On the southern shore of Lake Maracaibo, Palmarito is an Afro-Venezuelan community shaped by centuries of history, culture, and resilience. Its people carry forward traditions rooted in their African heritage and in the fishing trade. Central to Palmarito’s way of life is the socialist commune, a form of popular self-government that transforms everyday life and work into a shared project.
The town is part of the “pueblos santos,” a cluster of Afro-descendant communities bound together by devotion to San Benito of Palermo, the “Black saint,” and the ritual rhythms of the Chimbánguele. Life in Palmarito has always revolved around the lake—its fish provide sustenance and its water routes connect those living along its shores. From the struggle against enslavement and the creation of maroon communities to today’s communal self-governance, Palmarito’s story is one of resistance and collective action.
In Part I of this testimonial series on the Palmarito Afro-Descendant Commune, we examined the project’s origins and the town’s history, while Part II focused on the role of culture in Palmarito. In this installment, we address Palmarito’s fishing economy and cooperative practices on the southern shore of Lake Maracaibo. In the final installment, we will learn about the impact of the US blockade and the collective responses of Palmarito’s fisherfolk.
[Part of the Communal Resistance Series.]
Evellis Morante is a parliamentarian and spokesperson for the Palmarito Afro-Descendant Commune | Jean Antúnez is a fisherman and the main spokesperson of the Hugo Chávez CONPPA | Jesús Enrique Antúnez is a fisherman, a member of the Palmarito CONPPA | Leonardo Pirela, the son of fisherfolk, is the Fishing and Aquaculture Ministry representative for Merida state | Luis Talez is a fisherman, campesino, and hunter | Nereida González Vásquez is a communal spokesperson and the coordinator of the local medical ambulatory | Olimari Chourio Estrada is a fisherwoman and the main spokesperson of the Women’s CONPPA | Yoglis Solarte is a communard and a PSUV member (Rome Arrieche).
Palmarito’s Economy: Fishing, Agriculture, and Tourism
Fishing is Palmarito’s backnone, connecting nearly every household to the lake. Yet agriculture, hunting, and tourism also sustain the community, contributing to its resilience in hard times.
Leonardo Pirela: For us, life has always revolved around the lake. Fishing is our daily bread, the foundation of our economy, and what has allowed families here to endure for generations.
The lake not only feeds us but has also shaped the very organization of our community: from fishing, we learned that survival depends on working together. At the same time, tourism and small-scale agriculture, mostly conuco-based [in diversified plots], complement fishing and give us other ways to sustain ourselves.
Nereida González: Around ninety percent of people here live, to a great degree, from fishing. Yet, fishing has never been understood solely as a means of providing individual income. In Palmarito, it has always been tied to solidarity. When the lake provides, it provides for everyone; when times are tough, we organize so that no household is left behind. That is how we understand the economy: not as private gain, but as a collective undertaking.
Olimari Chourio Estrada: Long before oil exploitation began in Venezuela, long before the crisis brought on by the US blockade cast such a long shadow over our lives, people here sustained themselves through fishing and agriculture. That was the true wealth of our ancestors. Our grandparents always told us that the lake is generous, but they also reminded us that its bounty only lasts if it is cared for and shared.
That is why, even today, when a boat comes back to shore, it is not just the fishers who rejoice. The entire town feels that joy.
Jesús Enrique Antúnez: When I first came to Palmarito in 2017, I was just seventeen years old. I began organizing with fellow fishers, and since then, I’ve been working side by side with other fisherfolk.
The most valuable thing we have here is our willingness to work hard and our community, because only in that way can we secure the gear we need—the nets, boats, and other equipment for the labor of fishing.
I don’t yet have a boat of my own, but a compañero lends me his, and I contribute what I know best: the art of fishing. When it’s crab season, we share the earnings between us. Right now [in February], our focus is on the crab catch, which means we give the fish a rest so they can reproduce.
Everything runs in cycles: when crabbing slows down, we return to fishing with lines and nets.
