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Peter
Tveskov
Peter Tveskov has had a long association with Venezuela,
having spent much of his youth there after the Second World
War and returning years later to work. His “recuerdos” of
Venezuela over the years are extensive because of the many
years he lived there.
Peter's bio is as follows: Born in Denmark, Peter moved to
Venezuela at age 14 in 1948. He graduated from Yale
University 1956 with a Bachelor of Engineering degree.
After becoming a US citizen in 1960 in Del Rio, Texas, Peter
worked ten years for the Oilwell Supply Division of US
Steel Corporation in West Texas, Venezuela, Brazil and
New York City.
In 1966-1996, he was director of facilities and a management
consultant at Yale University, Wesleyan
University in Middletown, Connecticut, Brown
University, Connecticut College, Milton
Academy, Vassar College, Choate-Rosemary
Hall, Monmouth University, Bryn Mawr
College and the Ethical Culture School in New York
City.
Since his retirement, Peter has done part time construction
project management, has been a Group Leader on five Elderhostel/Scandinavian
Seminar trips to Scandinavia, and authored a book entitled “Conquered,
not defeated - Growing up in Denmark during the German
Occupation of World War II ”.
Married fifty years to Judith Santamauro, he has four grown
children scattered all over the continent, and three
granddaughters. He currently resides in the Short Beach
section of Branford, Connecticut.
We're extremely fortunate that Peter has taken the time to
write about some of his memories of Venezuela, thereby
preserving them, and that he has very generously allowed us
to share some of those memories here.
While the writing
below recounts Peter's personal experiences in Venezuela, he
has also written the intriguing story of his father's
experiences as a Danish immigrant in Venezuela during
earlier years after he was stranded there by the German
occupation of Denmark in 1940.
A European Immigrant in Venezuela1938-1975
Click to read an account of Alex Tveskov's experiences in
Venezuela
Lastly, after you've read Peter's stories on this page as
well as the compelling account of his father's experiences
in Venezuela as an immigrant, please click on the title
below to read Peter's reflections about his last visit to
Venezuela in 1964 as well as his feelings about the current
unfortunate state of affairs that exists in Venezuela today.
Click to read
Venezuela since the 1960's
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My
relationship with Venezuela has three phases: My teenage
years in the country, my professional years there and
the present.
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Venezuela in
the 40s and 50s
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Three
days after my fourteenth birthday I arrived in Maiquetia
from Curaçao after a three day trip via KLM from
Copenhagen, Denmark. We had flown from Copenhagen to
Amsterdam in a DC-4, from Amsterdam via Glasgow, Gander
and New York to Curaçao in a Lockheed Constellation, the
“Eindhoven”, to Curaçao and the last leg, after a night
in a very hot KLM hostelry – a
former US Army barracks - in another DC-4, set up for
half cargo and half passengers. The passenger half was
lined in black material of some sort and it was really
hot.
I arrived in
Maiquetia, was received by a friend of my new stepfather and
after a night at the hotel El Conde, owned by PanAm,
my papers were arranged with the authorities and I was put
on an Avensa DC-3 and proceded to
San Antonio del Táchira via Barquisimeto, Valera and Mérida.
I did not know when I was to get off the plane and nobody on
the plane spoke English, let alone Danish, but I do remember
being offered my very first Coca Cola on that flight.
For the record, it was probably Joseph Stalin’s fault that I
even went to Venezuela in the first place. My mother had
recently married Axel Tveskov, a Dane who had gone to
Venezuela before the war and had become marooned there by
the German invasion of Denmark April 9, 1940. The original
plan was that I was to finish my schooling in Denmark, but
with the advent of the blockade of Berlin by the Soviets and
the very real possibility of World War III breaking out, it
was decided that I was to leave the rationed gloom and
darkness of post war Denmark and head for Venezuela.
So off I went and settled in Palmira in the state of
Táchira, where my stepfather had built a cement plant for
the Delfino family and been asked to manage it.
We lived in a beautiful quinta in Palmira with a
fantastic southern view over the valley of the
Torbes River.
There is a mountain on the far horizon and to this
date I wonder what is its name and where is it
located? In Venezuela? In Colombia?
Because of his position as director of a major local
enterprise, my stepfather was a member of the local
society. He belonged to the local clubs where we
socialized with the governor of the state, Señor
Romero Espejo – later murdered under the Pérez
Jimenez dictatorship and the military commandant of
Táchira, major – Comandante – Mario Vargas, who also
eventually ran afoul of PJ, but survived. Even PJ
himself visited our home. I remember him as a short,
pudgy and quiet colonel sitting by himself nursing a
drink!
I suppose it was a pretty decadent lifestyle, and
certainly different from Denmark!
