Be that as it may, while Standard Oil and Royal Dutch Shell milked the ground surrounding Lake Maracaibo at full speed, they were faced with a geographical challenge that could not easily be avoided. As far as lakes go, Maracaibo is vast, but it is also uncommon in that it is not completely surrounded by land, but rather feeds into the Caribbean waters of the Gulf of Venezuela through a narrow strait. This sounds like excellent news if you are a multinational oil giant seeking to transport three hundred thousand barrels of crude every day out of the basin. Not so excellent news, however, is the matter that the strait is not only narrow, but also seriously shallow. Indeed, too shallow to allow the passage of large tankers bound to the coasts of Europe and North America.
Consequently, transshipment facilities had to be built in the neighboring islands of Aruba and Curaçao, where flexible fiscal arrangements for the import and export of crude were sufficient incentive for both companies to build storage bases. Soon enough, Standard Oil began erecting the Lago storage station and refinery in Aruba, completed between 1924 and 1929, while Royal Dutch Shell developed the Isla complex in Curaçao as early as 1924 and the Eagle refinery in Aruba by 1928. In this same period, two decades of tentative explorations in and around the town of Pointe-à-Pierre in Trinidad bore fruit as well, placing the island at the top of the list of oil producers in the British Empire.
Imperceptibly, the scene had been set for the paradigm shift to take place in the economy of the West Indies, as the brutal consequences of the 1929 market crash were evident in the price of sugar, which was far too low to warrant the cost of labor of the thousands of workers required to cut the cane. And while, yes, the price of oil was also affected by the global crisis, the rate of recovery was far quicker for an industry that was to power every war in the bloodiest century in the history of mankind. Thus started the black-gold rush in the Caribbean; thus emerged a new industry, which took over as the main provider in a region that was desperate for provision.
Aruba’s Lago refinery went on to become the largest in the world, employing more than seven thousand people during World War II and processing most of the crude extracted from Venezuela. Strategically, it became such an important site that the German navy sought to test the effectiveness of its U-boat force by sending a mission to the shores of South America. The big hit was to take place in the early hours of the morning of February 16, 1942. U-boat 156, stationed off the coast of St. Nicolaas Bay in Aruba, had successfully torpedoed a number of tankers moored nearby, setting them ablaze. Lago refinery glowed in the darkness of the night, not so much due to the fires burning offshore, but because during the war it was operated 24/7, and it had not occurred to anyone in charge that this could be done equally efficiently and substantially more safely if the compound remained unlit.
So the bulbs that hugged the contours of the refinery also marked the target against which the able seaman aboard U-156 aligned his 10.5 cm gun to launch a good proportion of the 110 shells he had available. However, just as Lieutenant Commander Werner Hartenstein gave the order to Feuer! the seaman proved to be less able than expected, as he overlooked the essential task of removing the gun cap from the end of the barrel, provoking an explosion that took his life, ruined the gun, and sent U-156 with its tail between its legs back to an R&R station in, not Tintamarre, but Martinique. Uncannily, Lago and the quarter of a million barrels of crude it processed daily for the duration of the war were saved from extinction. For good measure, though, the refinery worked in complete darkness from that night onward.
At the time of the attack, Rude Thompson was but a four-year-old toddler with no knowledge of where or what Aruba was. However, within ten years the refineries in the south, be it Lago, Isla, or anywhere else, represented a very distinct way out of the misery in which Rude, his five siblings, and his single mother were immersed. Struggling to make a living, he did whatever he could to help his mother. But there simply wasn’t all that much to do in Anguilla in the early 1950s—shops were attended by their owners, the civil service comprised about fifteen people, there was no industry on the island, not even tourism, and construction was largely a private affair handled by the landowners and their families during their free time. So, on the warm afternoons when the yard needed looking after, Rude Thompson would till his family’s land to grow the eggplants, the yams, the ginger, and the sweet potatoes they would later trade for flour, tomatoes, and corn, while standing in the relentless sun, wearing his tired hat and his long trousers, pick and rake in hand, and would dream about the possibility of making the journey to Aruba, to Curaçao, to Trinidad, to work hard and earn his right to dream a proper dream.
