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These
ten (10) individual letters were generously contributed by
Jeff Ehler. They are only a small portion of over 100
letters Jeff has in his possession that were written by a
fellow by the name of Frank Hilton between the years of 1928
to 1936. Much is unknown about Frank, but what is known
is quite fascinating.
Frank
was born in St. Paul, Minnesota in 1891. After serving in
World War I, Frank found a home in Maracaibo/Cabimas in the
early 1920's, where he worked for various oil companies. He
returned to the States for medical reasons in 1932 after the
start of the Great Depression. Once released from the
hospital, he was penniless. After writing a friend in
Venezuela and discovering the possibility of work there, he
decided to again go south. So he decided to return to
Venezuela in 1933.
But because of the Depression and his lack of travel funds,
he decided to make the return journey overland. His return
included a swim of the Rio Grande river, an overland walk
through Central America, and after 9 months, multiple
sicknesses, jails, adventures, etc. he ended up in
Maracaibo.
Jeff believes that Frank eventually moved back to the states
sometime around 1936. He loses track of him from 1936 until
WWII, when he was employed as a steamfitter's apprentice at
Mair Island Naval Shipyards near San Francisco. After that,
he believes Frank had a job at Ft. Barrow, Alaska, in
construction at an unidentified Army base there. He retired
to Los Angeles and died there in 1960 at the age of 69. His
grave is in Ft. Rosecrans National Cemetery in San Diego.
Jeff is currently planning on publishing his collection of
Frank Hilton letters in the future, so please note that these
letters are copyrighted. The bulk of the letters
pertaining to Frank's amazing overland journey south are
particularly fascinating. But these letters provide a unique
& interesting glimpse of life in the Venezuelan oil camps
back in the 1920's and 1930's. His letter of July 15th,
where he describes the process of watching cinema shows at
the club in some detail, is particularly interesting!
These
letters were written to Jeff's uncle, Charles “Noisy” Payne.
While the nickname's admittedly a bit unusual, “Noisy” lived
in central Iowa and was a good friend of Frank. Jeff advises
that “... Frank used him as a back-home contact in case
of trouble.” Jeff also warns that Frank “…has some
unkind words about the Motolone Indians in the first
paragraph of the August 15th (first) letter … Frank was a
man of his times and said what he thought about groups and
races that today would be seen as inappropriate.”
Jeff's knowledge of Frank Hilton is somewhat sketchy, so
he's attempting to find out more about him. Does
aoyone have any more information about him?
I'm extremely grateful to Jeff for
allowing me to post these private letters and images here,
allowing all of us to share this glimpse into the past!
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Frank
Hilton, dates unknown
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c/o
Venezuelan Oil Concessions Ltd.
Cabimas,
Maracaibo,
VENEZUELA19th March, 1928
Dear Chas,
I was pleased to hear you had received the last
letter I wrote, as it had some pictures that I
thought would be of some interest to you. I have
some more that I will send you and also one of
myself that was taken last week for passport
purposes – it flatters me, I think. There will be an
opportunity for more pictures of Cabimas, as our
Club will have its opening the 1st April – also the
new Golf Course is rounding into fine shape, and I
understand the Club will have Camp pictures for
sale. Incidentally, I haven’t seen a picture of a
locomotive for so long that it would be a feast for
the eyes now.
When this reaches you, your winter will have seen
its worst weather. It’s mighty fine to remember the
weather in Iowa in April. I have noticed that even
the tropics look their best in the spring. There are
many trees that shed their foliage as in the North –
to blossom out afresh here, as there. It is also the
commencement of our rainy season; it will last to
the first of October. I observe that it is also the
mating season for the birds and animals. It is the
time of the year that the call of the North is the
strongest, and I see more men going home now than at
any other time of the year. Believe me, I envy them.
I have seen other times when it was a time to be
happy, but nothing like the joy in these parts when
it’s “Estadas Unidas” bound. I have heard a good
many “Vivas” for this, that, and the other, but for
real enthusiasm, witness the departure for a couple
of Yanks, who have completed a three year contract
in the tropics. It generally means a Champaign bath
for all concerned, and the homeward bounders are
“poured” onto the boat happy and carefree.
You mention the clothes that Joe has of mine; you
might tell him to give them to anyone who can wear
them as I have no need for them. There are some
letters and other papers that I would like to keep,
so tell him not to destroy them. I have written him
several times, but he was always very weak in
writing letters.
The enclosed draft for $50.00 is for Decoration
Day purposes, and the renewal of the Monitor and Oil
and Gas Journal. I also wish to subscribe to the
Cosmopolitan Magazine for one year; also enquire
about my Legion dues for 1928 – this is quite a
large order Noisy, but it won’t happen again this
year.
April 4th – Since writing the above, I have had
seven days in the Hospital due to an infection to my
eye, which was caused by a scratch in the Monte. It
is now fine, other than one eyebrow missing I’m O.K.
I have an interesting letter to write concerning the
political situation here, and ask you to use
discretion in showing it around.
Hastily, Always,
Frank |
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INTER-OFFICE
THE VENEZUELAN OIL CONCESSIONS LTD.
CABIMAS
Cabimas, Venezuela
June, 15th 1928
Dear Noisy,It is
great to be in tune with the fine weather we are now
having. Really I have never been in better health...
as my work is rolling along smoothly, everything
looks bright to me. I have never written very much
about our leisure time pleasures, so while I am in
the mood it might be interesting to you.
The Club Commitee of
course, is in charge of all entertainment, sports,
bar etc. In the case of sports; each sport section
has its committee member to represent them. I
believe at this time there are five sections of
sprts – i.e. golf, base-ball, cricket, foot-ball and
tennis. In addition to this they have committee
representatives of purchasing, dancing, music and
transportation. The Club organization functions
smoothly and of course the card is full at all
times. Last evening I saw “Alias the Deacon” and a
few days ago “The Campus Flirt”. Both films were
very good. The cinema shows here are quite different
from anything of its kind in the States – its best
you come along with me Noisy, and I’ll explain as we
go.