We made frequent trip across the border to Cúcuta to
go shopping. The Venezuelan money was worth more
than the Colombian peso and it was possible to buy
imported goods, as well as liquor, in Cúcuta due to
the high tariffs imposed on imports in Venezuela.
There were also good restaurants and the Colombians,
albeit in many ways like the Venezuelan Andinos,
seemed more cultured. As an example, there were
several Colombians employed at my stepfather’s
factory and they always referred to my mother as “su
señora Madre”. The Spanish spoken on the other side
of the border was also closer to Castilian Spanish
than the language spoken in Venezuela; in fact I am
told that most Castilian Spanish spoken in Latin
America is spoken in Medellín, Colombia.
As in most countries there were distinct regional
differences between various areas. The Andinos – or
gochos as they were known by other Venezuelans –
tended to be quiet and dignified, usually white with
a touch of Indian, especially in the mountain
villages. There used to be a saying that “se
usan Ustéd hasta a los gatos” in the Andes, as
the second person “tú” was rarely used except
between parents and their children. The children
would address their parents as “Ustéd”.
The “Maracuchos” from Maracaibo spoke a more
sing-song Spanish characterized by using the second
person plural – vós and Vosotros – among each other.
Supposedly this accent comes from Southern Spain.
In Caracas the Spanish was much less formal and in
many ways similar to Puerto Rican Spanish – or even
today’s Spanglish. For instance, the “r” in
the middle of a word is often pronounced closer to
an “l”. In the East and on the Llanos the language
was less differentiated from “official” Spanish,
which incidentally in those days was always referred
to as “Castellano”, never “Español”!
Ethnically there seemed to be a greater division
between white Criollos and blacks and mulattos in
the Coastal regions and Caracas, while the Llaneros
generally appeared to be more mestizos.
There was a tremendous influx of European immigrants
right after World War II, especially from Italy,
Spain and Portugal and it seemed that most small
businesses, bus lines and stores in Caracas belonged
to recently arrived Southern Europeans.
Caracas had begun its explosive expansion. On that
my first visit I remember seeing the big hole in the
ground from where the Centro Bolivar’s two
skyscrapers were to emerge! Otherwise, the city was
still basically its old Colonial self.
Venezuela was just then emerging from the hangover
of the thirty-five year Juan Vicente Gomez
dictatorship. It had been followed by the
presidencies of two other generals from Táchira:
López Contreras and Medina Angarita and with their
leadership had evolved into the first true
democratic experiment, the novelist Rómulo Gallegos
having been elected president in 1947.
Three major political parties were active: Acción
Democrática (AD) led by Romulo
Betancourt, COPEI (The Christian Democrats)
led by Rafael Caldera and URD whose leader
was Jóvito Villalba.
Both Betancourt and Caldera eventually were elected
president after the fall of General Pérez Jimenez,
while URD’s claim to fame was that they
actually beat Pérez Jimenez’ “official” party in the
fixed elections in 1951! Did not do them any good as
Pérez Jimenez then cancelled the election results
and declared himself the winner.
However, Rómulo Gallegos was ousted by a military
coup in 1948 and succeeded by a Junta Militar de
Gobierno composed of three colonels: Delgado
Chalbaud, Pérez Jimenez and Llovera Paez. Delgado
Chalbaud was kidnapped and brutally assassinated in
1949. While the actual murder was carried out by a
political adventurer, “General” Urbina, who was shot
“trying to escape” afterwards, fingers were and are
pointed at Pérez Jimenez, who ended up running the
country as dictator till 1958.
It is historically significant that the three
colonels were products of Gomez’ new national
Military Academy in Caracas, established in his
successful attempt to do away with the individual
federal states’ militias and thus preventing local
war lords, usually from Táchira, as was Gomez, from
marching on Caracas and starting another civil war,
of which there were many!
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Venezuelan
Currency
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The
Venezuelan currency had been revised introducing the
Bolivar as the basic unit. However, the old
nomenclature was still commonly used, a nomenclature
based on the Venezuelan Peso and Real. The coins,
except for the two smallest denominations, were all
silver, the largest coin being identical in size and
silver content to the European “Crowns” and the US
silver dollar. However, while this coin was worth
Bs. 5, the US Dollar could be bought for Bs. 3.35 in
the forties, as the Bolivar had appreciated. Some
gold coins were still in circulation, most commonly
the Bs. 20 coin which was identical in size to the
Bs. 1 coin, except that Bolivar’s face pointed in
the opposite direction, this to discourage people
from gilding the silver coins and passing them as
gold.
As the silver coins were identical in design, albeit
not in size, and for some reason did not show any
numerical values, one had to be familiar with their
names and monetary values, sometimes that could be
difficult.
• Bs 5:
Similar in size to the US silver dollar,
called the “Fuerte” or “Cachete”:
“Cheek”, as it showed Bolivar’s face in
profile.