And so, before the oil companies discovered the benefits of automation, Rude Thompson heard from his best friend since primary school, Gaynor Henderson, that the brother of a cousin’s friend worked in a refinery, and that the work was easy, although the hours were long, and that the company provided for anything you needed, or pretty close to anything, anyway—they had large housing complexes, with their own schools and their own hospitals, and they had vast dining rooms where you could purchase a meal with coupons that worked out to be real cheap, and the best thing was the pay—a check so large that this brother of Gaynor’s cousin’s friend could afford to send more money home than you’ve ever seen all at once, and he could still afford to pay for his life out there, and Hell, for da’ kinda money, I go do twice so many hours dan he. Except, of course, that Rude Thompson couldn’t have done a single minute of work, because he was just fourteen years old, and none of the refineries down south would allow him or anyone else below the mandatory age of sixteen to come anywhere near a job.
For two years Rude Thompson was left to hear the scolding mutterings of his overworked mother, while he dreamt of what might be. But while he worked and dreamt, his purpose became stronger and, coincidentally, his path became clearer, as the steps removing him from being an employee at Lago refinery in Aruba became progressively fewer. One day Rude met Gaynor’s cousin, and then he met his brother, whose friend worked at the refinery, and all of a sudden this friend gained a name, Wilbur, and the refinery wasn’t just any refinery, it wasn’t an indeterminate place, it became Lago, which meant lake in Spanish, in reference to the lake from where all the oil originated, and it was located in a specific place, not just in Aruba, a specific island, in the bay of St. Nicolaas, right on the southern end. In the blink of an eye, everything turned so much more real, so much more plausible. Rude was so excited, so pleased, he felt like he wanted more than anything else to befriend Wilbur, the brother of the friend of Gaynor’s cousin, who was away, stationed in Aruba, providing for the family.
So Rude tried everything not to be his usual self, he tried to be cordial and witty and quick with his cousin and his friend, and he tried to disguise the rude attitude that defined his character and gave him his name. But he tried too hard, and it was all so unnatural, and he came across as an annoying teenager in search of attention, and eventually, Boy, give it a rest wit’ de questions was followed by Wha’ wrong wit’ you friend, boy? He a battyman, or wha’? And now humiliation was inevitable, because once a scapegoat is found among a crowd of mocking men there is no stopping the insinuations and laughter. But it had all been worth it, because Rude Thompson had gained bucket-loads of information that he could attach to his fantasy.
Rude didn’t hear from Gaynor or from anyone else that Wilbur had come to Anguilla that year, to spend a few days with his family during the Christmas period, until he had already left. As soon as he found out he was overcome by disappointment, but the pain inside was immediately replaced with a sense of expectation that grew at a disproportionate rate, as he envisaged a clear and resolute plan that would get him out of Anguilla this very same time the following year. Rude Thompson told nobody, but throughout the year of 1953 he did not spend one cent above what was absolutely necessary. He rationed his food, eating only when his body couldn’t live without, and even then only taking the least attractive items—the ones th
at could not be traded—out of the crops from his mother’s yard or the catch from the sea. He would collect whatever loose coins he found on the floor of the shop, on the road, outside the bar he no longer frequented. He mended his clothes however many times he needed to mend them and used one single pair of trousers all year long. In fact, he mended everything from gardening tools to plumbing fittings to save every piece of copper that went into his pocket.
Come Christmastime 1953, Rude made certain he was ready to meet Wilbur. For weeks in advance he asked friends about Wilbur, he became acquainted with the house where he lived, he introduced himself whenever there was a chance to meet a member of his family. Soon the battyman jokes reemerged, but this time Rude Thompson was more amused than infuriated by them, to the point where whenever he heard, Boy! You aks ’bout Wilbur more dan he wife—what business you have to do wit’ de man? he would simply answer right back, How come you care wha’ my business wit’ Wilbur be? You wanna become battyman too?
