Culture and Resistance: The Palmarito Afro-Descendant Commune (Part II)
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. In this second part, we focus on the role of culture in Palmarito. Upcoming installments will address Palmarito’s fishing economy and on the impact of the US blockade.
[Part of the Communal Resistance Series.]
Culture
Devotion to San Benito of Palermo, a Black saint symbolizing both spirituality and resistance, plays an important role in the culture of Palmarito. The chants, drums, and rituals associated with the sain function both as religious practices and as forms of collective organization, memory, and identity.
CHIMBÁNGUELE AND GAITA DE TAMBORA
Nereida González: Culture and commune go hand in hand. They are like siblings. If we don’t have culture, we don’t have a commune.
At the heart of our Afro-descendant culture in Sur del Lago is San Benito. We in the community are his vasallos [vassals], his devotos [devotees], and the ASOCHIPAL [Asociación Cultural Chimbánguele de Palmarito] is the organization that oversees, guides, and organizes the festivities. Like spokespeople in a communal council, its leaders are elected by the people and serve the community. Each year, we choose them: everybody in town can participate.
Francisco Segundo Estrada Balza: Over time, our African ancestors who were brought here founded cumbes, small self-defense communities in the Sur del Lago region. From them, we learned how to cultivate the “porcelain” variety of cacao, one of the finest in the world. They also passed on their drums and toques [rhythmic patterns]. Above all, we inherited a spirit of resistance from them.
I always insist on remembering our roots, which is why I say we should not call our devotional music Chimbánguele; the original word is Imbánguele, which can be traced back to the Imbangala people of Africa.
The Imbánguele is the soul of Palmarito. Without the drums, there is no San Benito, no protection, no fiesta, no pueblo. The Imbánguele cycle begins in late October and runs until January 7, when the saint figure is returned to the church.
Luisana Antúnez: If we look at our cultural traditions, the organization of the Chimbánguele mirrors that of the commune. Our ancestors handed it down over the generations with clearly defined roles: the mayordomo, who carries the saint; the capitanes, who lead the procession; the director of the band, who guides the musicians; and the capitán de lengua, who preserves the litanies and rituals for bringing the saint in and out of the church.
This tradition made it easier for us to adopt the commune, with its spokespeople, each with their role, but always considering the community above all else. A commune without identity is lost, and for us, that identity is Afro-descendant culture.
Here, everyone participates in the Chimbánguele—the elders, the youth, the women, even the children who learn by watching and imitating.
Leonardo Pirela: The vasallo—the collective around San Benito—chooses its authorities every January: these include the mayordomo, the capitanes, the director, and the abanderado [standard-bearer]. This comes from our African heritage, where the community had its elders and its recognized leaders. In Palmarito, this system has endured. It is part of how we organize ourselves today.
Francisco Segundo Estrada Balza: While women participate as vasallos in the Chimbánguele, they don’t play the instruments, they don’t hold the saint, they don’t bear the flag. However, the Gaita de tambora, which involves women, is also part of our heritage.
Luisana Antúnez: The men play the Chimbánguele, but we women have our own voice in the fiestas: the Gaitas de tambora. Through the Gaitas, we express our thoughts, share stories, celebrate, joke, and denounce. The Gaitas are our way of participating in these events, of ensuring that the saint also hears us, of being heard by the community as a whole.
Wilbida Andrade: I began singing Gaita when I was twelve or thirteen years old. Later, I lost my sight, but the saint protected me: I’m an old woman, but my voice is strong. San Benito is my saint, but he also protects my community.
We hold a vigil on the night of the 26th of December until the dawn of the 27th, singing and drumming for San Benito. We blend our devotion to the saint with humor, wit, and social critique, making our voices a central part of the festivities.
Yoglis Solarte: The Chimbánguele is not just music—it is a school for politics. Through the Chimbánguele, we learn that no one alone can carry the weight of the saint, that leadership is recognized because of service to the people, and that joy can be rebellious.
The Chimbánguele taught us what it means to govern ourselves.
INSTRUMENTS AND CHANTS
Francisco Segundo Estrada Balza: There a variety of drums in the Chimbánguele. Traditionally, there were seven, but here in Palmarito, we added an eighth drum in the 1930s. Each has its own voice: the three requintas, which are ”female” drums with sharp tones, and the five “male” drums with deeper voices, which we call in turn mayor, respondón, cantante, pujón, and medio golpe. These drums are the first to start the rhythm, but they all speak.
I myself play the cantante, the pujón, and the medio golpe.