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• Bs.2:
Smaller than a US 50 cent coin. Called the “Peso”.
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• Bs.1: About
the size of the US 25 cent coin. The base
unit of the new currency system.
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• 50 centimos:
The “Real” from an older system, a
name still widely in common use in the 40s
and 50s.
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• 25 centimos:
Known as the “Medio” as it was half
of a “Real”. This could be very
complicated when one went shopping. For
instance, a pack of cigarettes cost 75
centimos, but was quoted as “Real y
Medio”!
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• 12.5 centimos:
A nickel copper coin known as the “Locha”
as it was Un Octavo of a Real! Did I lose
you yet?
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• 5 centimos:
Another small nickel copper coin still in
use in the 40s and 50s. Sometimes known as a
“pulga”: Flea.
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In the 1960s the denomination of the coins were
finally printed on the coins and eventually the
silver coins disappeared altogether, to be replaced
by coins made of semi-precious metals, following the
lead of the US and our coins.
By today, inflation of course has made coins
completely irrelevant. By the time I returned to
Venezuela to work in the sixties, the Bolivar had
stabilized at Bs 4.45/$, but today it is around Bs
2,400/$, creating price tags that are hard to
interpret by us old-timers!
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My
Venezuelan Education
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When leaving Denmark I was
in the eight grade, which corresponded
academically to the US third year of High
School. Besides foreign languages – English and
German – (After all, nobody speaks Danish! Even
in that small country a city boy from Copenhagen
was hard pressed to understand the Jutland
dialect, only a hundred miles or so away) we had
begun algebra, trigonometry, physics and
chemistry. I was fluent in English and German,
but of course had no Spanish at all.
So I went to the US right after New Years in
1949 and attended New
York Military Academy in
Cornwall-on-Hudson, NY. I was placed in the
eight grade which academically was way behind
where I had been in Denmark. I did learn how to
make a hospital corner on a bed, do close order
drill and how to field strip a Springfield 30-06
army rifle, as well as American History, which
was a totally new subject for me. One thing that
I will never forget is that while our history
book was quite detailed about World War II,
there was no mention at all about the Holocaust,
and this four years after the end of the war.
So it was decided that I was to attend a
Venezuelan boarding school the next term. The
school chosen was the Colégio de San José de
Mérida, a two hundred year old Jesuit
school attended by the children of the
Venezuelan aristocracy from Caracas, Maracaibo,
San Cristobal and other major cities.
I was placed in the Third Year of Bachillerato,
roughly equivalent to where I had been in
Denmark. In order to remain in that class I
needed to take an equivalency exam in ninety
days, covering two years of Spanish language and
literature. I was drilled in those subjects
every afternoon by one of the Jesuit priests and
passed the exam, which took place in the public
high school, the Liceo and was given by the
teachers of that institution. Speak of total
immersion!
So Spanish in effect became my first language
until I came to the US in 1952 and had to make
yet another change.
I spent two years at the Colégio de San José and
I can only say that they were great years. First
of all, Mérida is an absolutely beautiful place
and with its snow capped mountains quite a
change from the Danish lowlands. By the way, do
not picture Denmark as flat; anyone who has
ridden a bicycle there can attest that it
definitely is not!
The boys that I lived and studied with became
good friends and as the future leaders of
Venezuela, I managed to keep in touch with some.
By now these friends have passed on. The best
known was probably Jorge Olavarria who became
Venezuela’s ambassador to Great Britain,
historian, senator and presidential candidate,
who ended up as a thorn in the side of Hugo
Chavez as a columnist for El Nacional until he
died a couple of years ago.
Among the priests, several stood out. The rector
Fr.Jose Maria Velaz, a Chilean, who eventually
started the educational organization for grown
children of peasants and workers called Fe
y Alegría, very similar to the Danish
Folk High School idea. Fr.Carlos Reyna SJ, an
engineer and the only Venezuelan priest in the
school eventually became the first rector of the
Catholic university in Caracas: Universidad
Católica Andrés Bello. Most of the
priests were Basques from Spain and very much
against Francisco Franco, the Caudillo of Spain.
It was enlightening to me to find out that not
all Franco’s opposition were Communists! These
men certainly were anything but. So another
culture was opened up to me: The Basque.
In December 1950 a DC-3 of AVENSA left
Mérida due for Maiquetía with 27 students of all
ages from the school aboard. It got lost in fog
and crashed into a mountain near Valera, killing
all aboard. A month or so after the crash a
group of volunteer students, including me, went
to the crash site to recover our friends’
belongings. We also brought the plane’s props
back down and they were incorporated into a
memorial monument at the spiritual retreat San
Javiér de Valle Grande, built by the
Jesuits outside of Mérida. They are still there,
perpetually bathed in a small waterfall
symbolizing the eternal tears of the survivors.
