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Steve Sleightholm
Steve's Venezuela Memoirs
Ferry to Maracaibo
Steve Sleightholm's Venezuela Memoirs
Ferry to Maracaibo
One of the few things that my brother, sister and I looked forward to was the
ferry ride between Palmarejo and Maracaibo. I think the reason for the
excitement it generated when we were young was that it was so different. Sure,
we took a launch out fishing on Sundays, but that still did not take away from
the anticipation of the ride.
Now, my family lived on the eastern shore of Lake Maracaibo and over the twenty
years that I lived in Venezuela, I must have taken at least 50 rides on the
ferry.
At one time, Creole would take us to Maracaibo and bring us back on one of their
newer launches. It could be an exciting ride, but it was very long and if the
weather made the surface of the lake choppy, the ride could be exhausting. Most
of the times that we took a launch was when we were going to catch a plane to go
on vacation or returning from vacation. But that practice eventually ended and
we would have to make the long drive to Palmarejo to catch the ferry.
Then sometime in the early ‘60s an outfit in Cabimas established a high-speed
hydrofoil service to and from Maracaibo. Well, that was progress. They built a
modern dock in Cabimas with a nice covered passenger building. But you know my
memory of the “Fletcha” as it was referred to, was that when I had to use the
restroom, I noticed that the Venezuelans who had never utilized a flush toilet
in their lives would throw the soiled toilet paper on the floor in a corner of
the room. Some things make an impression on you that last a lifetime. The
hydrofoil was a real thrill though; as the engines revved up it would gradually
lift free of the water and it actually flew through the water on short, stubby
wings that remained below the surface of the water. That always amazed me but in
the back of my mind was what would happen if it hit a log that had washed out of
one of the rivers feeding the lake during rainy season. Never happened.
The opening of the bridge was the beginning of new chapter leaving a quaint way
of life buried in early chapters.
But all of those alternative forms of transportation never lessened the quiet
thrill I got when I rode the ferry.
The day would begin with a early wakeup call from the folks, “get up, get
dressed, brush your teeth and come to breakfast” so, getting dressed was a
T-shirt, alpargatas and shorts, a few quick licks with toothbrush and into the
kitchen for a quick breakfast of fried platanos, queso blanco and a couple of
eggs washed down by a cold glass of KLIM. Then into the jeep and off we would
go.
We lived in Tia Juana, Campo Verde, for 13 years so the trip is etched in my
memory. Out the gate crossing the cattle guards. The guardia at the gatehouse
ignored us. Then out the main gate and left onto Carretera National. Always left
from any of the Creole camps except Hollywood. Down the road, past Campo Rojo on
the right and then Shell on the left and their tank farm; then Taparita, the
small Mene Grande camp; next Ule on the right and then the alcabala which might
or might not be manned by the guardia national –“thieves in uniform” my father
would say. Further down the road we passed Punto Gordo where the power plant was
and the small camp for the employees who worked there.
The next stretch of road ran close to the lake shoreline and tall coconut palms
overhung the narrow blacktop road. It would still be comfortable as the sun
wasn’t overhead yet and the open sides of the jeep let the air circulate around
us. We would then come upon the Creole camps where we had lived many years
before with Hollywood on the right and Las Cupolas on the left, past the main
entrance to the production area and into Cabimas which was a crowded, dirty,
village of cramped small buildings crowded higlypigly against each other. I
never liked Cabimas.
Leaving Cabimas was always a relief for me, it meant that we weren’t that far
from Palmarejo and the rest of the ride was along uncluttered countryside with
the road paralleling the shoreline. The sun is now higher in the sky and the
heat is building when we pull into the line of cars and assorted trucks, busses
that were waiting to get on to the ferry. Dad and Mom, who had made this trip
and untold number of times were not happy about missing the ferry that we could
see pulling away from the dock, so Dad got out of the jeep and went to purchase
tickets for boarding the ferry. My brother, Bill and sister, Cris and I got out
and wandered down to the dock. I liked the ferry dock area with the coconut
palms and the nice setting.
Eventually a ferry from Maracaibo arrived and offloaded its cargo of vehicles
and walking passengers. We didn’t recognize anyone getting off. Dad, called and
we all piled back into the jeep and Dad followed the cars in front of us onto
the ferry. As we drove onto the ferry boarding ramp I would wonder what would
happen if the ferry accidentally became dislodged from the dock. Probably all of
us would die and all my friends would miss me. The ferry held two rows of
vehicles on each side with an upper passenger deck accessible via two opposing
set of stairs centrally situated between the divided rows of cars.
We all got out of the jeep and worked our way upstairs where we cold watch the
ferry load and then pull up the ramp and back out of the dock. Before it pulled
out, my brother, sister and I could see where the toilets flushed into the water
just above the waterline and the bagre swimming around the discharge looking for
tempting morsels. We all hated bagre, the disgusting things.
One of the thrills of riding the ferry was that the best pastelitos in the world
could only be had on the ferries. We would all buy as many piping hot pastelitos
as we could which we washed down with a Coke or Fanta. I liked Fantas. My
father’s usual caution ringing in our ears – “wipe off the mouth of the bottle
before you take a drink”. He was always right as the Venezuelan soft drink
bottlers did not know about sanitation and a clean handkerchief always, always
came away with a brown circle – it wasn’t the residue from the bottle lid cork,
I assure you. In spite of the dirt, the best Cokes and Fanta I ever drank were
those made in Venezuela.
We would then to the railing overlooking the bow of the ferry and enjoy the
breeze that we never experienced back in the camps until the rainy season came.
Now the sun was directly overhead and the sun beat down on us and reflected back
from the surface of the lake. That’s how Dad ended up with all those skins
cancers on his ears and nose that he had to have burned off -- from 31 years of
working on the lake.
Anyway, eventually we could look over the side of the ferry and see Leper Island
in the distance. (Did you know that the government of Venezuela eventually
closed the island and then sent its lepers to a Leper Community in I believe
Colombia for treatment. If you saw the Motorcycle Chronicles you will have seen
the colony represented in the film.)
Eventually, we arrived at the bustling harbor of Maracaibo, the ferry docked
unloaded and Dad drove us to wherever we went that day.
Now returning by ferry was pretty much identical to coming over to Maracaibo
with one great big exception and that was the hundreds of people that crowded
around the vehicles waiting for the ferry that wanted to sell you anything under
the sun – but mostly contraband. It was a fast a furious babble scrabble of
mostly men selling: Smuggled American cigarettes, watches, lighters, sunglasses
and then there were the Guajira women selling handmade alpargatas with colorful
pompoms and woven goods. They would thrust whatever they were selling into your
face tossing out prices and if you looked them in the eye, well then, they would
follow you to the point they were held back attempting to tempt you to buy from
them. If one seemed successful then others would crowd around hoping to make a
sale. They would work both sides of the jeep. I can still see images of them
swirling around the sides of the jeep, thrusting their hands at us holding
whatever they are selling.
As the ferry pulled away from the dock, the din of the crowd faded in the
distance. I looked forward to our next trip.
The “Bridge” began a new chapter, colder, less sensual. I don’t think I will
read any further.
That’s how I remember it.
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