Blue crab (Rome Arrieche)
FISHING TRADITIONS & THE CATCH
Leonardo Pirela: There are several ways to fish here. We fish the blue crab using longline palangres baited with chicken heads. Crab is our main economic resource in Palmarito. The second method is fishing for cuero y escama [“skin-and-scale”] fish using nets and hooks.
Finally, in recent years, another practice has become common: fishing from the shore. During the pandemic, when food and fuel were scarce, people waded into the lake on foot with their longline palangres to catch crabs. This practice is especially common among women.
These three methods—longline crab fishing, fishing with nets and hooks, and shore-based crab fishing—sustain our community.
Jesús Enrique Antúnez: With the phrase cuero y escama we refer to different species. Cuero means fish like bagre blanco [white catfish] and bagre pintado [spotted catfish]. Escama refers to fish such as manamana, bocachico, curvina [croaker], róbalo [snook], armadillo, and doncella. With the nets, we can also catch chucho [stingray], raya [ray], and other fish. Sometimes, even sharks get trapped in the nets trying to eat smaller fish.
All these species are part of our diet and our economy, and nature’s cycles determine what we prioritize.
Jean Antúnez: I have fished blue crab all my life—my father did it too. It is a trade that shapes our community and connects us to past generations.
In the high season, you can catch 200 to 250 kilos a day. During the low season, the catch drops to 40 or 50 kilos, sometimes as low as 30. Those rhythms mark our lives. Crab fishing is our tradition, our inheritance, and the basis of our economy.
Leonardo Pirela: Some fisherfolk in the southern shore of Lake Maracaibo cross over to Catatumbo on the side of the lake. There, they fish for manamana, which is highly valued, and curvina. These trips are made in a motor-propelled canoe, with four or five people working together for several days. They return with large quantities of fish.
In the past, there was also pesca a palanca [pole fishing]. Fishermen would move the boat with a pole of about five meters instead of an engine. We saw that practice returning during the worst of the crisis. The ingenuity of our people can be seen in our flexibility and inventiveness: we have used both poles and outboard motors, and later we invented the Pakipaki [fuel-efficient artisanal motor used in the context of the blockade].
We have always invented and developed ways to keep on fishing.
Luis Talez: A fishing trip involves many people: patrones [skippers], marineros [mariners], encarnadores [bait handlers], tarimeros [deck hands], and the family members who prepare meals.
When a boat goes out, the whole community is involved, and when it returns, the entire community benefits.
SOLIDARITY & MUTUAL SUPPORT
Nereida González: In Palmarito, there is a culture of mutual support. We can trace its roots to the practice of fishing, which is often cooperative, and to the Chimbángale, which brings practically the whole community together.
When things got really hard, the Palmarito Commune organized collective cuero y escama expeditions. We made a census of families and sent out the boats and crews for three or four days. When they returned with six or seven thousand kilos of fish, we distributed the catch house-to-house and even gave some to nearby communities. That way, no one went hungry.
Evellis Morante: Fishing means survival and solidarity. When fuel was scarce, neighbors pooled together what they had so that at least some of the boats could go out. The catch was then divided, ensuring that everyone had food. That’s how we endured the hardest years.
Nereida González: We also organized ourselves to cut costs. We collected money for ice, bait, and fuel. At times, the mayor of Palmarito gave us gasoline, which allowed us to send out the boats. That way, fish reached the community at a fair price, not the speculative prices that gasoline-resellers imposed.
Palmarito from the lake (Rome Arrieche)
FISHERFOLK COUNCILS
Leonardo Pirela: There are local fisherfolk councils here called CONPPAs [Councils of Artisanal Fishers and Producers]. The idea of the CONPPA was conceived by Comandante Chávez to organize fishing communities and give them greater control over their resources as part of the Bolivarian vision of participatory socialism.