Arriving at the club we
enter a large well furnished and well lighted dance
pavilion. There are six rows of tables with five
tables to the row and four chairs for each. They are
all set with fans, drinking-pads, and ash-trays.
Although the hall is surrounded with electric fans,
you will find the service fans are welcome as well.
You will notice that different groups will be
talking in several languages; that the women are
just as free with their drinking as the men and as
time goes on you will see a lot of flushed faces and
an atmosphere of general good feeling. The catering
is done by four native waiters in whites --- so to
start with we will make use of the electric button
to call a boy. Perhaps you will like a gin and
bitters so early after dinner? – I would suggest a
Vermouth. For myself, a cold glass of beer will do.
You will notice there is no fumbling for the check;
that everyone seems eager to buy and in turn you
too, will join in this thing. An exchange of the
news of the days work and a bit of gossip and we are
all set for our second round of drinks. In the
interval you have noticed that the native waiters
have been real busy. That the piano or victrola is
doing its best and the tables are all taken and the
waiters are arranging chairs in the rear of the hall
for the overflow crowd.
It will do you good to see
the Spirit of good fellowship among the people in
the Club. This for the reason that blood is much
thicker among the white people in the Tropics. After
all we are all in the same boat when it comes to
trouble. – We have our third drink and we are ready
to settle back and sip during the first reel. Noisy,
did you notice what I was wearing? Khaki shirt,
khaki trousers and a pair of Chinese slippers with
no socks. You will notice many others with a like
outfit. On the completion of each reel time is taken
out for service and another buzz of conversation.
You will notice the increasing number of men
visiting the bar which adjoins the hall and every
now and then you will recognize a strain or two of
the “Old Songs” – in fact a medley of “Ober All”,
“The Faterland” and “Katie”. Each group in the bar
will be augmented by their kind until the wee small
hours they go their happy way home.
Well, did you enjoy you
first visit to the Club? Did you think it would be
otherwise? Sorry to have taken so much time in just
going to a movie, but it is much more common place
when it becomes a habit. Some time I will tell you
more of our entertainment or will take you into the
Monte or a trip down the Lake --- just now I am
coming back to work with a jerk. Rest assured I am
OK in every way and you have my permission to use
any of my letters as you wish.
P.S. I have just heard that
the Town of Lagunillas is on fire. I went to the
window and although it is located about fifty
kilometers from here, the smoke is plainly visible.
Always,
Frank |
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July 23, 1928
Dear Noisy,I have
just returned from a wonderful vacation in the Andes
– accounting for the break in our correspondence – I
also find a letter which was overlooked before going
away, which is enclosed.
Have been hard pressed for time and will write a
letter later. In the mean time I’m just OK and real
busy.
Frank |
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THE
VENEZUELAN OIL CONCESSIONS, LIMITED.
MARACAIBO - VENEZUELA
Cabimas, Aug. 12th, 1928
Dear Noisy,
I have been mindful of my
promise to write of my trip into the interior, but I
have been so confounded busy that even now my work
is way in arrears. While on my vacation the order
came to start a competitive drilling campaign, and I
arrived back just in time to take over four new
wells. Production is a constant source of work and
of late I have often thought that there are other
ways of making a living that would require less
effort. Have no fear that I am tired of my present
work however, as it makes me go my best to keep in
the swim and like other fish I am better off in the
water.
The fields are growing
daily; we now have 176 wells in this field and 130
wells are on our production daily. Gas Lift and
general field work has reached a point where it now
requires considerable more organization. With all
the proposals in the budget for the last half of
1928 I should be in line for further advancement. I
am now the oldest man in my department in length of
service here and our former Supt. has been
transferred to Maracaibo as District Supt. of
Venezuela, which looks favorable to those who have
been with him the past two years. You will remember
that I sent you a small snap of him in this office a
few months ago. His present position pays him
1200.00 per month and it is the biggest job in S.A.
production.
Golf and other sports have
been on the shelf the past three weeks but I hope to
get more time for the game soon. Among other things
I am a member in the Literary Guild and receive a
book a month through them. To-date I have received
four books: “Trader Horn,” “Bad Girl”, “Harold the
Webbed” and “The Happy Mountain”. With all the other
reading material I now have, I manage to use all my
spare time of an evening very nicely. The Monitor
arrives regularly but seemingly there is a little
news of the RR men.
Thanks very much for your
attention on Decoration Day. Certainly pleased to
hear that everything was in good order. Surprised to
hear that Ora still has an interest there. What, may
I ask, does she work at? This leaves me Noisy the
very best of health and spirit and with plenty of
work for both.
Hastily,
Frank |
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Cabimas,
VENEZUELA 15th
August, 1928
Vacation time this year found me in a general
run-down condition. I would have liked very much to
go to the States, but I put it off for at least
another year. I decided on spending my leave in the
Andes in the State of Tachira, which is located a
little over 500 miles south of Maracaibo. This would
serve a twofold purpose; a healthful rest in a
higher altitude as well as an opportunity to see the
Motolone Indian country. It is called the Sajarri,
which means the unexplored. At different times I
have mentioned the barbaric nature of the Motolones
but I have been speaking from a distance. Nothing
would be more appealing to me than to say that I had
been there. The Motolones are without doubt the most
savage and cruel tribe of Indians in South America -
not to mention their cowardice. They have withstood
all our late methods of pacifying them; millions of
dollars in equipment have been left behind to decay
in their country and many men have lost their lives
thru their bows and arrows. Even now one of the
greatest oil fields in the world is standing idle,
abandoned in fact, on account of their hostility.
The former camps, warehouses and means of
transportation have all been burned by them, and
with the help of the Venezuelan government the oil
men retraced their way down the Rio Palmar, Tana and
Catatumba rivers. Surely seeing this country would
be interesting.
I left Cabimas on our
company launch on the evening of the 28th of June.
