The other day, the daughter of my history teacher (and deputy head) from secondary school in Yorkshire, England, messaged me on Facebook with photos of a letter I had sent to her father many years ago. I still keep in touch with my teacher, even though almost 50 years have passed since I left school. He was kind to me and was one of those teachers who took an interest in what you did, not just at school, but after you left, too. He cared.
What really surprised me was that he had actually kept my letters all these years, written to him in my 20s during my adventures in South America, including this one below written from Venezuela.
Back then, there was no email, so it was perfectly normal to keep in touch with people via handwritten letters posted from afar. I really miss this way of staying in touch. I wonder when you last received a handwritten letter from a friend or family member?
In the early days of the internet, emails quickly began to replace hand written letters. At first we used to print messages and keep them in folders, but I think we seldom even do this today.
Out of curiosity, I wondered how easy it would be to turn the photos of this handwritten letter into text and tried a few JPEG-to-text converters, but they weren't even close. Then, I recorded myself reading the letter and used Descript (which is free) to transcribe the audio. It’s amazing how quick and easy that was.
When I read this letter, written 35 years ago, the memories came flooding back. If you’re at all curious about the letter, here it is. There’s nothing personal in it; it’s just a description of a week spent on a work visa run from Brazil to Venezuela and back again. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
São João del Rei, Minas Gerais, Brazil.
Dear John, Carol, Catherine, and Sarah,
Things are interesting here in South America, and I wanted to share what's been happening.
I flew from Belo Horizonte, a three-hour bus ride from where I live, to Rio. From there, I caught a plane directly to Caracas, Venezuela. I'm experiencing the first days of spring here in Brazil, which is also technically summer in some areas, but honestly, it feels just like any other time of year – hot. The temperature seems unaffected by the changing seasons.
Caracas is a very large, modern city. A lady on the plane told me three million people live here, two million in favelas. Here, they speak Spanish, so my Portuguese is useless, unfortunately. There doesn't seem to be any similarity in pronunciation.
I am sitting at a restaurant having onion soup, which accounts for the splashes on the paper. Speaking of onion soup, try cooking cheese in a slab and slightly browning it on top. This is probably done by heating the soup in a metal bowl, as the cheese looks very much attached to the edges. Inside are slices of crunchy bread. It's delicious. The food here is amazing. I have tried everything we can't get in England: squid, octopus, etc. The shrimp and mussels are cooked in wine.
The beaches here are a tropical dream, fringed with coconut trees and towering palms. We are not far from the Bahamas. The islands off the coast are not as well known but just as beautiful.
I met a guy called Antonio who was listening, as I was, to a group of musicians playing and singing in the street. He spoke good English and discovered we share the same interests. Antonio is a technician for Fujifilm. His grandmother and family are indigenous Indians. His mother and he are the first generation Indians to live in the outside world, although his mother still speaks Guaario, her native Indian tongue.
For several days, Antonio became the perfect guide and teacher. He showed me the city, both rich and poor. We went to hear the Venezuelan Symphony Orchestra on Sunday at 11 a.m., playing Brahms. We also visited the Picasso Museum, the Degas Exhibition, the Fox Talbot exhibition, three other exhibitions, and mixed contemporary exhibitions from Venezuela and Mexico. We went to the Science Museum, the Contemporary Art Museum, the Piano Museum, and visited jazz clubs, theaters, traditional music clubs, etc.
Antonio had been to university and is my age, 29. He educated me on the history of Venezuela, from the discovery of oil (which makes up 90 percent of the economy) to the geography and the political situation. After my visa application to live and work in Brazil was submitted at the Embassy, I decided to take a plane and try to find the place Antonio’s family originated from.
This meant a one-hour flight from Caracas to Puerto Ordaz. This is a town where most of the iron and gold are found. I had to persuade a pilot to fly me into the Gran Sabana, and as I was alone, with no other passengers that day, I had to pay for the empty seats. Puerto Ordaz is on the bank of the Orinoco, and from the air, it looked like a vast sea of vegetation with the river winding through it to infinity.
Here, I met the indigenous people, and at the cooperative trading post, I bought beautiful rugs, bedspreads, bowls, masks, and pots. Much of the region is unexplored and only inhabited by indigenous people. There are vast table mountains called tepuis by the indigenous people. These have mythological meaning to them, being inhabited by the gods of good, evil, nature, and sacred animals.
