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OVER THE VENEZUELAN ANDES
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Editor's
Note: This is the second in a series of articles by Mr.
Layton relating his experiences in Venezuela. The first
appeared in the December, 1940 issue.
During my stay in Venezuela it was my good fortune
to visit the Andean mountain country. For company I had a
Venezuelan-Englishman educated in the U. S., Albert Carstens,
whose knowledge of the language and customs contributed
largely to the success of the trip.
Leaving Maracaibo just before noon by amphibian
plane, we flew almost directly south and in a little less
than two hours landed at a little airport in a mountain
valley some 25 miles from the city of San Cristobal. A car
was waiting to take us into town, and after an overnight
stop there we traveled roughly northeast over the
Trans-Andean Highway for two days by station-wagon and bus
to Mototan, making overnight stops at Mérida and Valera en
route. A modern gasoline-propelled rail car at Mototan
carried us to the lake port of La Ceiba where we caught a
diesel passenger boat to Maracaibo.
The Andean mountain country is entirely different
from the low, hot, humid territory bordering Lake Maracaibo.
The climate is invigorating, the cities and towns are clean
and attractive; even the people are much different.
Averaging lighter in color than the lake-country peons, they
are mainly Indian and Spanish-Indian. Their craftsmanship is
apparent in the attractive wrought iron balconies and ornate
doors of the houses, the hand-made furniture displayed in
the shops, and the saddleries with their nicely done
leatherwork. They are much more courteous and helpful toward
foreigners and do not seem to resent their presence as is
the case in other localities.
Lacking accurate information, I judge the elevations
of San Cristobal and Mérida at about 5000 feet. Both
attractive cities, they are ringed with mountains which are
obscured by clouds morning and evening. In December the
weather was pleasantly warm during the day, but a coat was
required after sundown.
Most of the hotels along the route of the
Trans-Andean Highway were built some twenty years ago, soon
after the highway was completed. Although travel has
increased tremendously, hotel accommodations have not been
expanded, and consequently rooms are hard to locate. In San
Cristobal we put up at a rather obscure, side-street
hostelry which was
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typical of the smaller places. With its
front wall against the sidewalk, the front door led through
a hallway to the large central patio, the middle of which
was open to the sky, and which served as lobby, dining hall,
and what-have-you.
The guests' sleeping rooms occupied
the four patio walls. with kitchen and living quarters for
the staff further back. Our sleeping room was some ten feet
wide by fifteen feet deep with a fourteen-foot ceiling. The
ten-foot-high narrow doorway, equipped with the usual double
doors, opened on the patio, as did the single window.
Furniture consisted of two steel single cots with thin
mattresses, a dresser, a tiny crackedmirror, porcelain
washbowl and pitcher set, and a thunder-mug.
The single 20-watt electric lamp
high in the air was usable only at night, since the power
lines in these mountain towns are energized only during the
evening and early morning.
VENEZUELAN PLUMBING
With no plumbing in the individual
rooms, there were four modern lavatory fixtures at various
points on the inner wall of the patio, so that while we were
eating breakfast next morning, other guests were washing and
shaving virtually in the "dining room '. A single toilet and
bath room was available for all the guests. About 10 X l5
feet, it was floored with glazed tile and equipped with
lavatory, shower and modern flush toilet. The typically
Venezuelan toilet paper disposal system was included, which
consists of a box or paper carton on the floor beside the
“growler” into which the used toilet paper is dropped. This
system had its origin in the older days when the sewer
piping as first installed was much too small and would clog
with paper. Since its replacement with new and larger
piping, signs have been posted in most of the hotels
requesting that toilet paper be thrown into the hoppers, but
the force of years of habit is apparently too strong, and
the box is always well occupied. Or, in the event that no
box is provided, they throw it on the floor.
The food served to us at San
Cristobal, although typically Venezuelan, was better than
the average obtained during the remainder of the trip.
Dinner consisted of soup, sliced tomato
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Right: The author in front of San
Cristobal's uncomplet-ed catherdral.
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Left: Typical Andean farm-ing area on steep
alluvial slope.
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salad, fried chicken, a green vegetable. the ever-present
boiled white rice, white bread and butter, fresh milk or
coffee, and some sort of pudding which I didn't eat. The
butter, as was the case throughout the mountain region, was
unsalted, but could hardly he termed “sweet” since if not
entirely rancid, it was fairly ripe. The tomatoes were
bright red, as they should be, and with good flavor. Because
the native tomatoes served frequently at the company mess
halls in the oil fields were never red, but only green to
pink, I showed such pleasure at the sight ofthe bright red
fruit that the proprietress shortly showed up with a whole
platterful. We really put them away. NO
GUARD RAILS ON ROAD
The highway between San Cristobal and Mérida was an
almost continuous series of switchbacks. We zigged up one
side of a mountain range and zagged down the other; followed
a stream along a valley floor for a short distance; then
repeated the climb and descent. The road was dirt or gravel,
hard, and surprisingly smooth, and we frequently passed
maintenance crews at work. We even saw a tractor or two
pulling road machines. Over most of the route two cars can
pass easily, but there are many narrow places and the many
sharp turns must he taken slowly and carefully. There are no
guard rails nor road signs of any kind, unless the
occasional roadside crosses are interpreted as warning
signs.