Supplied myself with an outfit in Maracaibo and
finished all company business in connection with
transportation, accommodations, etc. Had a very
pleasant three day wait for my boat which would take
me 300 kilometers south on Lake Maracaibo to the
Boca (mouth) of the Catatumba river, While in
Maracaibo I was a guest at the Ida-Isola, which was
formerly the palatial residence of the Governor of
the State of Zulia. Owing to his generous nature,
with other people's money, he is now in the Barbados
Islands living in his accustomed splendor perhaps,
but doing so without the help of his former revenue.
He accumulated several million dollars and departed,
unannounced of course. While -staying at the Ida-Isola
I observed the good taste this dude showed
throughout in its furnishings. The ceilings and
wells of all the rooms and also the patio were done
in hand paintings. In fact I saw so much fine work
of this nature that I tried to learn more about the
artist. Seemingly he was sent over from Europe for
this purpose. The servants' quarters and grounds are
interesting and I spent some time in his gardens
which are made up of tropical trees, plants, ferns
flowers. Withal a great show place.
We left Maracaibo on the evening of July 2nd aboard
a launch that had accommodations for eleven
passengers and its crew of six men. A good night's
sleep and a hearty breakfast aboard and at eight the
following morning we arrived at San Lorenzo, which
is the most southern producing oil field in
Venezuela. A short stop and we soon leave the shore
line and steer a course southwest directly across
the lake, which at this point is 100 miles wide. A
couple of hours later and we are completely out of
sight of land and for all the world one would think
we were in the middle of the Atlantic. In the early
afternoon we notice the taint of river water on the
lake and two hours later we make out land, arriving
at the mouth of the Catatumba about four o'clock in
the afternoon. We transfer our luggage to a small
river launch in midstream and we are soon on our way
thru a jungle that is primeval. The launch is a
veritable fortress; sufficient guns are aboard for
passengers and crew. We notice the man at the wheel
has his rifle leaning against his stool and we
commence to think that some of the tales we have
heard of this country might have some foundation.
The Catatumba has been used for centuries by the
Indians. It is the longest means of water
transportation between the Maracaibo Lake basin and
the Orinoco water shed. The country it travels is
today as virgin and unsettled and hostile as one
would be able to find in any part of the world. The
haven, offered by its wide jungle valleys to the
Indians makes it most impossible to run them down.
There are many wandering tribes over this expanse of
country and seemingly they are always at war. At its
mouth the river is about as large as the Missouri at
Kansas City. It enters the lake thru a low, swampy
marsh country that is Paradise on earth for water
fowl. We see thousands of pelicans, egrets, cranes,
ducks and geese of all kinds. The banks of the
stream are covered with color in tropical flowers.
Parrots of every hue are constantly chattering and
we don't go very far before we see our first
crocodiles. Every sand bank has its quota out
sunning themselves; big fellows, some I noticed were
ten and twelve feet long. The crocodile is quite
different from the alligator in that the 'croc is a
killer and will tackle anything in the water, while
an alligator is content to live on the small fry
that happens to come its way. Rest assumed we are
content to be aboard and not in swimming altho the
day has been real sultry. The monkeys in the trees
along the banks seem to make an effort to stay
abreast of us. I watched a colony of them swinging
along from tail to hand and feet end surprising how
fast they can travel. Before dark overtook us we
passed thru a country that must have been the home
at one time of the wild turkey. We saw hundreds of
them - they made no effort to fly away, they seemed
as interested as we were.
Soon after dark it
commences to rain and shortly thereafter we are in a
tropical downpour. With the help of a carbide
flashlight we continue on and arrive at Encontrados
(encounter) about 1.50 a.m. We have a lunch of
sardines, canned sausage and crackers and put up at
a thatched-roof company hut that has bamboo beds,
electric lights and clean linen. We are soon sound
asleep. At sun-up we are awakened by cannon and gun
fire end we are relieved to learn that the populace
is celebrating the 4th of July. The fourth and fifth
were decreed holidays here. In our walk about the
village we see many Indians and from their attitude
we know they dislike us. Encontrados has been under
siege for years. The constant warfare carried on by
the different tribes among themselves has been a
great advantage to the Spaniards, who have tried to
establish farms, homes and a semblance of
civilization. We hear of many instances of the
cruelty of the Motolones, the Carribs (cannibals)
and other savage tribes who live, animal fashion,
throughout this region.
We listen to the story of a
Frenchman, established a home after a great deal of
sacrifice and effort. Apparently the Indians seemed
friendly enough and he in turn gave them tobacco,
sugar and other foodstuffs. In fact he believed them
to be his friends. Upon returning home from
Encontrados a few months ago, he found his wife
dead, her body had been ripped and terribly
mutilated; he found his five year old daughter
pinned down, spread-eagle fashion, with lances, and
she was still alive; his home was in smoldering
ruins and you can imagine the poor man's
helplessness. Appealing to the Government he was
told that they could not punish those guilty off
this act as the government had an understanding with
the Indians over this territory, and he was warned
of this before starting to establish his home.
He recruited several
friends of his in Encontrados and they surrounded an
Indian village close to his former home. When the
smoke had cleared away they had killed forty of
them. This reprisal will undoubtedly keep them
mindful of the consequences of any future dirty work
they might do, but at the same time it won't fare
well with those they encounter on the trails.
We learn the river is very low below here; that our
trip up the Tarra to El Cubo, which ordinarily takes
36 hours, might take us weeks of hard poling over
sand bars and river snags. This, too, would afford
us but very little protection from. ambuscade, as
from this point up the country is hostile. We also
are in poor condition physically as the two years in
the fever country has by no means been kind to us.
Upon a good deal of reflection we change our plans
for the time being. We had originally planned to go
down the Catatumba to the mouth of the Tarra Rio,
then continue on down the Terra to the El Cubo oil
fields. We now decide to transfer our luggage across
country to the Tachira railroad, which will take us
125 kilometers South to the Estacion Tachira, which
is now located in the foothills of the Andes. The
railroad skirts the worst of the Sajarri country to
the east of the Tarra and is also in the Motolone
country. Our luggage is taken to the station and the
following morning we decide to make this side trip
in hopes that in the interval the rivers will be
higher and we will be able to follow our original
plan.