A beautiful spot, well worth a visit.
In
March 1951, a group of
seniors went to the
acccident site from where we
brought back the plane's
propellers, which were
installed in the retreat
house which the Jesuit
fathers built at San Javier
del Valle, near Mérida, in
memory of the boys. We
brought a large cross to the
site, which was installed
there.
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A
temporary
interruption
near Chachopo en
route to the
accident site -
a very common
event on the
Carretera
Transandina.
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Carlos Rivas
Cols, a
classmate and
friend, in the
typical type of
bus used in the
Andes in those
days that took
us from Mérida
to Esquque, from
where we made
the rest of the
trip on foot.
Carlos Rivas
became the first
Venezuelan PhD
in Biology, his
area of research
being
bioluminescence.
He is now
emeritus.
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In 1951 my folks moved to Caracas where I
entered the Liceo Andrés Bello for my
5th year of High School or Pre-Universitario,
from where I graduated in 1952. That year was
quite chaotic due to the political situation
precipitated by Pérez Jimenez’ brutal
dictatorship. The students at Liceo Andrés
Bello were middle class Venezuelans and the
children of recent immigrants, a different group
than my friends from Mérida. There were several
strikes which we foreigners – “musiús” as they
called us – could not in any way be identified
with unless we wanted immediate expulsion from
the country.
One day returning from lunch I met a large group
of students being chased down the street from
the school by a machete swinging policeman. I
kept on walking through the crowd; the cop gave
me a curious look and continued his chase.
So I graduated and became a Bachillér de Físicas
y Matemáticas, and as Pérez Jimenez had closed
the universities, I came to the US to study
engineering, but that – as they say – is another
story!
One comment on the difference between the
Venezuelan, Danish and US educational
philosophies – at least back then: The
Venezuelan & Danish systems were very much based
on absolutes and root learning. It was quite an
enlightenment for me to come to the university
in the US and be expected to disagree with the
professor, as long as one’s reasoning and
research were sound.
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Teenage
social life in Caracas
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Dating as we know it was
unknown, at least with Venezuelan girls. Young
people who knew each other well, would often get
together at someone’s house to dance to records and
if the group was larger and not so well acquainted,
the room would be well chaperoned with mothers and
aunts sitting along the walls keeping an eye on
things. On occasion one might double date with two
sisters, who could then keep an eye on each other.
So one made do.
I played soccer with a pick-up Danish team against
similar Italian and Spanish teams – on a very rocky
field I might add. I still have a scar on my knee to
prove that.
I was also involved with a Danish folk-dancing
group, but believe me; Danish folk dancing is not
intended for even temperate albeit un-air
conditioned Caracas.
Once while on vacation from college a Panamanian
friend of mine, his sister and his girlfriend and I
went to the Hotel Tamanaco’s night club.
They had advertised in “El Universal” that
the Mexican singer Pedro Vargas would perform and
there would be no cover or minimum charges. So we
enjoyed a lovely evening listening to Pedro Vargas
singing “La qué se fué” and other
favorites, dancing and each consuming a coke. Well,
the bill arrived and it included both a cover and
minimum charge! Fortunately we found a copy of “El
Universal” and proved to the head waiter that
we had been misled, so we avoided washing dishes or
whatever the local penalty would have been for not
paying a night club bill!
Through a young lady from Spain, with whom I worked
during the Christmas vacation of my last year in
high school, I was also invited to the Galician
social club, the “Lar Gallego” where I
learned to dance to the Galician bagpipe music!
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The next
phase
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After receiving my engineering
degree in 1956 I went to work for the Oilwell
Supply Division of U.S.
Steel Corporation (now National
Oilwell Varco), as well as got
married and had two little Texans born in Odessa.
After four years working mainly in Odessa, Texas, I
was sent to Venezuela as District Engineer for Oilwell –
known as USSI Ltd. in
Venezuela - based in Anaco.
The company had built a very nice little camp with a
warehouse and office, and three lovely quintas,
appropriately named Ruth, Carole and Nancy after
the wives of three big shots from Dallas. Fair
enough, I suppose.
For awhile Oilwell also
had an office and warehouse in Maracaibo where I did
vacation relief a couple of times, thus getting
familiar with the Maracaibo end of the Venezuelan
oil fields.
One thing that stands out was that when a vendor
called on the Shell headquarters,
one was expected to wear a coat and a tie! In
Maracaibo yet. At least the building was
air-conditioned.
The bridge had yet to be built and it was always a
welcome relief to be able to get on the ferry at the
end of the day and sip a cold “Polar” on
the way back to Maracaibo from the east side of the
lake!
A friend took me to the local TB sanitarium where I
purchased some very nice red placemats and napkins
embroidered by the patients, which we still have and
use.