The CONPPAs are the organizational backbone of fishing communities anywhere in the country. They are also a mechanism to open channels of cooperation with the Fishing Ministry. The Ministry’s support of fishing communities has been crucial, particularly in these times of blockade.
In Mérida state, there are twelve CONPPAs, and three of them are in Palmarito. The oldest bears the name of our town. Another one is composed entirely of women—the second all-women CONPPA to be formed in the whole country, and the only one in an Afro-descendant community. Finally, there is a CONPPA with the name Hugo Chávez. We are all Chavistas through and through.
Jesús Enrique Antúnez: I helped found the “Palmarito CONPPA.” It was the first CONPPA here in Palmarito: the call went out that we should get organized, and we knew that only through collective effort would we be able to get some of the tools we need.
Jean Antúnez: The Hugo Chávez CONPPA is made up of 32 members, each with a specific role. I serve as the main spokesperson. We also have a deputy spokesperson, a treasurer, and a secretary. Each of us has clearly defined responsibilities, but we all work with the same goals. For instance, the main spokesperson represents the CONPPA in legal matters and is always present.
One of the reasons why we organize is that fishing is a highly collaborative trade. Not everyone here owns a boat, so some share boats, while others fish using equipment lent by their compañeros.
One of our goals is to have a collective boat, but we don’t yet have one.
Nereida González: During the worst years of the blockade, from 2018 until around 2022, life here was very difficult: fuel was scarce and extremely expensive. Thanks to the CONPPAs, we were able to work with the government to open a fuel station right here in Palmarito.
The Fishing Ministry played a central role in making this possible. Before, fisherfolk had to travel to other ports or buy fuel from resellers who charged exorbitant prices. Now, we manage fuel collectively, as a community.
Leonardo Pirela: Through the CONPPAs, fisherfolk have secured funding from the Fishing Ministry. They have gotten nets, hooks, even loans to purchase Pakipakis and outboards. The Mérida state government has also provided nets and other gear. None of this came through individual requests—it was organized through the CONPPAs, which made it possible.
But a CONPPA isn’t only about funding, nor is it restricted to fishers who go out on boats. CONPPAS can involve anyone who makes fishing possible: the bait handlers, the deck hands, the people who cook for the crews, etc. Everyone can have a role.
Since CONPPAs are assembly-based, that is where we collectively decide who will represent us, how to manage resources, and how to distribute the catch. That is the communal spirit: fishing is never a one-person job; it is a collective effort.
For us, the CONPPAs also represent dignity. They give us a way to be heard by the institutions, but more importantly, they help preserve our traditions of solidarity and mutual support.
Our ancestors survived through cooperation. Today, we continue that legacy through these councils.
THE WOMEN’S COUNCIL
Olimari Chourio Estrada: The women’s CONPPA here is the second of its kind in Venezuela. We created it because women have always been part of the fishing economy, but our work is often overlooked. Men are seen as the center of our society because they are usually the ones who go out on the lake and come back with the catch, but without women, there is no fishing: we prepare the bait, we manage resources, we distribute the catch, and we keep accounts. Beyond that, we also fish, particularly since the blockade began.
When we organized the women’s CONPPA, it wasn’t just to have another council or to have more visibility as women. Our CONPPA was also born to improve our economic position and strengthen the communal fabric. Women represent the majority in the commune’s parliament, the commune’s highest decision-making body; we are the ones in charge of the Communal Bank; and during the pandemic, we were the ones who guaranteed that what came from the lake reached every family. Ultimately, the creation of the women’s CONPPA provided us with a platform to coordinate these efforts with greater effectiveness.
Evellis Morante: During the pandemic, when people had no jobs and no income, women took the lead. We played an important role in organizing fishing expeditions, and we oversaw the distribution of fish. The goal was always clear: every household should have access to protein. It was exhausting work, but it was also deeply rewarding. We divided tasks among ourselves, supported one another, and made sure no one was left behind.
