The Marabinian

Preserving Maracaibo’s Legacy, One Story at a Time.

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Port of Maracaibo, Venezuela

Venezuelan vintage postcard

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Circus of Maracaibo, Venezuela

Venezuelan vintage postcard

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Square scene in Maracaibo, Venezuela

Venezuelan vintage postcard

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Street scene in Maracaibo, Venezuela

Venezuelan vintage postcard

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View of Maracaibo, Venezuela

Venezuelan vintage postcard

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Port of Maracaibo, Venezuela

Venezuelan vintage postcard

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Circus of Maracaibo, Venezuela

Venezuelan vintage postcard

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Square scene in Maracaibo, Venezuela

Venezuelan vintage postcard

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Market scene in Maracaibo, Venezuela

Venezuelan vintage postcard

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Santa Barbara church, Maracaibo- Venezuela

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Oil derricks in Lake Maracaibo, Venezuela

Venezuelan vintage postcard

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Port of Maracaibo, Venezuela

Venezuelan vintage postcard

[themarabinian]

Maracaibo, My Own

A poem by Udón Pérez

Because I sing to you when the first bright shimmer, Rising from dawn, climbs over the mountain, And shines on the old “Empañado*,” who, like a camel, Lies still as the sun gilds his brow and his hump;

Because I sing to you when the splendid focus Of the sun on high rekindles its fire, And seems to my eyes a fantastic seal That stamps the vast message sent down from heaven:

Because I sing to you when the crimson circle Of the setting star recalls the single eye Of some Polyphemus above the sapphire peaks… Because I sing to you calling you mine; Though irony bites, and the snarling pack Of rabid critics mock my devotion—

Let them bark, let them bite! While the palm groves, With sleepless plumes that border your lagoon, Stand to my sight like a host of Indians Guarding their homelands…

And your shadows feign nocturnal mangroves; And your waning moon, a Guajiro’s bow, Pierces the flanks of the dark night With golden arrows from your shining stars.

While your islands, that once heard my praises, With maras, aliles, moporos, and toas, And in their native, vital symphony— Birds, breezes, branches—offer me themes, I shall still call you mine, Maracaibo, my own.

Mine—when you summon your men of valour, When your poets make their hexameters ring, And in lips and pens, without cowardly fear, The ember of Isaiah burns in your protest.

Mine—when you reach out your hand, prepared To bind the wounded, to calm the afflicted, To wield the plowshare of labourers Or the axe that opens the virgin forest. When you shelter children, the aged, the women, And like an anthill your workshops stir, And in your schools there is sunlight and song.

Mine when you laugh, mine when you pray— Mine at all hours, Maracaibo, my own!

Cradle of my fathers and of my grandsires, Cradle of my Ida—forever departed— Cradle of my children, where my life unfolded Like a chalice opening to your sunlit skies!

In you have all my longings borne fruit; You have been my shield, my aegis in battle; You gave to my victories their flowering laurel, And crowned my misfortunes with asphodels.

My dreamlike birds have built their nests Among your rose gardens, and sleep in peace Beneath your cypresses, my beloved dead. Let the pack bark and bite, the rabid horde— While I call you, with the voice of my soul, Mine—full-throatedly—Maracaibo, my own.

___________________

Freely translated by Morales y Loaiza.

*Probably a local reference to El Empalado.

[themarabinian]

Nostalgia

This letter was written to my father in 2014, a few months after I had moved abroad. It was a moment of deep nostalgia, when the landscapes I once saw only on television became part of my daily life, and the warmth of my homeland turned into a memory I could touch only through words. Reading it now, I realize it was not merely a letter to my father—but to Maracaibo itself.

I grew up watching foreign TV shows and comic strips that spoke of snow, of four seasons marked by flying ducks and carpets of fallen leaves.

I grew up in Maracaibo, where a normal day means 38°C in the shade, and there are no ducks, no squirrels, no raccoons—only parrots, iguanas, and parakeets.

I grew up surrounded by natural wonders: birds of every colour crossing a blazing blue sky, mangoes, guavas, and coconuts everywhere; and yet I was entranced by the image of a distant land, one I had never seen, longing for a snowfall that never came—and never will—upon my own.

Now I find myself in this foreign place, one I will never truly call mine. And because it lies in the North, it reminds me more of my televised childhood than my native city does—with its heat, its people, its unyielding sun.

For the children of my city—the one still suffering from the neglect of its own inhabitants—I don’t wish for an education that turns their backs on the beauty around them. The children of my city deserve to know it, admire it, respect it, love it, and protect it—not out of civic duty or moral obligation, but out of the genuine affection of one who feels blessed by nature.

I want our little marabinians to grow without slingshots, sticks, or stones. I want children who love to plant and can appreciate flowers without needing to pluck them. While elsewhere people tend to plants that will die with the coming autumn, what about my paradise of eternal summer? What about that city so dearly loved by the sun?

No one told us about the high price we would pay for fouling that Eden—only to run away in search of the world we once saw in the comic strips.

—Letter to My Father. September 28, 2014.

[themarabinian]

The Marabinian Ruins I: The Da Costa Gómez Mansion

“In the shadow of forgotten glories, the Da Costa Gómez Mansion stands—its bricks whispering ghosts of grandeur, exile, and memory. May we see it not as a haunted ruin, but as a living archive of Maracaibo’s soul.”

To speak of Maracaibo's old mansions is to invoke a vanished city—one of elegance, ambition, and architectural grandeur. The Paraiso neighbourhood once brimmed with such places: proud testaments to wealth made in coffee, copper, and commerce. Among them stands a structure that locals now call the "Palacete Loyola," often misnamed, always misunderstood.

