!” I released the object of my curiosity and swung around so fast that the room spun, as the curtains unraveled back to the state intended by Doña Tura.

My age at the time of attendance at her school, was likely 6 or 7. She drilled us with vocabulary and grammar and penmanship. I was too young to question why my parents would take me there when I was already attending school at the Campamento Americano, and while my mother also drilled me at home.

Of course, years later, my parents’ actions became clear to me. The only other Spanish grammar and vocabulary instruction I ever received was by a teacher who came to our camp when I was eleven. He succeeded in tutoring us in the accent and other, more advanced grammar rules. Both his and Doña Tura’s training were instilled in me for life. 

However, had I not had the privilege of Doña Tura’s early guidance, I doubt that the teacher who came later would have made any progress whatsoever with me.

In Gentle Regrets, Roger Scruton wrote, “The purpose of the school was not to flatter the pupils but to rescue the curriculum, by pouring it into heads that might pass it on.” Even as children, we understood that, if only intuitively. We understood there is a real distinction between knowledge and opinion; Doña Tura taught us accordingly. We knew she was doing more than merely “drilling”; she was imparting knowledge unto us, knowledge we would use the rest of our lives.

So, for instance, when she drilled the Spanish alphabet into us … “Aa, Bb, Cc, CHch … Nn, Ññ … ” she did so knowing she was teaching us the basic facts of the beautiful Spanish language. And she hoped — she had faith — that we would use that knowledge and, over a lifetime, gain wisdom.

We may have failed her in that “wisdom” part; if so, that was not her fault, but ours.

I believe the last time I saw Doña Tura was during my three week visit in 1978 — however, it might have been during an earlier visit; I am not entirely sure. What I am sure about is that she still lived in the Otro Campo but in a different section. Of course, she had aged, but was still very energetic. Her hospitality was impeccable and as we sat across from each other, during a quiet moment, I thanked her for having been my teacher. I’m not sure she remembered — she seemed to hesitate, but then replied simply, “Oh, de nada.” 

That is a common reply to a “Thank you” — “For nothing”.

Only it was certainly not for nothing. And now, many years after her departure from this earth, I again say, “Gracias, Doña Tura”. 

Aerial view of the “Otro Campo” (the labor camp) where Doña Tura lived and where she taught me. Unfortunately, I could not find any photos of her.