In Anaco our biggest client was Mobil and
their Campo Norte was pretty much the center of
everyone’s social activities. There were a lot of
nice people in Anaco, clients and competitors both –
our camp was right next door to National
Supply on the Carretera Negra leading
to Puerto LaCruz.
Amazing to think that those two major competitors
eventually merged into National-Oilwell,
sort of like Ford and General
Motors merging!
I was mainly involved with the development,
installation and operation of Oilwell’s
hydraulic subsurface pumps with Mobil.
It was a way to get the very heavy oil out of the
ground, not always successful. I had a can of that
crude sitting on my desk upside down. It never did
flow out!
We were of course also involved in the sales and
service of all of Oilwell’s
other products from sucker rods through secondary
recovery pumps to entire drilling rigs.
On one occasion one of the local drilling
contractor’s rigs burned to the ground. They ordered
a new rig from us – lock, stock and barrel. My boss
took the next Avensa Convair
to Caracas to call Dallas to place the order as
telephone service was pretty much non-existent in
Anaco. The order was placed and the rig eventually
delivered, but my boss was put on the carpet for
having spent the money to fly to Caracas!
Without getting into ragging on one’s former
employer, they did have a certain provincial point
of view. For one, they had given us VWs as company
cars. The reason was that VW in Germany was a big
customer for US Steel steel
sheets. Try to take a toolpusher from West Texas out
to lunch in your Beetle while trying to convince him
that US products are better than the European
product just entering the markets back then! Not an
easy sell.
Once a group of big shots from Pittsburgh and Dallas
flew into Anaco in the company Vickers Viscount – a
British turboprop plane!
We also had a 1958 Chevy two door station wagon with
standard shift and no radio or air conditioning.
Enough said. After my wrecking the last Beetle, the
big boss in Dallas found a second hand 1958 Pontiac
V8 with all the bells and whistles which he sent us.
Just try to get spare parts for a Pontiac V8 in
Eastern Venezuela in 1961. Not easy.
By the way, we were not the only ones experimenting
with unusual cars. Mobil bought a bunch of English
Fords. Nice looking cars, but not really meant for
caliche roads!
Speaking of provincial, they sent an engineer down
from the Oilwell factory
in Pennsylvania to work on a problem with the
hydraulic subsurface pumps. He was a rather frugal
Pennsylvania Dutchman and found it outrageous that
we ate lunch in the Texaco dining
hall in Mata or wherever it was and had to pay Bs.5
for the meal. The next day he demonstratively packed
a ham sandwich and brought it with him and suggested
that I do the same. I answered, that in a place
where a dead body had to be buried within 24 hours,
I wasn’t about to eat a ham sandwich that had sat in
my un-air conditioned car for any length of time.
The next day he joined us in the Texaco dining
hall.
On the positive side, he borrowed my car one weekend
to go to the beach at Puerto LaCruz. When he
returned he told me that he had filled up the tank
using the Mobil credit
card in the glove compartment. As there were no
credit cards in Venezuela then, I expressed some
surprise. He showed me the card. It was a gate-pass
to Mobil’s Campo Norte in
Anaco.
So we got into the rhythm of living in Eastern
Venezuela. Shopping was no great problem as
Rockefeller’s CADA supermarket
was in the local shopping center. Our little kids
started nursery school and kindergarten in the Escuela
Anaco in the Mobil camp.
We learned how to play decent bridge and got
involved with the little theatre, also in the Mobil club.
That was fun, except when rain hit the sheet metal
roof during a performance and the audience had to
crowd up around the stage to be able to hear
anything.
Due to the coincidence of Venezuela’s and the US
independence days being back to back, there always
were big back to back parties July 4-5.
After one of these parties another young couple and
we decided to go for a swim in the pool – fully
dressed. (Don’t ask). I did carefully fold up my
brand new dinner jacket on the side of the pool only
to have the ladies stand on it to drain when the
swim was over. When we got home, our maid Adelaide
very helpfully put the dinner jacket in the washing
machine.
So who was around Anaco in those days? Mobil of
course, as well as Gulf around
San Tomé. Santa Fe Drilling and H&P were
there, as well as a multitude of service and supply
companies. Texaco had
fields east of El Tigre as well at Roblecito near
Las Mercedes west of Valle de la Pascua, only
accessible by a long, dusty ride on a dirt road. We
installed a couple of large compressors there.
The airport was served daily from Caracas by Avensa Convairs
and Fokker F-27s, with a DC-3 that continued on to
Canaima with tourists on the week-end.
The daily trip to meet the Convair was a necessary
tradition, as we also picked up our aero-paquete
with the mail forwarded from Caracas.
On occasion we would visit the new Sears in
Puerto LaCruz and have lunch there and a great
advantage for us was that my parents lived first in
Ciudad Piár by the Orinoco Mining
Company iron mines and later in Ciudád
Bolivar. They thus got to know their first two grand
children for the first time.
