June 2008

Up until this point, everything written in this blog was recorded shortly after it happened: fresh in my mind and for the most part accurate. But sometimes memories are left to fend for themselves. The following is an account of the second half of my life in 2008, as I remember it one year later.

It was the half-way point of my Rotary Ambassadorial year; a fine time, I figured, to finally give a presentation to my host Rotary Club. I had presented to other Rotary clubs around Caracas and student groups at my university – experimenting with different material to see what worked best. Talking about the United States to a group of Venezuelan Rotarians from Caracas tended to put them asleep. Most Rotarians knew as much about US culture and society as they wanted. Some likely knew more than I did. Treading the controversial waters of Venezuelan politics certainly didn’t cause any shuteye, but it did make me look naïve in the eyes of my audience. Offering my outsider’s “balanced view” of the Venezuelan political situation to a roomful of intransigent partisans I just met, ended up not being the most effective method in challenged the culture of polarization I’d been finding to be so destructive. So, still struggling to discover my voice—that is, to say something useful, meaningful and sincere—I decided to simply speak about everything I loved about Venezuela. Around 40% of Venezuelans are very dissatisfied with the direction their country is headed and tend to sometimes forget what is good about it. In a sense, I saw it as my task to remind them. It turned out to be the right approach. I spoke of the kindness and warmth of the people, the diversity and beautify of the land, and the richness and energy of the culture. I said that I felt more at home in Venezuela than any other country I had ever visited. One woman in the audience was particularly moved by my words. She said that my perspective reignited an optimism that the current political situation had extinguished. I had reminded her how wonderful her country really is and this realization sent chills through her body and brought tears to her eyes. As tears are often contagious, Rotarians around the table began to cry as well. The more emotional they became, the more they wanted me to share my message with others. One went as far to suggest that I give my “Venezuela the Beautiful” presentation on the national opposition television channel, Globovision. He assured me that he would start making the connections that afternoon.

I left Tarzilandia (http://www.tarzilandia.com/index.htm) (the elegant and expensive German restaurant nestled at the foot of El Avila) with a smile on my face and a bounce in my step, overly pleased with the presentation I had just delivered (and the surprisingly poignant response) and childishly excited about the next adventure. I was full of that blissful feeling that comes over us when everything in life is perfect and nothing seems impossible. A car-full of friends were waiting for me at Plaza Altamira. I joined them and we left for Choroní with the music up, windows down, breeze in our face, the back-seat packed, and the open road ahead. It was Monday afternoon, the eve of the festival of San Juan, and I was on my way to Chuao with excellent people and a healthy supply of cold beer. Life couldn’t have been any better.

We arrived in Choroní as the sun was setting and quickly found a boat to take us to Chuao, a small, secluded fishing village on the northern coast. There are two ways to reach Chuao: by boat or on foot. The latter involves a two-day hike over the mountains and through a thick and humid cloud forest. The boat ride can be torture on the toosh, but is over much quicker. Once our craft was full, the motor roared and we shot through the darkness, hopping the white caps, and bouncing over the uneven contours of sea. My legs gripped the bench to keep from being tousled out of my seat, as a cowboy’s legs hug a horse in the heat of a rodeo. Over the side of the boat hundreds of tiny bright lights speckled the water’s surface. They reminded me of a lawn full of fireflies on a midsummer night in Carroll County, or a black Minnesota sky dotted with stars.

Our boat pulled up to shore and the passengers made off into the darkness. After an hour walk through world famous cacao plantations (where some of the world’s finest cacao bean are grown) we stumbled into the humble village of Chuao, panting, our shirts splotched with sweat. The festival, in celebration of the birth of John the Baptist, had already begun and mass was being held in a church just off the plaza. By two o’clock, we had joined a candle light procession winding its way through wide and car-less streets, pausing at certain houses to pray in front of ornate altars – hundreds of candles laid before iconic figures of St. John – and take communion in the form of club crackers and creamy hot chocolate approaching the consistency of pudding. Music drove away the sleepy spell of night. Young children peered from second story windows and ran among the moving grove of legs, sharing in the energy of the celebration.