Whenever a person dies by violence in Venezuela, it
is customary to erect at least a cross and frequently a tiny
shrine at the site of the tragedy; and this tradition
applies to automobile accidents as well as to knifings, etc.
Occasionally our driver would call our attention to a cross
at the edge of the road where it skirted a cliff with the
remark, “Juan went over there with a bus last month,”
or some similar observance calculated to set our minds at
ease.
Our driver was apparently entirely capable - at
least he got us to Mérida. He should have been, since he
drove a regular run between San Cristobal and Caracas, a
four-day trip each way. But it was at least a couple of
hours after we started before I was able to relax, since my
impression was that he was taking all the hairpin bends,
uphill or down, at a speed just barely short of the sliding
point. In addition, he had never been told of the advantage
in using second or low on down grades - all he used was
brakes. So about every 50 miles we pulled up for a brake
adjustment job, generally at a farmhouse or tiny village
where we all drank coffee while waiting. Except at the
ancient walled Spanish fortress town of La Grita, where he
decided on a more or less complete brake overhaul. When we
saw him taking off wheels and drums. we found a little hotel
and had lunch. This conveyance, a '38 or '39 Dodge station
wagon, had two horns. the original equipment electric
device and one of the inevitable rubber bulb contraptions.
Since
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the electric horn was out of order during the first part of
the day's run it was necessary to keep pumping the “hooter,”
which made driving largely a one-hand affair. However, we
never quite hit anyone on the turns. Arriving in
Mérida about 7:30 p.m., after thirteen hours on the road, we
found both the "better" hotels full, but finally located
accommodations in an obscure pension which offered a single
room with four steel cots. Since there were four passengers,
consisting of a minor government official, a stray American
steel salesman, my partner and myself, and it was the last
room, we all shared it. Not until we had been asleep for a
short while did we discover that the beds were populated and
the remainder of the night was anything but pleasant. The
Venezuelan official, however, didn't seem to mind - he
probably knew in advance what to expect.
The city of Mérida, besides being the capital of the
State of Mérida, is also the cultural center of the Andean
region, and boasts an institution of higher learning, the
University of Mérida, which offers courses in liberal arts,
pharmacy, law and perhaps others. The main plaza, flanked by
the University, the Cathedral, State government building and
business houses, has a large equestrian statue of Simon
Bolivar, the national hero.
CAESAR AIDS A BOTTLENECK
There is a story about these statues. Every town has
at least one plaza, and at its center is a Bolivar memorial.
The small villages have busts, while the larger places have
full-length figures or imposing statues such as Mérida's.
But it seems that things were not always thus. As the time
approached to celebrate the centennial of Bolivar's birth a
few years ago, many communities realized that they had
neglected to acquire even a bust of the Libertador. Orders
were immediately placed, I believe in Europe, and of course
the statue-makers were swamped, since the time was short.
Then one of the statue purveyors had a brilliant idea:
Bolivar resembles Caesar. Captions on the many stock busts
of Caesar were changed, the busts were shipped and erected
in the plazas, the centennial was celebrated and everyone
was satisfied.
Mérida has a beautiful setting. It is built atop a
long ridge, with a stream in the deep canyon on each side,
and is completely surrounded by mountains whose tops are
seldom visible through the clouds. The mountains, however,
are not heavily timbered, and they are checker-boarded with
cultivated fields, for the hardy mountain Indians have for
generations farmed these rocky slopes almost as high as they
can climb. The farmers carry on their operations in the
age-old traditions of their forbears.The ox is the
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Traditional all-wooden plows used by Andean Indians.
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Freight
boat at La Ceiba.
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Downhill from Mucuchies toward Valera.
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Threshing
pit where oxen tramp out grain and wind blows chaff away.
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draft animal and beast of burden of the rural population.
and is even frequently ridden to town. An occasional tough,
wiry mountain pony is seen, and there are a few burros; but
oxen do the plowing, threshing and other chores. The typical
plow is all of wood and of ancient design. Harvested grain
is thrown on the stone floor of a circular stone-walled
threshing pit where the oxen are driven around on it until
the grain is stamped out. Then on a windy day the farmer
tosses the grain into the air so the chaff can he blown
away. The stony ground of the hillside farms may or
may not be fertilized, but I understand that its
productivity is poor. None of these farms is terraced, and
since there is little or no evidence of serious erosion, the
rainfall cannot be heavy. In some of the valleys, however,
the soil appears rich enough, and it would seem that these
areas could be developed into the vegetable gardens of
Venezuela; but from what I could learn, the Indians raise
only the traditional crops of corn, wheat, beans and a few
tomatoes.
The typical farmhouse is stone-walled, dirt-floored.
thatch-roofed, and has no chimney. Smoke from the wood or
charcoal fire just seeps out through the roof. Cooking is
done on an iron-topped, rock-sided stove built into one
corner of a very dark kitchen.