To reach C.B. one drove about 200 km, first to El
Tigre and then 120 km on an absolutely straight road
with only one slight dog leg in the middle to
Soledad where one crossed the Orinoco on a barge
pushed by a tugboat. That involved a maneuver where
the barge had to be turned around in mid stream in a
strong current. It is no accident that Ciudád
Bolivar’s original name was Angostura: The narrows!
Business however, was slowing down as
nationalization was on the horizon. The oil
companies were not importing any more new equipment
than what was absolutely necessary, as they expected
to lose it in the near future.
That of course meant that we did sell a lot of spare
parts, even big stuff. Emergency deliveries were
made by RANSA C-46s
directly into Anaco. Once I had to deliver a bull
gear for a mud pump in our VW pick-up truck to a rig
somewhere. The front wheels of the VW were barely on
the ground with that load in the back. The
speedometer only went to 100 kmh and the needle was
on the peg. One couldn’t keep a drilling rig
waiting.
We all went home for a month in the summer and the
tradition of course was to stock up on new clothes.
Everyone had the same Samsonite suitcases.
Once my boss and his family came back from vacation,
opened the suitcase only to find someone else’s
dirty laundry! Fortunately the switchees were honest
people, found some Oilwell catalogues
in the suitcase with all the new clothes, called Oilwell in
Dallas and the exchange was made.
On the minus side, hepatitis was endemic. My wife
went home a week or so early on vacation only to
send me a telegram that she was in the hospital with
hepatitis! We had had a despedida for her, so I had
to advise all the guests and round up all the gamma
globulin shots in Eastern Venezuela for them.
Awkward, to say the least and not very hospitable.
The tragic part about the hepatitis was that many of
the men got it, would treat it as a bad flu only to
have it come back and sometimes kill them.
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Bureaucracy
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At
age sixteen I had been issued a cédula de Identidad,
in those days a mini passport with a convict-style
picture with a number hung around your neck, finger
print etc.
When I eventually was going back to Venezuela to
work I was told by the consulate in New York to
forget about that cédula, so when we arrived in
Venezuela my wife and I were issued new cédulas.
Shortly after that I was arrested, as I “already had
a cédula”. So I went to Caracas to try to straighten
up this mess, not easy, as I had changed my
citizenship, my name - when being naturalized – my
profession and last but not least: My “estado civil”
– being married and all! I could handle all but the
last issue, so I returned to Anaco with my new
cédula – with the old number – and the shocking
surprise to my wife that I was now “soltero”-
single! She of course had had no trouble getting
declared “casada” on her cédula. The local
authorities in Anaco helpfully suggested that the
easiest way for us to proceed would be to get
married locally. We started down that road only to
find out that my wife would be committing bigamy by
marrying me, as she obviously already was “casada”.
So we did it the long way, getting our Texas
marriage license translated and certified all the
way from Graham through Austin and Washington to
Caracas. By the time we received the final
documents, there were so many stamps on it that it
was hardly legible, but at least my wife was now an
honest woman and our kids legitimate – again.
An acquaintance of mine in Anaco, when applying for
his cédula, indicated that his mother was deceased.
So his full name in the cédula appeared as “John
Smith Deceased” as by Spanish custom your mother’s
last name would always be placed after your
father’s.
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Traffic
Law Enforcement
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This was an issue that most of
us got entangled with one way or the other. For me
it was a bit easier as I was fluent in Spanish, but
not all that easy.
I had a head on collision at 4 am with a truck on
the dirt road between Aragua de Barcelona and Valle
de la Pascua. My poor VW Beetle company car ended up
pitifully in the opposite ditch, all wadded up, but
with one headlight still shining straight up in the
air. The truck driver took me home and then beat it.
So there I stood at sunrise by my front door,
suitcase in hand with blood pouring down my face.
The Beetle was not a US export model and did not
have safety glass in the windshield! My wife took me
to the Mobil hospital
where they patched me up only for me to be arrested
for leaving the scene of an accident! Luckily for
me, the truck driver had really left the scene so
the charges were dropped.
There was an infamous local cop at Cantaura between
Anaco and El Tigre who used to stop speeders –
probably with good justification. When my turn came
I told him to give me the ticket and let me be on my
way. He argued that it would be very complicated if
I got the ticket etc etc and we could settle it on
the spot, but I wouldn’t budge. He finally gave up
and said that at least I could buy him a beer! So I
handed him 2 Bs! He got furious, threw the coin at
me and got out of my car and went away. He later got
fired and set up business for himself on the road to
Maturín where on a deserted stretch in his old
uniform sans badges, etc. where he specialized in
stopping American women and holding them up for
money.