Olimari Chourio Estrada: The women’s CONPPA is not just about managing resources—it’s also about showing our daughters and granddaughters that they, too, can play a leading role, women have always played a role in fishing, farming, and caring for the community. Through the CONPPA, we are now being recognized as fisherfolk and as leaders in our own right.
For us women, the struggle is in part about recognition. For years, our work went unseen. Now, we are fighting to ensure that our work counts. Every crab we catch and clean and every kilo of fish that we distribute is part of the economy. Our goal is to make sure that no one overlooks this work and that our voices carry weight in every decision.
Some of the members of the Socialist Afro-Mérida Fisherwoman Palmarito CONPPA (Rome Arrieche)
THE BLUE CRAB PROCESSING PLANT
Leonardo Pirela: Another achievement in the community is the crab processing plant, known locally as Floressa. It’s organized through a three-way partnership [“triada”] between the private sector, the Bolivarian government of Mérida state, and the community itself. That model is unusual, but it ensures that a fixed percentage of revenues—around ten percent—goes directly to the community.
Nereida González: Having that ten percent of revenue has been crucial. With it, we reactivated the medical center, hired a doctor, and bought equipment for blood testing and dental services. We also repaired roads and fixed the classrooms in the school. In other words, the blue crab processing plant doesn’t just produce for the market; it also sustains the community.
Yoglis Solarte: The triada model is not without its contradictions. Originally, it was government-owned and run. When production came to a halt, we wanted the commune to have full control, but the outcome of the negotiations led to the current three-way partnership. That was around 2016.
Some say that the private sector captures too much of the value produced, or that the government doesn’t always deliver its part. But at least the community has a guaranteed source of income, and we’ve seen tangible results. Without the plant, it would have been difficult to maintain health services or repair the roads.
Nereida González: We appreciate the resources provided by the triada, but our ultimate goal is to gain greater control over the plant. With just 10 percent of the revenue, we’ve been able to pave roads, build school classrooms, and more… Just imagine what we could achieve with further control!
All this has been a debate in our assemblies: how to balance alliances with our need for self-management.
What’s important is that the plant is not just a business—it is also a communal tool. Every kilo of crab that passes through the plant brings benefits back to our people. That’s why we defend it, even as we strive for greater participation in its management.
Leonardo Pirela: The plant is not only about getting food to the market—it is also about turning fishing into public goods.
DISTRIBUTION
Jesús Enrique Antúnez: One of the biggest challenges has been dealing with intermediaries. They don’t offer real solutions. What they do is lend equipment or fuel, and in exchange, they keep much of the catch because they have the resources.
That’s why communal organization through the CONPPA is so important: it gives us a way to free ourselves from dependence on intermediaries… But there is still a lot to be done!
Jesús Enrique Antúnez: This is why intermediaries are a problem: they set the terms, not us. If they give you fuel, then you owe them the catch. It means the community loses value. That is why we struggle for autonomy, to manage the fuel ourselves, and for collective management. Only then can the work of the skipper, the mariner, the deckhand, and everyone else truly benefit the people.
Nereida González: When the boats return from the lake, the first question is not “How much will I make?” but “How do we share this?” In Palmarito, distribution has always been collective. In hard times, we organized operativos [collective initiatives] where fish was sold at a fair price and even delivered house by house. Families who could not afford to pay still received their share.
Of course, distribution is a different matter when it falls into the hands of the intermediaries.
Olimari Chourio Estrada: The women’s CONPPA often took responsibility for organizing these distributions outside of the conventional market. We made the lists of households, coordinated with the boats, and ensured that the catch reached every family. It was a lot of work—sometimes we would spend whole nights organizing—but we knew that we had to secure protein for our people.
The town of Palmarito (Rome Arrieche)
DEBATES
Jean Antúnez: Right now, we are facing a familiar dispute over the price of crab and the way we are paid for it. Thanks to Juan Carlos Loyo, Minister of Fishing, the price was raised to two dollars per kilo in the high season. We are really grateful for his support: he has shown himself to be on the side of fisherfolk.