Within a short time we
arrive at Estacion Tachira. It is a small mountain
village of perhaps 35 natives. Owing to the
impossibility of finding quarters for the night my
friend insists I accompany him to the small city of
Colon, which is located 19 kilometers further south.
We soon decide this best, and while our luggage is
being cared for we feast our eyes on a tropical
mountain scene that is unsurpassed in beauty. |
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THE VENEZUELAN OIL
CONCESSIONS, LTD.
CABIMAS - VENEZUELA
Production Department.
Aug. 25th 1928
Dear Chas,
The promise I made to you
in regard to the writing up of my vacation trip has
turned out to be my biggest literary effort. I have
also discovered that I am not equal to it. However,
there is so much that was interesting to me that I
feel you, too, would be disappointed without at
least an effort from me.
The narrative is written from notes that were
hurriedly jotted down and later I made an effort to
verify the truth of some of the stories that in part
make up the whole. Of course, you know I am no
historian, neither am I gifted when it comes to
descriptive or any other kind of writing. When you
realize that all of my information was gathered
through conversations in Spanish and that there is
nothing in the line of books at my disposal that
would be a help to me, then you know at least, I
tried. The trip itself would make material for a
large book. I have cut the whole down to possibly
ten typewritten sheets. You can use it as you wish.
Each week I intend to send you a part.
The enclosed part covers one leg of the trip to the
edge of the Indian country. The next I send you will
cover my trip through a jungle country by narrow
gauge railroad to the Andes, and my stay there and
return to the river country. And last my trip up the
Tarra Rio to the very heart of the Motolone country.
Rest assured I make no more rash promises, for in
addition to my effort to make a living days I am now
occupied writing nights. I am pleased though to be
busy in this fashion although I make such a mess of
it.
Conditions in the fields are still humming, we are
busier than ever; so much so that I think fondly
quite often of the United States. I read
considerable of an effort to curtail production here
but don’t think it will ever materialize for the
good reason that Venezuelan oil can be laid down so
cheaply in the States that the major operating
companies will shut down their fields in the north
while they draw on this country’s resources while
drawing is good.
I have been feeling much
better since coming back from my trip and good
health permitting I am still put indefinitely.
Regards to all,
Frank |
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Cabimas
3rd September, 1928
The Tachira Railroad was
built and is owned by President Gomez. It affords
the only avenue of transportation between the Tarra
Rio and the Andes Mountains in the south of
Venezuela. Its source of revenue is derived mainly
from the coffee, cocoa, platino and tobacco
planters, who live in the higher Andean country 200
miles south of Encontrados. Its southern terminal is
the city of Cucuta, which is only 200 miles east of
Bogota, Colombia, I was surprised to see the amount
of business this little narrow gauge handles daily
in the course of our trip to Tachira we met several
stock trains, we also set several scheduled trains.
The produce of the higher country is carried thru
this jungle valley to Encontrados, It is then
transshipped to the river dugouts which ply up the
Catatuma from Lake Maracaibo. These dugouts are
interesting. They are poled by crews of half-caste
peons and Indians; to me it seemed the most
primitive transportation I have ever seen. With the
hardest kind of effort they manage to creep upstream
slower than a walk.
We pay Bs 30.00 ($6.00) for
our 1st class ticket to Tachira, the end of our
train trip, which is 125 kilometers due south. I
noticed that I was the only foreigner aboard and of
course the center of all interest. However, all
seemed friendly end eager to render any assistance.
We shortly strike up an acquaintance with a native
who speaks English with an English accent. He
furnished me with several notes on this part of the
country end we soon were on the best of terms. Amid
a great deal of noise and confusion we leave
Encontrados and at our first stop I made a few notes
on the class of engine and equipment we have. The
engine is a hooded wood- burner type, jacketed with
a water reservoir. It has three 28" driving wheels;
Handcock injectors; Detroit lubricators; no air but
sports a generator for cab and head lights. A 28" x
3' fire box; the eccentrics clear the ground by
three inches; link end pin couplings. Its name plate
said, “'Made in the Baldwin Locomotive Works at
Philadelphia in 1888.” We recognize a fine old
specimen of ancient R.R. power for some museum. The
train consists of one box car for baggage and one
coach. The latter was lighted with oil lamps and had
wooden benches for seats for 18 people. It rode with
a swaying comfort that was a cross between a
merry-go-round and a small schooner in a cross
swell.
We bounce along thru a
country that is verdant with palms - date, coconut,
banana and bamboo. We notice a new species that
rises from the ground in a single drooping stem to a
height of ten feet, to take a leaf form 3 feet in
diameter. We are soon in a natural paradise of
grandeur. Looking from the car window it seems as
tho the jungle rises in tiers in a maize of variety
and colour. Huge multi-colored butterflies and birds
of every hue, all in a grandiose setting of splendor
that beggars description. We see parrot-billed black
-birds, every specie of song bird and we realize we
have found the gathering place of the northern
birds, who migrate this way when the season reminds
them of their original birthplace.
The scene becomes more awe
inspiring with each mile into the Jungle. We have
the desire to cut our way into this maize of
nature's best, but realize it impossible. We have
noticed the snakes, turtles and crocodiles that
infest the mossy pools along the way and we are
thankful we are so comfortable here. We pass a
vulture tearing at the carcass of a sloth; quite
often we notice thatch-roofed villages rising over
the under brush in small clearings. We stop at
several small stations with platforms piled high
with bananas, sacked coffee, cocoa, tobacco and
sugarcane, the whole covered with palm leaves as a
protection from the sun.
We connect up our history
in connection with the source of wealth of the old
Spanish “conquistadores”. We see it all came from
this country's wealth in agriculture. We see a
source of natural richness that is unsurpassed in
any part of the world; a climate that requires no
clothes 365 days a year; where stores are unknown
and it would be impossible to be in want of food.