During some minor political upheaval when F-86s
of the Venezuelan Air Force buzzed Anaco, I was
crossing the Orinoco on the barge when a man in bits
and pieces of uniform stuck a carbine in my face and
demanded “mís papeles”. I had had it and demanded
his. A dumb thing to do with a carbine pointed at
you, I must admit. However, he handed me an ID from
the Ministry of Agriculture which I looked at and
then handed him my cédula and Título de Chofer, and
we parted friends.
The national highway patrol had installed radar sets
on the rear fenders of their new 1960 Chevrolets.
Rumor had it that the radar would sterilize them –
as it turned out, not that far from the truth, so
they deactivated most of them. One of them did catch
me at Barcelona and again it was suggested that we
settle the problem right there. I had little cash
with me, so I gave him a check (!) which I then
stopped payment on – again not the wisest move, as
the cop came looking for me in Anaco afterwards,
fortunately he looked in the “National
Supply” camp where my competitors
nobly covered up for me!
These stories could go on, I suppose.
One thing that was very clear was that if one was in
real trouble, the Guardia Nacional, in my
experience, always was on the up and up and could be
depended on to assist you.
The Guardia Nacional, officially known as the
Fuerzas Armadas de Cooperación, is a branch of the
Venezuelan Armed Forces instituted by Gomez, a
national uniformed police force patterned on the
Spanish Guardia Civíl and the Italian Carabinieri.
In “my day” they wore Italian-style green uniforms
with soft caps that had a visor and ear flaps for
use in the colder climes of the country.
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Transportation
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Venezuela by Rail. Now
don’t laugh! President Gomez had built quite an
extensive narrow gage railroad system. One could
take the train in LaGuaira and go to Caracas where
the station was near El Silencio. Then from the same
station through Maracay – Gomez’ favorite city where
he, according to tradition, built the hotel El
Jardín to house his 200 mistresses – to
Valencia and then to Puerto Cabello.
Another railroad was built from Santa Barbara del
Zulia at the south western end of Lake Maracaibo to
Estación Táchira by San Juan de Colón north of San
Cristobal. This railroad actually had a branch that
crossed the border into Colombia. The Caracas-LaGuaira
railroad was destroyed in the yearly floods of 1948
and the railroad between Zulia and Táchira was
abandoned some time in the forties. However, as late
as 1954 I took the train from Valencia to Caracas
and back several times, a really nice and
picturesque trip.
Pérez Jimenez built a standard gage railroad from
Puerto Cabello to Barquisimeto, carrying both
freight and passengers. I do not know if that
railroad is still in operation.
Venezuela by Road. When I arrived in
Venezuela as a teenager, most of the highways were
still dirt roads, except around Caracas and
Maracaibo. During the reign of Pérez Jimenez, the
Autopista Caracas-LaGuaira was built, cutting the
trip from 4-5 hours by switchback road to less than
2 hours. I understand that a viaduct on that road
recently was fund unsafe, rerouting traffic back to
the old road.
The new Panamerican Highway north of the Cordillera
Andina was also built at that time, making it
unnecessary to use Gomez’ old Carretera Trasandina
from San Cristobal via Mérida to Valera, a dirt road
that crossed at least three páramos – high mountain
passes – at El Zumbador, La Negra and Mucuchíes
(Pico Áquila). The road followed Simón Bolívar’s
route when he marched on Caracas during the War of
Independence and was built by convict labor,
including political prisoners. Tradition has it that
it cost one human life per kilometer.
Transportation over the roads was provided either by
private cars, camionetas such as the early Chevrolet
Suburbans that carried about 8-9 passengers, and Por
Puestos that were regular automobiles carrying five
unrelated passengers or buses.
The latter in those days were built of wood on truck
chassis and painted in bright colors. They did not
have glazed windows, but canvas curtains to roll
down in case of rain. I remember that the Línea
Primavera carried passengers from San Cristobal to
Caracas. As none of these conveyances had
air-conditioning – or heaters for that matter – and
the windows were usually open, the rides tended to
be long, tiring and very dusty.
One unavoidable feature of traveling by road were
the Alcabalas. They were permanent road
blocks manned by the Nacional, presumably to control
who and why people were traveling. They would have a
chain or wire rope across the dirt road, which they
would lower after giving you the beady eye and allow
you to proceed.
As I drove without a driver’s license for the first
four years of my stay in Venezuela, there was always
a certain tension passing through one of the alcabalas in
Táchira and Mérida, but I was never challenged.
One had to be either 18 or 21 to get a driver’s
license – I forget which - even with hanky-panky
with the “Authorities”; I did not manage to get a
driver’s license.
I did, however, learn to drive during the summer of
1949 when my stepfather was renovating a small
hydroelectric plant in San Juán de Colón and I
worked on that project. We drove back and forth in a
1947 Jeep CJ. The early CJs actually had a column
shift. It was discontinued shortly afterwards, but
until the Jeep body style was changed in the 60s,
there still was an unexplained notch in the
dashboard over the steering column to accommodate
the defunct column shift!