For decades, it has been the subject of whispered legends: a cloaked figure rocking an infant in the tower, tunnels burrowed beneath its gardens, cries in the night. Children dared one another to touch its gates. Passersby crossed the street. But beneath the patina of myth lies a deeper truth. This is not simply a haunted house. It is a house that haunts us—because it remembers what we have chosen to forget.

The mansion was commissioned in the 1920s by Joshua (José) Da Costa Gómez, a Sephardic Jewish entrepreneur from Curaçao. An investor in Maracaibo's electric tramway and the famed Unión brewery, Da Costa Gómez symbolized a modern, cosmopolitan elite. His house was a statement: a sprawling, ornate structure on Doctor Portillo Avenue, shaped vaguely like a ship—perhaps in homage to his maritime lineage. Belgian architect Léon Jérôme Höet is believed to have been behind its eclectic design, mixing Italianate forms, neo-Renaissance flourishes, and the sinuous lines of Art Nouveau.

Da Costa Gómez’s story took a darker turn: accused of political dissent against the dictatorship of Juan Vicente Gómez, he went into exile and died in Curaçao in 1938. With his departure, the house fell into a state of legal and symbolic abandonment, stripped of both its owner and its name.

After Da Costa Gómez’s exile, the mansion became the official residence of Zulia's governor Vicencio Pérez Soto in 1928. It was later sold to German nationals, becoming the Colegio Alemán, and then repurposed by the Jesuit-affiliated San Javier Organization. It was during this Jesuit era that the misnomer "Loyola" took root, linking the site to Saint Ignatius of Loyola.

Over time, the house served many purposes: a school for girls (Colegio La Presentación), a trade institute, a visual arts school (Julio Árraga), and even a mechanic's workshop. Each incarnation layered over the previous one, eroding the original identity of the mansion while embedding it further into the city's everyday memory.

The Da Costa Gómez Mansion remains one of Maracaibo’s most visually distinctive buildings. Its brickwork, central tower, and grand staircase reflect a romantic vision of European elegance filtered through Caribbean heat. Inside, there once were imported mosaics, carved wooden altars, and a small chapel oriented toward 79th Street. Underneath, a network of tunnels connected the mansion to other estates, their supports resembling mining shafts—a hidden infrastructure that fed local legend.

But beyond the physical, the house acquired metaphysical dimensions. Stories of a nun falling to her death, of ghostly cries and creaking wood, became part of the folklore. These tales say more about collective memory than actual events; they are proof that the mansion still occupies a vital place in the city’s imagination.

By the 1970s, the mansion was home to the Pírela family, who lived there until the late 1980s. Thereafter, it stood in accelerating decay: overgrown gardens, shattered windows, graffiti-covered walls. Though declared of public interest in 2014 and briefly allocated funds for cultural restoration, the project faltered. A plan to turn the mansion into a cultural centre, artist's residence, and urban park never materialized. The building remains, in essence, abandoned—inhabited only by the myths it once inspired.

More than a haunted house, the Da Costa Gómez Mansion is a mirror of Maracaibo itself: glorious, neglected, misunderstood. It deserves more than rumours. It deserves documentation, preservation, and reanimation. Whether as a museum, archive, or cultural beacon, the house can become once again what it was always meant to be: a place where history is not just remembered but lived. Let us call it by its name. Let us restore it to our civic story.

[themarabinian]

I Was Born There, But I Come From Elsewhere

I am not your typical Marabinian. Perhaps I would have made sense in a different time—when Maracaibo was a kind of tropical Athens, full of poets, writers, and thinkers. A city that pioneered electric public lighting, that stood proudly as a port, that dared to imagine itself at the forefront of Latin American modernity before the curse of oil hollowed out its promise.

Today, most proudly call themselves maracuchos, embracing a demonym that—if we’re honest—began as a diminutive. A playful insult turned badge of honor. And while I understand the warmth and vibrancy behind the term, I can’t help but feel disconnected from it. The loudness, the bravado, the contradictions. A deep love for the homeland paired with a participation in its slow unraveling.

I returned in 2018. What I found was a city that felt ghosted by its own greatness. Rusted vehicles, pillars of smoke from burning garbage, a yellow haze of dust and heat. The green was gone. The lake—once proud—continued to be a repository of sewage and spilled oil. It no longer reflected the sky, only our failures.

But I don’t despise Maracaibo. I don’t mock its people.

I grieve.

I mourn a version of the city that maybe never quite existed—at least not in the way I imagine it. I fell in love with photographs and architecture, with fragments of letters and books. I fell in love with a promise.

I am a Marabinian who believes in elegance, in dignity, in craftsmanship. I find comfort in Art Déco curves and Art Nouveau flourishes. I cherish the lost refinement of proper voseo. I still believe in poetry, and in the quiet power of restraint.

Once, people wore linen suits at 38°C and quoted Udón Pérez by heart.

The Marabinian exists because some dreams deserve to echo—even if all we have left are echoes.

[themarabinian]

Celebrating Udón Pérez: The Marabinian Poet of Zulia

Udón Pérez (1871–1926) is one of Zulia's most celebrated poets, known for capturing the spirit of Maracaibo through his literary works. His poetry, inspired by the beauty of the Catatumbo and the warmth of Zulian culture, immortalized the region's essence. Pérez also wrote the iconic anthem of Zulia, Over the Palm Trees, which remains a symbol of pride for the state. His legacy endures as a timeless representation of Maracaibo's cultural heritage.