How little the world knows of this wonderful
country. What a pity it is so far removed from
foreign markets. The conductor just brought in two
ripe pineapples; the people in the seat ahead are
now peeling them, and they eat the choicest part and
throw away nearly the whole. We become accustomed to
the spicy sweet aroma of the jungle. We think of the
student in botany who could pitch his tent here and
complete a life study with a variety of material,
which, to me, seemed unsurpassable. We have a visit
from a hummingbird, which stays motionless in front
of my window. The train stops at a wood rack and I
am an interested witness to the refueling of our
engine. We note the kind of wood and see it is Vera,
and one of the most costly and useful of hardwoods.
Many musical instruments of the reed section,
drumsticks, bowling balls and the keels of the beat
wooden ships are made of Vera. The U.S. Government
selected this wood for the construction of the
Panama Canal lock gates. Its specific gravity is
very little less than iron.
At the village of Guajapo
the train stops 20 minutes for lunch. The Posada,
(restaurant) is a thatched roofed abode. We enter a
very neat and surprisingly clean room, altho it had
an earthen floor. The meal consisted of a course of
rice, another of a meat cake the covering of which
was of a corn mixture. The service and food was
clean and far better than I expected. We have
several other courses; cabbage, roast-beef, a
mixture of boiled eggs and onions and lastly some
fried cheese. We drink bottled soda water
(unbelievable I'm sure, but there was no ice and
warm beer never was appealing).
Leaving Guajapo the country
continued to unfold a panorama of rank Jungle. We
are amazed at the variety of bird life. The tufted
and crested headed types seemed to be in their
element. We see flocks of parrots, parakeets and
guaquomas. They keep up a constant chatter. There
are many bright plumaged birds that are strangers to
us as they are only to be found at or near the
equator. Many times I tried to learn the names of
some of them. Generally I would get the information:
"Estan bonitas, pero no cantan." (They are pretty,
but they do not sing).
Awakening from a short nap
we, see the country's vegetation is changing; here
and there are small clearings planted to corn. The
ferns and vines are out of the picture, so we know
we are commencing to climb. The palms and trees are
smaller and the underbrush is tinted with dieing
foliage. We arrive at a little village set in a
bower of roses. Roses of every hue; and we know it
would be quite impossible to grow them in the
hot-houses in the States with so much fragrance. We
have a wonderful view of the cloud-capped Andes in
the distance and notice a decided drop in the
temperature. It isn't very long before we recall the
times on Clarksville (C.S.W.) grade when we only had
a few yards to go, but would slip down on sand and
double to Allison. The "hogger" on this two-car
express -- one a box car for baggage and our coach-
is having a world of trouble making each grade. We
jerk along at a snail's space. We just high-balled a
station 200 yards back and I'm betting even money we
don't make the next grade; sure enough the old boy
stalled on a bridge. They pull a pin on the coach
and while they make this Andean double let us see
where we're at.
The stream beneath us could easily be mistaken for
any mountain stream in the West. I am thinking of
the Truckee River above Reno. I feel certain this
would make an ideal spot for a few days' trout
fishing. I am told the fishing is good but that they
are bony and are not eaten by the natives. The roar
of the water is real music to me as I have not seen
or heard this sort of thing for several years. We
watch a native reduce a piece of sugar-cane to
eatable size with a few slashes of his machete, and
we see their expertness with this weapon. The engine
is back for the passengers and here we go. In the
course of the next 100 yards we are in a tunnel. I
make an effort to close my window but discover there
is some trick in the operation of the latch; we are
out in the open here I know how it works. We double
over our excess tonnage and with a frantic toot we
are off amidst a smell of wood smoke. We pass
alongside a shear wall of mountain that seems to
overhang the train and stays put only thru a
heavenly act of mercy- a breath of relief on our
deliverance. |
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10th October,
1928. My friend has a
Chrysler car waiting. I am surprised to hear that
throughout this mountainous country there is a
system of roads, which I am told, are the best in
South America; that we now can travel by automobile
with comfort. We lose little time in leaving
Estacion Tachira as we both are eager to reach an
altitude before sun-down, which will give us a view
of the valley country. The climb to the small city
of Colon in the glow of a tropical sunset is one of
the most beautiful trips I have ever made. The road
is paved with small cobble stones, (we learn that
all the roads here have been made by peon convicts)
and as we climb I picture the Catskill and Blue
Mountains of New England and the Cumberlands in
Virginia - we see all the splendid beauty of the
Northwestern Sierras, the whole in a tropical
setting that beggars description. We notice the
palms, ferns, vines and flowers are giving way to
the hardier foliage of a higher altitude; we have a
fleeting glimpse of a canyon which I likened to the
grand canyon of the Arkansas in Colorado.
The trip up to Colon is a
grueling effort for the car as in the 19 kilometers
we rise 3000 feet. The car was in second the whole
distance and it was necessary for the chauffeur to
cool his engine several times. The sunset prompted
us to continue our journey for the day to the
beautiful gem of a mountain town, Rubia, (Ruby)
which is rightly named. My friend is enjoying as
keenly as myself every new panorama as we take the
turns. He insists that there are many wonderful
views in the gathering twilight which we will be
able to see while at their best. The cool temperate
mountain air to my fever infested lungs; the keen
appetite; wearing a coat the first time in two
years; the transformation to transpire in the course
of a few hours are some of my thoughts while at this
part of my trip.
Around a sharp, bend in the
read we enter the city of Colon, (population
approximately 3,000) . It is spotlessly clean,
cobble stone streets, narrow side walks, with
varicolored houses all tile roofed. This presented a
vision for longing eyes after two years of mud,
thatch and heat.
We think of Salt Lake City
with its running water at the curb. We have the same
circumstance here, differing only in that the water
gurgles along in a small paved hollow, six inches
deep in the middle of the street. The town is
decorated in Venezuelan bunting; flags are flying
from each house; and remember it is the 5th of July,
National Independence Day for this country.
Incidentally the 4th of July was decreed a holiday
here for the yanks. This is quite a new thing and so
far as I know sets a precedent. What we can expect
on the National Days of the European countries
represented here is to be seen.
We have a small cup of very
strong coffee (grown locally) and my friend leaves
me to write while he attends to business interests.