You can win bets with that piece of knowledge at the
next auto show!
While in high school I also drove the jeep belonging
to the Colegio de San José, as well as
their Ford panel truck and a surplus WW II Canadian
Dodge olive drab dump truck that had a canvas
covered escape hatch in the roof on the passenger
side of the cab. That particular vehicle, last I saw
it in 1960, was sleeping in the monte at the San
Javier del Valle spiritual retreat, and
probably by now has been completely overgrown and
quietly absorbed by nature.
The first “real car” that I drove – still without a
license – was my stepfather’s 1950 Nash Ambassador,
the famous bathtub model. Really a very great car.
Trivia: He also had had a 1949 Nash 600 –
woefully underpowered – and both had real leather
interiors – albeit no “Weather
Eye” heaters. So there, aren’t you glad you
asked?
Personally I had the opportunity to use all these
means of transportation over the years.
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Vignettes
of traveling by car in Venezuela
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In 1960 my wife and I drove
from Maracaibo to Mérida, Barinas, Roblecito and
Anaco in my’58 Ford Station Wagon, crossing the El
Áquila páramo. Along the way we came across a
similar ’58 Ford Por Puesto with a punctured tire
and a flat spare. I lent the driver my spare and
together we went to the next village where he got
his tires fixed and I my spare back. It was a
natural thing to do in the Andes, but I doubt that I
would have stopped for this reason anywhere further
east.
We also picked up a group of red-cheeked school kids
in their ponchos and alpargatas (Woven sandals with
soles made of worn out tires) who were on their way
to school. I am sure they arrived at least an hour
early that morning!
On the highest point of the voyage, at the Pico
Áquila, I got out of the car and took a picture of
my wife with the snow covered peaks in the
background. I will never forget how I had to huff
and puff to walk back to the car at that altitude!
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Venezuela
by Air
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When
I arrived in Venezuela, three airlines served
the interior routes of the country:
• Línea
Aeropostal
Venezolana (LAV),
the
government
owned
airline. It
started
business in
the late
thirties
using new
twin engined
Lockheed
Electras,
the kind of
plane used
by Amelia
Earhart.
Later they
converted to
DC-3s,
Martin 202s
and Vickers
Viscount
turboprops.
They had two
model 049
Lockheed
Constellations,
the “Simón
Bolivar” and
the
“Francisco
de Miranda”
flying
between New
York and
Maiquetía,
later
replaced by
two Super
Constellations,
one of which
crashed
after taking
off from New
York.
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Lockheed Electra
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DC-3
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Martin 202
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Vickers Viscount
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Constellation
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Eventually LAV joined
with KLM in
a joint venture called VIASA serving
international routes.
Some of their jets were
painted with KLM livery
on one side and VIASA livery
on the other.
LAV eventually
went out of business,
but I believe it has
been resuscitated as a
domestic carrier.
There seemed to have
been a great deal of
official corruption
involved, especially
during the Pérez Jimenez
years.
On one flight between
Caracas and Barinas,
the LAV DC-3
that I was on having
started the leg to
Barquisimeto returned to
Puerto Cabello being low
on fuel. The pilot asked
the passengers for money
to fill up the tanks as
the local fuel supplier
would not give LAV credit,
but found no takers. We
then returned to
Maiquetía, filled up and
started all over again
making it safely to
Barinas, late, but
there, as the comedian
Shelley Berman used to
say!
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• Aerovias
Venezolanas S.A. (AVENSA),
originally a subsidiary of Pan
American World Airways.
Service started with DC-3s, then
a few DC-4s joined the fleet
flying between Maracaibo and
Maiquetía, succeeded by Convair
440s and Fokker F-27s. At some
point Avensa became
independent of PanAm and
used DC-6s and then DC-9s to
serve some national and
international routes.
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DC-4
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Convair 440
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Fokker F-27
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DC-6
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DC-9
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It was
probably the preferred airline
to use due to its connection
with PanAm.
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• Transportes
Aéreas Centroamericanos C.A. (TACA)/TACA
de Venezuela. This
airline and its DC-3s were
fairly popular, but I believe TACA
de Venezuela was
bought out by LAV in
1958.
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• Rutas
Aéreas Nacionales S.A. (RANSA)
was a cargo airline that flew
C-46s between Miami and
Venezuela.
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Photos From
Later Years
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These
two ladies are my wife Judy and oldest
daughter Lynn - 1960.
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USSI Ltd./Oilwell Office -
Anaco. Our two Venezuelan employees in 1960.
The camp was on the Carretera Negra next to
our competitor - National Supply.
Both camps still exist, but Oilwell and National of
course have merged and they use what was
the National facility now.
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