But all the preparation in the world would not have been enough for Rude to keep calm the day he was told Wilbur had arrived on the island. He went straight back home to count the money he had managed to save; he took a shower; he put on his best trousers—the other ones, the ones he had not used during the year. He combed his hair, he shaved the beard that still didn’t grow, and he left his house, heading for the home of a total stranger to welcome him back, as if he were his best friend. When his mother saw him leave the grounds she was exhilarated, thinking that he could only be on his way to meet a girl, which made her immensely happy, because she had never seen her oldest son waste his time with girls before, and while earlier on she had taken much pride in this accomplishment of the education she had imparted him, by now even she had heard the nasty talk about Rude being a battyman, and she had heard so much about it she was beginning to believe it.
So you de boy spreadin’ round rumors ’bout me being battyman!
Wilbur’s face looked rougher, more labored, than he had expected. In fact, the whole meeting was nothing like Rude had pictured it in his mind so many times before. Wilbur’s distance pointed not so much at a reticence to be forthcoming with Rude, but rather at an active resentment toward the liberties the young man had taken so unabashedly. But Rude had learned his lesson, and this time he didn’t try to be friendly or personable or even likeable, this time he just tried to be himself: straightforward, frank, and unequivocal. I wan’ get job in Lago, to which the automatic I kyan’t help you, followed by a blank gaze, gave neither hope nor ground for expectation. Bu’ you does wok dere, and again all hope was shattered by: So do seven t’ousan’ other people.
Bu’ you mus’ know . . .
I ain’ know not’in’. Now, stop vexin’ me and go back to you mamma.
This was enough for Rude to be Rude again, to make it clear that I ain’ aksin’ not’in’ from you, mister. I goin’ Aruba wit’ or wit’out you help. I just t’ought—I ain’ even know wha’ I t’ought I get from a bitter ol’ man like youself. But Rude didn’t turn around; he didn’t storm out of the room; he didn’t slam any doors; he didn’t break down and cry. Instead, he stood motionless, quiet, looking straight into Wilbur’s eyes.
How ol’ you be? and his lie (eighteen) was both obvious and expected. So if you t’ink me a fool, how come you aks me for help?
Rude Thompson understood that pretending was going to lead him nowhere, so he acknowledged that he would turn sixteen the following March. Wilbur explained how he was too young for the contractual policy at Lago, but halfway through he seemed to bore himself with his explanation and cut it off with an, Oh, wha’ do I care if dey go give you no job.
The next matter, however, was somewhat more critical: You have some money?
Rude Thompson’s young face lit up with pride when he said, One hundred and seventy-two dollars Bee-wee, t’irteen dollars and eight cents US, and seven guineas, four shilling, and five pence.
Wilbur was impressed, but he didn’t care to show it. He tried to dissuade the young man one last time, explaining how many people came to Aruba every day.
I ain’ sayin’ you have to open de door for me, mister. I jus’ need you to show me where de door be.
Wilbur rolled his eyes and sucked his teeth. I leavin’ from S’maaten dis Monday comin’. Plane leaves at six.
The following Monday at six o’clock in the morning began the new life of Rude Thompson—a life that almost came to an end a few days later, as he made his way to the door at which Wilbur pointed on his behalf. There he stood, erect but humble, wearing his best trousers, but still looking shabby and, most importantly, exceedingly young. The negative response was to be expected—after all, his age provided the perfect excuse not to hire him. But Wilbur Hopkins had worked harder for Rude Thompson than either of them would admit, because Wilbur Hopkins had felt aggrieved—annoyed, even—at the nerve of the young man to stalk him the way he had, and yet one conversation had been enough to make him understand that behind so much determination lay an unusual amount of willpower, and a particularly large dose of necessity. So Wilbur dug a little bit deeper down the structure of the company to make certain that when he provided Rude Thompson with the opportunity he so desperately craved, he gave the young fellow islander at least the faintest chance of making the best out of the occasion. If Wilbur Hopkins had introduced Rude Thompson to a minor executive at Lago—to one of the middlemen—then his new life would not have lasted as long as a week. Instead, Wilbur pointed Rude in the right direction, told him when and where to go, and gave him one long shot at the head of production of the refinery.