Seemingly he is a partner in a Caracas wholesale
textile house and judging from appearances he is
successful end withal a boon companion.
A word concerning him won't
be amiss; from our casual meeting in Encontrados and
later our dinner together in the small Posada, we
built up an acquaintance that has been mutual and
really agreeable. Several incidents have come up
since that have given us both an opportunity to be
helpful and here we are, like old chums completely
at ease. He insists that I also travel with him
tomorrow. I promise only after he will allow me to
meet my expense. Ordinarily car hire here is at the
rate of $3.00 per hour and cars are not to be had at
will.
While I was writing the
last paragraph I met two native Spaniards of this
region. We had a lengthy conversation in Spanish and
I gathered a number of pointers on this part of the
world. I learn we are on the Orinoco divide; that in
the course of the next half hour's travel we cross
from the west to the east and we will have wonderful
views of the llanos and savannas of the Orinoco head
waters; that we now are in the great coffee country
of Venezuela; that we will have need of heavier
clothing as we will be in snow before reaching
Rubia.
I watch the arrival of a
pack train. The mules are all blinded with a
head-band of gunny-sacking about 5" wide. They are
kept this way to .keep them from eating along the
trails. The scene reminded me of a time in northern
Washington when I hired out as a packer. After
considerable trouble and with the help of other
packers, I managed to get my packs slung and we
started for Mt. Baker with cruising supplies for a
government survey party. We didn't get very far, but
the distance was nothing to the amount of trouble I
had. Mules are really of a complex nature, but pack
mules are temperamental; they know their packer, and
when they aren't properly slung they proceed to
unload themselves in short order. In fact my whole
outfit were rolling around in the weeds with packs
at all angles; they were stretched out from Mt.
Baker to the Canadian border and altho I made a
heroic effort to straighten them out, they really
caused me to loose my job the very first day. Since
then I have been a spectator only when it comes to
pack mules.
Before leaving Colon we
service the car at a small service station which is
under government supervision. However, it had this
sign: “Su Agencia Ford” (Your Ford Agent).
We are now obliged to register our names, car number
and destination on a slate that is given to us by a
bare-footed policeman. On arrival at Rubia we will
have to register into town at a similar station.
With an ever winding and
climbing effort we continue on up to summit. We sit
back and are thrilled by a panoramic mountain scene
that holds us spell bound; we notice the cold
freshness of our altitude; we breathe deeply and
live again with a snappy tingle of life as in Iowa;
we cross a range at 8,000 ft. only to be confronted
with another range slightly higher. Far below us,
thru the gathering dusk, we see a small Pueblo, from
the distance it appeared as a gem setting in this
remote fastness. Here and there we see small white
adobe houses and we wonder what manner they have of
living in a place so far removed from civilization.
We fail to see the coffee bushes which cover the
mountain's sides lower down as it is becoming too
dark. (I was unable to make any more notes but
continued from memory on our arrival at Rubia, which
is 62 kilometers south of Colon.) Venezuela here
raises most of the coffee which it exports, (a
kilometer is 660 feet more than our half mile).
We notice a ringing in our ears; our temples are
commencing to pain and we are soon in a drizzling
cold rain. In the course of a short time the rain
turned to spitting snow and believe me, my teeth
were chattering, altho I had on more clothes than I
ever wore in an Iowa winter. We top another summit
(approximately 11,000 ft.) and we are certainly glad
to start down. From this point we drop to
approximately 4,500 ft. The trip down mountain was a
creeping careful cautious affair as the snow offered
a hazard that I won't soon forget. A short way down
we come upon a lodge of President Gomez. He has
quarters and a garage here as he was a native of
these parts. Incidentally the mountain we just came
over is called the Zumbador. Gradually we leave the
snow area; into rain once more and finally out into
a starry night above the clouds. Passing thru them
on our down trail we finally come out into a
beautiful night. We can see, far below, the lights
of Rubia. We are two hours arriving there. We
arrived at 1:30 A.M. Put up at a very good hotel but
went to bed hungry as it was too late to have a meal
prepared. A good night's sleep on a canvas stretcher
bed under two blankets - the first I have used since
being in the tropics. A good breakfast in the
morning and while my friend looks after his affairs,
I start to take a stroll about town but a downpour
interferes and we are compelled to stay indoors
until afternoon. Seems impossible to continue our
trip today as I know the mountain roads will be
dangerous.
In the afternoon I
accompany my friend on his business visits to
several stores. The courtesy these people show each
other upon meeting impressed me so that I am
prompted to tell you their custom of greeting. With
their exchange of salutations they embrace each
other and while doing so, they pat each other gently
on the back. We finish our business in the course of
an hour and as the skies are now quite clear, we
decide to leave for Oranea, another Mt. town about
85 kilometers further south. You will find it on the
map at the extreme Southwestern border of Venezuela.
We cross the boundary there into Colombia.
Before leaving Rubia, a word about the hotel where
this is written. The building is a Spanish adobe;
one story high, built around a patio that is planted
to flowers; a dozen bird cages are suspended from
the edge of the patio and their song is keeping the
place alive. The hotel is managed by a matronly old
woman who has all the graces of an aristocrat. I had
quite a conversation with her and felt as tho I was
in the presence of one who in younger life must have
been of a very distinguished family. Her Spanish was
a ripple that was pleasant to just listen to. We
enjoy a well cooked meal here we leave: fried eggs,
fried cheese and hot buns, the coffee was delicious.
We dress in lighter undergarments and change to a
linen suit and provide ourselves with light blankets
as from here we drop down to where the country
becomes real hot again.
The trip from Rubia to
Oranea was quite uneventful, a series of up down but
always the temperature became warmer. We stopped at
Oranea just long enough to service the car and
register. It is 125 kilometers from here to San
Cristobal, the end of our side trip. I will then
part with my friend and I am certain I will miss his
good fellowship.
