Bolivar, Mo. : No coincidences

In the mountains of Missouri, I discovered the true meaning of being Venezuelan

By Julio César Urdaneta
Adelante staff writer

Photos by Douglas Greene/Adelante Adelante reporter Julio Urdaneta examines in amazement a figurine made by an artist from his home town of Valera, Venezuela. The figurine is part of a series depicting the life of Simón Bolívar. The collection adorns the office of the mayor of Bolivar, Mo.

Thousands of miles to the north, far from the large colonial house in the center of Caracas where he was born, Simón Jose Antonio de la Santísima Trinidad Bolívar y Palacios lives in a perennial tribute. In the Ozark Mountains, a landscape perhaps never seen by the Liberator, his statue presides solemnly in the main square of a town that carries his name. The inhabitants of Bolivar, Mo., feel a genuine pride for the name of the Liberator. This connection with a man of such high ideals has made this community conscious of cultural diversity and of its connections to the world.
On the verge of coming to the United States from Valera, my native city in Venezuela, my curiosity carried me to look over a map of Missouri. I noticed a city with the name of Bolivar 2,353 miles to the north of my town. Even though Bolivar, Mo., is not the only place in the state with a name tied to Latin America, for obvious reasons I became instantly interested in knowing about the place that sounded more Venezuelan than the rest.
In these moments, the name of Simón Bolívar has a special resonance in Venezuela — a resonance it has not had since the War of Independence. The term “bolivariano” has become a stigma in my country for everything relating to President Hugo Chávez and the policies of his government. In the middle of the daily diatribes that threaten to materialize the unspoken civil war in Venezuela, the name of the Liberator seems trite, as if coined in a fake currency, worn out from use.
The fear of an eventual conflict in my country, exacerbated by finding myself far from my family, fades for a moment as I arrive in Bolivar, where I have come with fellow Adelante staffers Suan Pineda and Doug Greene as part of our team's research about Missouri towns with Latin American names. Upon our arrival at Bolivar City Hall, a welcome mat from The Bolivar Liberators greets me. An oil painting of Bolívar on horseback transports me to those old Andean houses that serve as local government seats of my region. Pictures of the Yanomami tribal people and a photo of the United States nuclear submarine called the U.S.S. Simón Bolívar, contribute to my amazement.
Johnny Ramírez resides in Bolivar. He has the quiet demeanor of those who live in fear of God: pale, tall, and with big brown eyes. He could easily pass as North American. But his Caracas accent quickly gives him away. "Coincidences do not exist," he assures me. He left the harsh sun of Puerto Ordaz, in the Venezuelan state of Bolivar, eight years ago to come to the south of Missouri. With moist eyes he remembers the day that a friend invited him to the church in Bolivar. Tangled in a web of accents, he thought that he was making his way to "Boulevard" until he saw the statue and the flags. As I hear him tell his story, I realize that there is nothing more Venezuelan than the notion that everything has its moment, that everything is a part of a cycle, that there aren't any coincidences.
Johnny tells me about another Venezuelan, Humphrey Accary. A sculptor from Valera, he was recently in Bolivar, where his work was exhibited. Johnny had shown photos of Accary’s work to the mayor, who immediately invited him to come to town. His exhibit consisted of 25 pieces that illustrated different stages in the life of the Liberator — from his infancy in the arms of Hipólita, the slave who nursed him, until his oath in Rome that he would liberate America from the Spaniards. In less than one year, two people from Valera had come to Bolivar. I insist, there are no coincidences.
Mayor Charles Ealy receives us and with his friendly southern drawl indicates to us that in spite of being invited on several occasions, he has not been able to visit Venezuela, but has always wanted to. Decorating his office are Accary's figurines and a cannon ball used in the ship that carried Bolívar from Haiti to Venezuela.
The cold autumn wind blows in the Ozarks. Dale Newcomb, the city clerk, has received instructions from Mayor Ealy to show us the city. The statue is placed on the main square, The Plaza of the Americas. At the bottom of a dry fountain are maps of the five countries liberated by Bolívar.
Newcomb has the warm, slow speech of Southern gentleman. In his eyes you can see the pride that he feels from taking a team of journalists through the city, through his city. A visit to the fire department to see the banner of the equestrian Liberator in the big red trucks precedes our meeting with the person in charge of organizing the 50th anniversary celebration of the statue's dedication by President Harry Truman and Venezuelan President Rómulo Gallegos in 1948.
Denni McColm, with a graceful demeanor, short brown hair and brown eyes, is a typical Midwestern beauty. Her eyes shine when she speaks of Ciudad Bolivar, the Orinoco River, and Angel Falls — which, not coincidentally, was discovered by Missourian Jimmy Angel. She hands us different newspapers and commemorative medals, all with the Liberator’s image. Pictures with lively colors, which are only bought by tourists in Ciudad Bolívar’s colonial quarter, decorate her office. She doesn't hesitate in saying that the townspeople get excited when someone comes to write about Bolivar's connection to Latin America.
It is night and Newcomb takes us to the station where our car is. He doesn't want to miss the opportunity, before we leave, to give an official statement about what is evident: "The city is proud of its name and its heritage." I realize that, thousands of miles to the north, far from San Pedro Alejandrino, where the Liberator died; from Chimborazo, where he spoke with the God of Time; from the Lima of his lover, the colonel Manuelita Sáenz; and from his bruised and battered Caracas, the dream of Bolívar comes alive in a fair community, ethnically diverse and proud of its roots. And it happens here, in Missouri, in the American Midwest. Satisfied with this surrealist experience, I smile to myself, now without amazement — because, as we Venezuelans always say, "There are no coincidences."