The most spectacular tepui was near the Angel Falls, named after an American who tried to land a plane there unsuccessfully and crashed in 1933. It poured with rain at exactly 12 o'clock. I was prepared, but it was quite frightening—the sound of the thunder and lightning. I saw the most beautiful flowers along the waterfalls and the river, which was powerful and muddy. I saw tropical birds (not as many as I had hoped), monkeys, and turtles. I didn't see a jaguar or any fish at this stage.
The indigenous people I met were used to strangers, but it was incredible. They were so calm, polite, and helpful. I saw them making rugs on a hand loom, beautiful, intense colors. I tried to learn the drums too but soon my hands stung, and I had to stop. They thought this very funny. The women and children have sharp wooden sticks through their faces, sometimes covered with paint. I saw a spirit dance, and they took me through the quiet waters of the river in a canoe. There, I can say, is paradise—the sound of the birds and the intense sun shining through the trees, palms, plants, and flowers. How can we destroy this? Luckily, this is a national park.
Where I landed from the canoe, I saw and learned some sign language, which, when words are not possible, is just as easy to understand and more fun at times. The indigenous people make the most wonderful range of pots, necklaces, ceramics, musical instruments (flutes, maracas, drums, etc.), canoes, arrows, harpoons, blowpipes, hats, baskets, hammocks and many more things I noted and tried to draw. They make masks out of palm fiber, wax and paint them with honey and pigments, so when you pick them up, they are surprisingly sticky. At this point, an individual raided my table and ran away with the food. I signaled to the cook that it was okay.
I slept in a hammock and was grateful for the insect repellent my friend bought me in Caracas. I slept despite getting bitten by creatures I never saw. The next day, I went fishing with the Indians and saw the crops they were growing. I ate a fish for dinner and for tea, beautifully prepared, which I did not catch myself.
My week here in Venezuela has been great. I got my two-year work visa for Brazil. Flying to Rio tonight, then to Belo Horizonte.
Paul Barton
The other day, the daughter of my history teacher (and deputy head) from secondary school in Yorkshire, England, messaged me on Facebook with photos of a letter I had sent to her father many years ago. I still keep in touch with my teacher, even though almost 50 years have passed since I left school. He was kind to me and was one of those teachers who took an interest in what you did, not just at school, but after you left, too. He cared.
What really surprised me was that he had actually kept my letters all these years, written to him in my 20s during my adventures in South America, including this one below written from Venezuela.
Back then, there was no email, so it was perfectly normal to keep in touch with people via handwritten letters posted from afar. I really miss this way of staying in touch. I wonder when you last received a handwritten letter from a friend or family member?
In the early days of the internet, emails quickly began to replace hand written letters. At first we used to print messages and keep them in folders, but I think we seldom even do this today.
Out of curiosity, I wondered how easy it would be to turn the photos of this handwritten letter into text and tried a few JPEG-to-text converters, but they weren't even close. Then, I recorded myself reading the letter and used Descript (which is free) to transcribe the audio. It’s amazing how quick and easy that was.
When I read this letter, written 35 years ago, the memories came flooding back. If you’re at all curious about the letter, here it is. There’s nothing personal in it; it’s just a description of a week spent on a work visa run from Brazil to Venezuela and back again.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
São João del Rei, Minas Gerais, Brazil.
Dear John, Carol, Catherine, and Sarah,
Things are interesting here in South America, and I wanted to share what's been happening.
I flew from Belo Horizonte, a three-hour bus ride from where I live, to Rio. From there, I caught a plane directly to Caracas, Venezuela. I'm experiencing the first days of spring here in Brazil, which is also technically summer in some areas, but honestly, it feels just like any other time of year – hot. The temperature seems unaffected by the changing seasons.
Caracas is a very large, modern city. A lady on the plane told me three million people live here, two million in favelas. Here, they speak Spanish, so my Portuguese is useless, unfortunately. There doesn't seem to be any similarity in pronunciation.