The drive to San Cristobal
gave me a chance to see the extensively cultivated
mountainous low country. Mile after mile of coffee,
sugarcane and tobacco. I never saw a plow however,
and my friend told me they use the fork of a tree
for that purpose, We notice the peculiar color of
the natives and we are surprised to learn that they
are South America's White Indians. They are direct
decedents of the Incas. They are hardy, industrious
and I believe represent the highest standard in
semi-civilized advancement. They make everything
they use; wear clothing that has been woven by their
women; their homes are generally made of stone and I
noticed many works of art which were crudely hewn
from granite. All their harness, tools, looms, and
utensils for their manufacture are made by them.
Their weaving is recognized as the best. A hat for
instance, of the type known in the States as a
Panama, would cost from $40.00 to $100.00 if it was
genuinely from here.
Their dyes and pottery are
famous, and withal they are peaceful and very
religious. Spanish is the universal tongue. However,
there were some words which I was quite unable to
understand.
We think this would be a
great country to live in, but we know these people
earn very little money. (Coffee picking is about all
there is to work at and this is all done by the
Indians).
At the crest of a range we have out first car
trouble, a broken front spring and repairs are 50
miles away. We make a temporary repair by placing a
3" block of wood between the axle and frame of the
car; wired the block in securely, and we are on our
way. While making this repair I had a severe
headache as the altitude must have been
approximately 7,500 ft. In the descent, which was
our last range to cross, we could see the lights of
San Cristobal thousands of feet below us. We stop at
the small pueblo of Tarriba. Here the temperature is
fine in the day time but real chilly at night. The
country continues to be one of coffee, sugarcane and
tobacco. We see fine herds of cattle and we wonder
where their market can be. The people look us over
with a good deal of curiosity - at a distance. It
was a balmy ride from Tarriba to San Cristobal.
Arriving there about 8.50 P.M. San Cristobal is well
located and has every appearance of being
prosperous.
Our hotel in San Cristobal,
while not as good as we expected, altho the best the
city afforded, was located facing a park in the
heart of the city. We are quite pleased with
everything and decide to take time to conjugate the
Spanish verb "Hogar" which means, to play. We, or
better I, met two American Geologists stopping here
and like all good yanks we had to celebrate.
This little city (population 10,000) is built on a
ledge overlooking the Rio Fria. By far the greater
part of the people are Indians. We see their
industry on every hand; we notice how healthy they
are; small in stature, but robust physically. The
mountain climbing they have done for ages shows in
the well developed muscles of their legs and thighs.
We see women with heavy loads of panela, (bars of
brown sugar) sugar cane and other produce which they
carry on their heads. We notice their healthy, clear
complexion; the manner they have of dressing their
hair in a fashion that affords a cushion for their
packs.
The hotel furnishings were meager. A canvas
stretcher bed; one untanned leather chair; a wash
stand and a cement floor. The food too was
primitive. I found it necessary to purchase canned
and bottled imported food which the Geologists and
myself opened at meal time. In fact we had no other
choice, as the sameness on the menu became trying.
The two Geologists, I learn, are in the employ of
the Standard Oil of N.J. We soon are acquainted and
as they have been on the trails in a hostile country
for two years, I am kept busy answering questions
concerning conditions in Maracaibo, the oil fields,
etc. I find them very good company in the course of
the next few days; to see us together you would
think we had known each other for years. My friend
takes his leave and we regret very much his going.
While staying in San
Cristobal I enjoyed my first real rest since coming
to S.A. This climate proves to be just the required
remedy for one with fever. My appetite was never
better and everything I do is done with more zest
than I ever knew I possessed. I am invited on a
working trip with the geologists. I learn
considerable of the geological nature of this area.
In the course of eight or ten kilometers we find
outcroppings of coal beds, oil bearing shales and
many fossil specimens of the Cretaceous era. We come
upon a solidified oil sand that is rank with the
odor of oil, and we know we are in a very shallow
oil territory. We cover 18 kilometers by mid-day and
while we eat our lunch we hear more of our location
geographically.
It would be quite
impossible to follow me on any maps you might have
in the States of this country, as Rand McNally and
other mapping companies in the States, undoubtedly
never had an engineer in these out of the way parts.
There are however, some good maps of a confidential
nature, which have been obtained at a tremendous
cost. You might be able to locate the Rio Fria, a
tributary to the Torbeo Rio. The Torbeo in turn
flows into the Orinoco. At this point the Rio Fria
is a swift moving mountain stream that one could
use, with only a few portages, all the way to the
Orinoco and on to the Guannas. We find ourselves
eager for this bit of adventure, but it is quite
impossible.
My friends are occupied in
geological survey and stratographic research. This
work is interesting. Notes and maps are sketched
covering: anticlines, domes, formation
outcrop-pings, Barometric reading and of course
gathering samples. We gain first hand knowledge of
the work they perform, which later is the basis of
exploitation. We learn that close by there are some
natural oil-seepages; that the Indians have been
using this oil for ages. The gravity is 34° Baume
(approximately the gravity of commercial kerosene).
Later we buy two oil lamps which are used by them.
It would be difficult to find their like in a
museum. The lamps are a very crude receptacle made
of pottery. A small indentation on one side of the
saucer like affair holds a wick, which floats in the
oil. The overhanging wick furnishes the flame. We
also buy a dozen tobacco boxes made of cow-horn,
polished and carved crudely with Indian design.
In the course of the next
week we make plans for our return. We were ready on
the 13th of July. We have been away 17 days. It will
be necessary to lose very little time in getting
back to the Catatumba, as we still have the trip up
the Tana to El Cubo before us.
The trip back was quite
uneventful; we arrived at Encontrados in good time
and on the evening of my arrival I was fortunate in
meeting a company launch which would leave at 12.00
mid-night. The night offers more protection and I
found that it was the regular practice to leave for
El Cubo at this time.
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16th October,
1928. The evening of
our leaving for El Cubo found us in the best of
spirits. I learned that there would be one other
white man making the trip with me so of course we
soon were getting acquainted over our glasses. He
was an Englishman on Company business and this was
his first trip to the Indian country. At 11:45 PM we
went aboard and I was again agreeably surprised to
find that two cot-beds enclosed in mosquito netting
had been prepared for us. The launch was so arranged
that a part of the fore peak could be used for two
beds. We learn that we have two extra peons aboard
to help the boat off sand bars as the river is still
low.