Nonetheless, because intermediaries are now paying in bolívares, many fishers are unhappy. So now, as we speak [March 2024], southern shore fisherfolk are engaged in a work stoppage. The issue is that the processing plants are paid in dollars, yet they pay us in bolívares. This leads to losses for us. For their part, they claim that they can’t convert so many dollars into bolívares, and that’s why they end up delaying payments…
In any case, this is part of life here in the Southern Shore: we fight for good living conditions for fisherfolk, and fortunately, we have a powerful ally in the Fishing Ministry.
Nereida González: We have had to fight so that resources don’t leave our community. That’s why we organized the three-way partnership in the crab plant in the first place, to ensure that at least a portion of the wealth stays here. But the struggle continues. We know that only through communal control can we guarantee that fishing truly benefits everyone.
Jean Antúnez: Sometimes there are tensions among fishers themselves—about access to fuel, about the use of nets, about who gets to fish in which area. But those conflicts are resolved collectively, in assembly. We sit down, we argue, we make decisions together. That is the only way to preserve unity.
TOURISM
Nereida González: Fishing is our main source of income, but tourism is also important for the community. On holidays, families from Mérida and other parts of the region come to Palmarito to enjoy the lake, eat fresh fish, and participate in cultural activities. That generates work for people who cook, sell food, or offer rooms for rent.
Evellis Morante: Tourism is not just about money; it is one way of showing people our culture. When visitors come, we share our music, our traditions, and our history as an Afro-descendant people. We want them to see that Palmarito is not only a place to consume but a living community that resists and creates.
In recent years, the [Mérida] governor has helped reactivate tourism in the town. With more visitors coming here, families have been able to supplement their incomes. Some sell crafts, others rent spaces, and still others prepare local foods. The holidays are when many households make a little extra money, which helps them endure the ups and downs of fishing.
AGRICULTURE AND HUNTING
Leonardo Pirela: Agriculture here is not as central to our economy as fishing, but practically every family has a small plot of land. People grow yuca, plantain, corn, and beans. In the past, cacao, coffee, and sugarcane were important crops in the Southern Shore and those traditions are still alive, but on a smaller scale.
Nereida González: The truth is that agriculture gives us food security. Even if the lake is rough or fishing is scarce, people can still eat arepas de yuca [cassava patties] or arepas de plátano [plantain patties]. Women often prepare enyucado [cassava cake] and sometimes cook with coconut oil, which is part of our ancestral food culture. These practices remind us that the land also sustains us.
Jesús Enrique Antúnez: Apart from fishing, some people have conucos or parcels where they produce plátano, yuca, taro and pumpkin. What we often do is barter: we exchange fish for vegetables or fruits. Barter is very common here — it is part of our way of sharing.
Sometimes we get tired of eating fish, so we organize groups to go hunting. Reptiles such as iguanas are part of our culinary tradition: we stew iguana with coconut and vegetables, or we fry it in the pan.
Luis Talez: My plot of land lies a long boat ride away up in Caño Culebra. Most of what we plant there is for self-consumption, although we sometimes sell some of the crop. But we also hunt. Here we hunt deer, capybara, paca, ducks, and iguanas. We hunt with dogs and shotguns, sometimes using a harpoon. I learned these practices from my father.
Hunting is cooperative, just like in fishing. Every time we kill a capybara or another animal, whoever comes by our house gets a piece of it—a kilo, half a kilo… There is a lot of solidarity, no stinginess. Each person contributes. It is a practice that has always existed in our community.
Evellis Morante: Families exchange fruit and vegetables, fish, and meat, so that no one lacks food. Those in-kind exchanges keep our community strong.
In Palmarito, the economy is not just one thing. It is fishing, it is agriculture, it is hunting, it is tourism. When one sector fails, the others help us survive. That is what makes the community resilient: the ability to combine different activities and always think in terms of cooperation.
—CAPTION—A campesino household (Rome Arrieche)