Omar Solarte: The drumming has its rhythm and sequences. We chant “Ajé, Ajé Benito Ajé” and we sing “Chocho eh, venga Chocho eh.” We also chant to the Misericordia golpe [drumbeat] in moments of disaster. The Misericordia comes to ask for mercy, accompanying the religious procession through the town or wherever help is needed. The Misericordia has a dual role as a plea for compassion and for remembrance.
All the golpes leave room for improvisation. The drums set the rhythm, the elders chant verses, and the urumbo flute weaves in its melody, adding texture. Each element has a meaning. Even San Benito’s blue garment is significant. It is an affirmation of our identity against the Church’s insistence that he, as a friar, should be dressed in brown. For us, blue is the color of the sea and of the sky, and that’s why we dress San Benito in blue.
Luisana Antúnez: The chants are sacred. Ajé Benito is used to ask the divinity for rain and abundance. Misericordia is played when we are facing hardships, which are many in these times of blockade. Other songs curse the Spanish colonizers in their own tongue.
This is how our traditions became a form of resistance.
Leonardo Pirela: In difficult times, San Benito is not left in the chapel. When there are problems, we bring him out. During the pandemic, for example, we brought the saint to the pier and prayed. He protected us: we had no deaths from Covid in Palmarito!
More recently, when the rains threatened to destroy the San Pedro bridge, we took San Benito there and sang a Misericordia. The rain stopped.
This is how faith, music, and community action come together.
Argenis Duarte: Drum-making is also an art, and each instrument has its own secret. We cut the balsa wood only after asking permission from God, from nature, and from the tree itself. The tree must be felled during the waning moon, usually on the fifth, sixth, or seventh day of the cycle—that is when the wood will last longer. Each drum has its own skin — goat or sheep — which is chosen for the sound it makes. This is knowledge that has been handed down to us from our elders.
THE COMMUNITY COMES TOGETHER
Francisco Segundo Estrada Balza: The exchanges between the pueblos santos are very important for our communities. For more than 300 years, delegations from Palmarito and Gibraltar have visited each other once a year, bringing their manifestaciones [saints and vasallos] along. In the past, the drummers would carry their instruments and chant along the lakeshore at night, crossing rivers even when they were swollen.
Even today, when we no longer need to ford the rivers, these exchanges go on. They involve a sequence of events, including the meeting of the manifestaciones, chants, visits, and rituals such as the pelea de bandera [flag fight], where the standard-bearers from Gibraltar and Palmarito’s Chimbánguele show their prowess in mock struggle until their flags entwine three times.
Luisana Antúnez: When Gibraltar visits Palmarito on October 31, which is All Saints Day, we prepare the meal, and after the procession, we all sit together around the table.
On December 7, the eve of the Immaculate Conception, we return the visit to Gibraltar. We leave here at 10 pm and arrive around 2 am. There, the entire community is waiting to receive us and replicate the reception we gave them back in October. We spend the entire day in Gibraltar, and then in the evening, we make our way back.
In preparation for the incoming visit, we have the tradition of the pedigüeño [beggar], when a group of villagers goes house to house with a cart, asking for contributions such as meat, plantains, cassava, rum, whatever families can give. Each household contributes something, however small, because the fiesta belongs to everyone. When the collection is complete, all the food is brought to the plaza and cooked in large pots to make a communal stew. The meal is shared among all the people of Palmarito and the visitors. Leftovers go to the most needy families.
This is how solidarity is practiced: we all eat together and nobody is left out.
Nereida González: Celebrating the saint, chanting, and sharing food at one table, this is all part of who we are.
The Chimbánguele is a living practice, and it shapes our lives. Recently, in these times of blockade, we have also reconnected with some culinary traditions. We have rekindled the cooking fire of our ancestors and now are making enyucado, a yuca cake with coconut and anise, and plantain arepas. We are also cooking again with coconut milk and coconut oil, just as our grandmothers did.
Perhaps it comes as no surprise that in a town called Palmarito—where palm trees line the lakeshore—people cook with coconut. Yet these ancestral culinary practices had almost been lost. We won’t celebrate the blockade, but it is true that we have recovered some traditions since it began.
Yoglis Solarte: Our culture is one of resistance. The colonizers tried to strip us of everything, but we kept the drums, our saint, and our community. They were not able to break us.
Palmarito’s Afro-descendant culture is not only about memory but also organization. The Chimbánguele, the Gaita, the visits among the pueblos santos, the collective meals, and the making of drums—all these practices link the commune to its African heritage. Here, culture is both identity and the seed of socialism.