It was a rather quiet
affair, our leaving we noticed that there seemed to
be an air of friendliness which had more feeling
than you would find on the departure of a launch on
the Mississippi, for instance. The night was black
with a million stars, but no moon. As we backed out
into mid-stream I was unable to make out the
opposite bank of the river. We lost sight of the
lights of Encontrados at the first bend. I am told
that we won't see another light until we reach Los
Manuelas about 175 kilometers south. The chug of the
launch's engines, the night full of fire flies, the
damp sweet smell of the jungle; the few cold bottles
of beer with our conversation and finally turning in
for the night, are still vivid in my mind.
We are awake at sun-up and
find we have been on a river snag since 4 A.M. The
peons now go over board and we are soon off and on
our way. I was interested in watching the peons in
the water as the river is full of crocodiles and it
looked to me like a game of tag with one's life.
However, the water was generally so shallow that Mr.
Crocodile could easily be seen coming, and with the
long poles the peons carried it presented more
safety than appeared. We had breakfast aboard and
settled back to view a wilderness primeval.
The Tarra Rio, being a
tributary of the Catatumba, is much smaller. In high
water it could easily be a large stream, but now it
looked as tho we would be compelled to wade most any
time. During the day the peons worked heroically
poling us off of sand-bars - in fact the day was one
sand-bar after another. Sundown found us still
chugging along at a snail's pace. At three A.M. the
following morning we arrived at Los Manuelas. We
stop just long enough to throw off and pick the mail
tags and take on fuel. We learn that 10 kilometers
back from the river there is a drilling well and its
crew of three yanks. They have a body guard of 40
natives to guard from surprise attack by the
Motolones. We are soon on our way again and altho I
kept my eye a peeled for some sign of the Indians I
am glad to say we seen none on our way to El Cubo.
It is about 30 kilometers further up the river to
the end of our trip. We arrive there about 8.50 P.M.
after considerable effort and hours lost fighting
low water. Arrived real hungry, thirsty and tired.
There are many friends of
mine working here and I soon locate several. We make
a large night of it ere we turn in. The following
day I cover the country around El Cubo with a friend
on mule back. I thank myself many tines that I have
so far escaped a transfer to a place so near the
grave. The very air seemed to have a fore-bidding
heaviness which I am unable to describe. All the men
were eager to leave, leave for any place just so
they were gone from there. Life in a place so remote
is terrible. Newspapers, mail and news of any kind
is a month old ere it arrives. Entertainment of any
kind is lacking. A man would be strong willed
indeed, who could stay here any length of time
without taking to drink. The Company furnishes good
accommodation. The food is the very best and the
quarters are on a par with the better class of
bungalows in the U.S. There are no women and of
course that offers a problem.
During my three day stay at
El Cubo there was no excitement further than seven
arrows had been collected which had been shot across
the Tarra at men working on the opposite bank. No
one was hit. I had a good opportunity to examine
several of these arrows. They all were very
primitive. The stocks are made of a black bamboo
which gradually tapers from 5/8" at the butt to 3/6"
at the point, where a hard wood head is inserted in
the hollow of the reed. The head is held in place by
being tightly wrapped with dried gut string. All the
arrow heads I examined were three cornered and well
notched with four notches on each corner. They make
a terrible wound. Many men have made the long
tiresome trip to Maracaibo with these arrow heads in
their bodies as it is most impossible to withdraw
them. The arrows vary in length, some I seen were
6-1/2 ft. long; others 3 1/2 ft.
We learn that a new well
location is about to be started which is located
about 40 miles from El Cubo. The drillers are
concerned as to who will make the sacrifice - that's
what it really amounts to. I understand that the
Company is sending 85 natives for guard duty while
this well is being drilled. On my last night in camp
I, with several others, climb a high hill back of
camp and we are able to see five different camp
fires and they are the camps of the Motolones. It
would be interesting to know their full strength. I
don't believe they number more than five hundred in
all.
We learn the particulars
concerning the death of a geologist who was bitten
by a jungle spider a few days previous to our
arrival. He had been in the Motolone country for
four years and one of the very few white men who
they never molested. It was his custom to put food
stuffs where it would be readily found by them; raw
corn, rice, salt, sugar and tobacco. They always
took everything but the sugar, pitiful indeed, that
he should die so painfully. He lived three days of
terrible agony and never reached medical attention
altho all speed possible united in getting him to
Maracaibo. The spider bite was just above the left
eye. In twenty-four hours the swelling was so great
that the man's features were unrecognizable.
We are pleased to learn
that we leave in the early morning on our long river
and lake trip to Maracaibo. The launch was much
faster and with the current in our favor we made
good time. In all the trip back was without
incident. We amused ourselves by tossing oranges
into the open jaws of the crocodiles as we passed.
We were eager to sea the
lights of Maracaibo in the early morning of our
fourth day on boat. We have a keener appreciation of
our lot in general and are anxious to get back to
work. My only regret is the breaking of a camera
which prevented me having a collection of pictures
which would be unique.
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October
16th , 1928
Dear Noisy,
Undoubtedly you have been at a loss to account for
this long period of silence. Any fears you might
have had you can now lay aside, as I am still
kicking altho feebly. Since writing lest I have had
another session of fever and I am still taking
treatment. The return from the higher country so
quickly, I believe, had a good deal to do with my
becoming sick again.
This part of the country is the most severe in
fevers. It's not unusual to see fine big strapping
men carried away on stretchers and sent home. Lord!
I have wished and longed to leave here. But I have
so much to lose by leaving that I intend to stay
until I can at least clean up some business deals
that I have on my hands.
The oil fields are at their
highest peak. We have been producing 7,400 M.T.
(51,800 bbls. daily) and we still are behind our
contracts. It looks as tho we will go to the two
million bbls a month mark in the course of the next
few months.
I am enclosing two parts of
the yam I wrote - it will furnish you a little
amusement.
Hastily,
Frank |
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