SERAPES IMPORTED FROM ENGLAND
In this high country many mountain Indians carry or
wear the typical Andean poncho-like blanket, or serape: dark
blue or black on one side and brilliant scarlet on the
other, and about half an inch thick. However, in Venezuela
they are not hand-woven, but are imported from England and
sell for some $20.00 each. These mountains have been
populated and farmed for generations; and unlike our Western
mountains, it would seem impossible to find solitude, at
least along the Highway. Around almost every turn there is a
farm house, a tiny village, or someone walking or riding
along.
Every town along the Trans-Andean has a central
transportation office where passage may be engaged in
private car, station wagon, bus, or even as passenger in a
truck. Our station wagon having gone toward Caracas, in
Merida we purchased bus tickets in the evening, gave our
names and hotel, and were told we would be picked up at 6:00
a.m. the next morning. At 5:00 a.m. the bus driver woke us
up and left, presumably to arouse his other passengers. He
was back before six, with no other passengers, and we
climbed aboard, to spend the next hour riding
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around with him attempting to pry his other fares out of
bed, hurry their breakfast, or whatnot. After finally
collecting them all and counting noses repeatedly to make
sure. he took off for Valera. Mérida was no exception
to the rule that every Andean town of any consequence has a
government military checking station at its edge. A chain
across the road stopped us, and a soldier leisurely examined
the passenger list, with particular emphasis on
identification of foreigners.
For a couple of hours or more out of Mérida we
climbed, via switchbacks, until we reached Mucuchies, a very
small town. It had been growing colder as we climbed, and
since the bus had no windows, we were more than glad to take
advantage of a short stop and drink several cups of the most
delicious coffee I ever tasted. Just beyond Mucuchies we
crossed the top of the pass. Here the Eagle of the Andes, at
14,000 feet altitude, looks down on passing traffic, and of
course the Americans always take his picture, much to the
suppressed amusement of the native passengers. There was no
snow, even in December, but a brisk wind made us wish for
more clothes. Light snow occasionally falls at this
altitude, but usually doesn't last long.
The rest of the trip to Valera, which was reached
about 4:00 p.m., was all down hill, Following switchbacks at
first, the road later took a winding course down a valley as
the temperature climbed gradually. We passed plantations of
platanos and coffee, coffee-drying yards, tobacco hung in
bundles on front porches, and finally fields of sugar cane
and a few cane mills.
TRAFFIC OFFICERS NEEDED
Approaching Valera, an incident occurred which is
typical of the average Venezuelan bus-driver. While
traversing a narrow, relatively straight stretch of road cut
into the side of a hill, with a stream bed below us, we met
another vehicle, an old converted bus loaded heavily with
burlap hags of some-thing-or-other. Both buses had passed
turn-outs while in sight of each other, but neither stopped
until within a few feet of a collision, each in the middle
of the road. Our driver, of course, went through his routine
of playing on all his four horns; but when that did no good
both drivers got out and stood in the road shouting and
gesticulating at each other. Getting nowhere, each got back
in and appeared to he preparing for a nap behind the wheel.
Time seems to mean nothing to the Venezuelan peon, and it
began
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elan peon, and it began to look as though we were stuck
there, within a few miles of Valera, at least until one
driver weakened and backed up. Within a few minutes,
however, another bus pulled up behinds ours and an Army
officer disembarked to locate the trouble. He ordered the
bus-truck backed up some 50 yards to the nearest turnout,
which the driver finally did after much grumbling; and we
proceeded on our way. We found nothing notable in
Valera. A low-country town, there was much negro blood
evident, and for the most part it was hot, dirty and smelly
as most of Maracaibo. We stayed at a hotel which had
originally been German but was now Venezuelan in all but
name. The food left considerable to be desired, but at least
our sleep was undisturbed.
The next morning, early, we boarded another bus and
after about 30 minutes arrived in Mototan, a small village
which is the inland terminus of the German-owned
narrow-gauge railway line to La Ceiba on Lake Maracaibo. The
trip was made via modern and almost new gasoline passenger
car, and since we had purchased first-class tickets, we were
able to sit in the front section which occupied about a
third of the car's length. The rear second-class
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section was jammed with peons, most of them bound for one of
the several villages at which we stopped en route. The trip
was down hill most of the way, we did much coasting, and at
every stop the car was surrounded with ragged muchachos
carrying trays of “dulces” - sweets - for sale. We confined
our purchases to bottled Coca Cola, which appears to be
available everywhere.
The run to La Ceiba took 2½ hours. The
schedule called for the twin-screw diesel passenger boat
“Trujillo” to be waiting for us for the trip to Maracaibo, and
our railroad tickets included the boat trip, since the boat is
owned and operated by the same German company. But the
“Trujillo” wasn't there, and we could not learn when it was
expected. So we whiled away the time as best we could, in spite
of the extreme heat, the flies, dirt and smells. No oranges were
available so we again fell back on warm Coca Cola and equally
warm beer. About an hour and a half later the “Trujillo” showed
up - in tow. She had broken down a few miles out, and we had
visions of an enforced overnight stay in La Ceiba, with
accommodations of the poorest sort imaginable. However, the
breakdown apparently wasn't serious, for we were able to take
off about half an hour later, just before noon. |
March, 1941
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Alumni Review
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