I am sitting at a restaurant having onion soup, which accounts for the splashes on the paper. Speaking of onion soup, try cooking cheese in a slab and slightly browning it on top. This is probably done by heating the soup in a metal bowl, as the cheese looks very much attached to the edges. Inside are slices of crunchy bread. It's delicious. The food here is amazing. I have tried everything we can't get in England: squid, octopus, etc. The shrimp and mussels are cooked in wine.
The beaches here are a tropical dream, fringed with coconut trees and towering palms. We are not far from the Bahamas. The islands off the coast are not as well known but just as beautiful.
I met a guy called Antonio who was listening, as I was, to a group of musicians playing and singing in the street. He spoke good English and discovered we share the same interests. Antonio is a technician for Fujifilm. His grandmother and family are indigenous Indians. His mother and he are the first generation Indians to live in the outside world, although his mother still speaks Guaario, her native Indian tongue.
For several days, Antonio became the perfect guide and teacher. He showed me the city, both rich and poor. We went to hear the Venezuelan Symphony Orchestra on Sunday at 11 a.m., playing Brahms. We also visited the Picasso Museum, the Degas Exhibition, the Fox Talbot exhibition, three other exhibitions, and mixed contemporary exhibitions from Venezuela and Mexico. We went to the Science Museum, the Contemporary Art Museum, the Piano Museum, and visited jazz clubs, theaters, traditional music clubs, etc.
Antonio had been to university and is my age, 29. He educated me on the history of Venezuela, from the discovery of oil (which makes up 90 percent of the economy) to the geography and the political situation. After my visa application to live and work in Brazil was submitted at the Embassy, I decided to take a plane and try to find the place Antonio’s family originated from.
This meant a one-hour flight from Caracas to Puerto Ordaz. This is a town where most of the iron and gold are found. I had to persuade a pilot to fly me into the Gran Sabana, and as I was alone, with no other passengers that day, I had to pay for the empty seats. Puerto Ordaz is on the bank of the Orinoco, and from the air, it looked like a vast sea of vegetation with the river winding through it to infinity.
Here, I met the indigenous people, and at the cooperative trading post, I bought beautiful rugs, bedspreads, bowls, masks, and pots. Much of the region is unexplored and only inhabited by indigenous people. There are vast table mountains called tepuis by the indigenous people. These have mythological meaning to them, being inhabited by the gods of good, evil, nature, and sacred animals.
The most spectacular tepui was near the Angel Falls, named after an American who tried to land a plane there unsuccessfully and crashed in 1933. It poured with rain at exactly 12 o'clock. I was prepared, but it was quite frightening—the sound of the thunder and lightning. I saw the most beautiful flowers along the waterfalls and the river, which was powerful and muddy. I saw tropical birds (not as many as I had hoped), monkeys, and turtles. I didn't see a jaguar or any fish at this stage.
The indigenous people I met were used to strangers, but it was incredible. They were so calm, polite, and helpful. I saw them making rugs on a hand loom, beautiful, intense colors. I tried to learn the drums too but soon my hands stung, and I had to stop. They thought this very funny. The women and children have sharp wooden sticks through their faces, sometimes covered with paint. I saw a spirit dance, and they took me through the quiet waters of the river in a canoe. There, I can say, is paradise—the sound of the birds and the intense sun shining through the trees, palms, plants, and flowers. How can we destroy this? Luckily, this is a national park.
Where I landed from the canoe, I saw and learned some sign language, which, when words are not possible, is just as easy to understand and more fun at times. The indigenous people make the most wonderful range of pots, necklaces, ceramics, musical instruments (flutes, maracas, drums, etc.), canoes, arrows, harpoons, blowpipes, hats, baskets, hammocks and many more things I noted and tried to draw. They make masks out of palm fiber, wax and paint them with honey and pigments, so when you pick them up, they are surprisingly sticky. At this point, an individual raided my table and ran away with the food. I signaled to the cook that it was okay.
I slept in a hammock and was grateful for the insect repellent my friend bought me in Caracas. I slept despite getting bitten by creatures I never saw. The next day, I went fishing with the Indians and saw the crops they were growing. I ate a fish for dinner and for tea, beautifully prepared, which I did not catch myself.
My week here in Venezuela has been great. I got my two-year work visa for Brazil. Flying to Rio tonight, then to Belo Horizonte.
Please write soon.
Love to you all,
Paul.
8 months ago | [YT] | 712