Therefore, when Rude Thompson took the initiative and dared address the man who held the key to all his dreams with the frankness, the directness, that had earned him his nickname, his words did not land on deaf ears, and when Rude Thompson closed his argument affirming that, If dere be a law dat stop a man from makin’ a livin’ jus’ becausin’ he mother decide to push he out to de world on Shrove Tuesday an’ no before, den, I tell you, dat law wrong, his boldness reached the desk of a person who wouldn’t, really, have to make any excuses for taking him onboard. Dat law wrong, Rude Thompson had said. Not something more conciliatory such as, “That law I don’t understand,” or even something more pleading, such as, “That law must have an exception.” There was an air of righteousness in Rude’s choice of words that stopped short of deriding the policy of the company (he hadn’t, after all, said, “I don’t want to be involved with a company with such law”), but that, at the same time, demanded the right to attain something deserved, something for which sacrifices had been made. Rude Thompson wanted to say that he had saved for a whole year to pay for the journey to Aruba, and that he had spent every shilling in his pocket to secure this meeting, but he knew the minute he opened his mouth tears would come to his eyes, and he would not ever be seen crying before another man. Rude Thompson never knew it, but it was his initial choice of words, together with the numbness that froze him up inside as the head of production walked past him to escort him to the door while he excused himself (I have business to attend to), which, mistaken for a mature resolve not to yield, led the American executive to ask his secretary, Will you show this young man to the diner? I think they’re short of a dishwasher.
Four years later, Rude Thompson had worked his way from dishwasher to kitchen cleaner, to assistant cook, to porter, running boy, forklifter, and truck loader, until he finally made the big leap to gauger. For the first time in all these years—hell, perhaps for the first time in his life—he felt like he belonged to something, like he belonged to something special, when he received a promotion that was compensated in so much more than just cash, because for the first time since he had made the journey to Aruba, guided by the reluctant hand of Wilbur Hopkins, Rude Thompson had actually joined the select few who not only lived from the refinery, and made its existence possible, and provided whatever was needed for it to run smoothly, for the first time since the day when he debuted as a migrant worker, R
ude Thompson was engaged to do that which he had dreamt about all along: to operate an aspect, however small, of the actual refining process.
This is where fate and history entwine in the tale of Rude Thompson, where circumstances made him understand the meaning—the relevance—of politics, where he learned to be the leader, the agent for change, he would later become. But let’s go back to Venezuela for a moment and look at the state of its oil industry, which, come 1945, was so prosperous and developed it was deemed exemplary. Except that, strange though this might seem, the leadership of the country had failed to realize the importance of the refining business. Consequently, up until end of the 1940s, the full extent of the production of Venezuelan crude was transported in small tankers across to Aruba or Curaçao for refining. It was not before the mid-1940s that provisions were made to force the existing oil companies in Venezuela to develop the infrastructure necessary for at least a portion of the refining to be carried out domestically. And the practical effects of these provisions only became obvious between 1949 and 1954, when several major complexes were opened along the country’s coastline, triggering a second, brand-new oil rush a full generation after the first one.
Initially, these refineries were almost exclusively operated by foreign executives imported by the companies who owned the concessions, but soon enough the first batch of graduates from the newly formed Oil Engineering Faculty of the Central University of Venezuela competed for a flurry of new jobs. These students were expected to train in large refineries to familiarize themselves with the practicalities of every aspect of the process, from distillation to desulfurization, from alkylation to catalytic cracking, before returning to Venezuela to provide a local face to an eminently foreign industry.
The Night of the Rambler Page 8