Where there is music in Venezuela, there is dancing. All of a sudden, for no obvious reason, the procession would halt, a circular space opened in the center of the crowd, and a man and a woman entered the room to dance. A hurried rhythm flowed from the drums, and the ground was beaten down by pattering feet that easily kept pace. The couple gracefully danced circles around each other, but without touching. The man, creating a canopy over the woman with his arms, the woman rapidly rolling her hips to the music. It’s hard to describe the energy at that moment, the feeling of being in the midst of a very genuine and very powerful tradition, entranced by the repetitive beats of the drums, captured by the beauty of the dance, grateful to be in the presence of a joyous people, exploring new ways of worship that bordered on surreal.

As sunrise came the music faded and people retreated to their beds. We bathed in the river that ran behind our hostel that morning, letting the current whisk away the sweat from the night before and then walked back through the cocoa forest to rest up on the beach before making the trip back to Caracas.

The bus ride back to Maracay is typical of the Choroní experience. The colorfully painted bluebird school bus was packed, so I found a seat in the back stair well. Regatón blared from pounding speakers and a bottle of wine was being passed around rear. When someone handed it to me, I took a swig and passed it onto the next stranger. There is something mystical about this bus ride. On one hand, I felt very close to death, sitting in the stairwell of a bus speeding along narrow mountain roads in the rain and the blackness of night. On the other hand, I found comfort in the noise, the laughter, the community of passengers, and their carefree spirit and lack of fear. The blackness masked the dangerously unguarded shoulders visible during the day and I ended up having as much confidence in the driver, founded or not, than every other person on the bus. Whenever we entrust our safety to others, we convince ourselves that the person knows what they’re doing.

In Maracay a seat opened up, so I emerged from my stairwell and found myself next to a nice Venezuelan lady – and after a short conversation I have long forgot, I received an invitation to her house that evening. I refused her hospitality on grounds that I had class the next day at 9am, but looking back now wonder if I would have learned more had I taken her up on her offer.

While I was being showered with invitations to go home with Venezuelan girls, my friend Dave, who had staked out a spot in the front of the bus, was not so fortunate. For the previous two hours he had been standing in the aisle as our bus rounded hairpin turns and finagled tedious switchbacks all the while jostling everyone’s center of gravity, causing nausea among the more sensitive and those with a full stomach. Dave happened to be standing in front of a man with a full stomach and an empty bag of carryout from McDonalds. Feeling something moist that smelled a bit like catsup flung onto his shirt he swiped his finger through it and…as unfortunately expected, it was vomit. Dave turned around and said“Come on man, you could at least have given me a heads up.”

My Month of May

Following my Rotary weekend, May unfolded like a used beach towel: full of sand, sunscreen, and a colorful spread of culture. But while beach towels tend to be covered with pop culture, my May was full of traditional and religious culture. After a Venezuelan wedding and a religious festival blending African and Catholic tradition, I spent two consecutive weekends on the beach, but with my nose in a book, of course! Who says that sun, sand, and surf has to kill brain cells?

The wedding: The ceremony was traditional, catholic, and made up of mostly family. The after-party was traditional as well, but in the Venezuelan sense, not the catholic. Lots of friends and family, music and dancing, alcohol and good food. And of course, it lasted until the early hours of the morning, allowing me to continue my habit of watching the sunrise AT LEAST once a month.

Pursuing the news the following Monday, I learned that the United States had violated Venezuelan airspace over the weekend: Saturday, around 8pm, to be exact. And where was I at that time? In a Venezuelan military base. Whoa! In a Venezuelan military base, Ben? How did you end up there during the precise moment when your country decided to violate Venezuelan sovereignty? Well it just so happened that the father of the bride was a retired military officer, allowing them to hold the wedding on a military base in Caracas. I suppose coincidences do happen, as the US government argued when the Venezuelans hinted that this most recent incursion might have been intentional, part of a string of US/Colombian provocations in the region. In the end, the Venezuelans accepted the US apology and explanation that it was, in fact, an accident, avoiding an escalation of the conflict and any need to take me in for questioning.

The Dancing Devils of Yare: Every year on Corpus Christi, after months of preparation, the devils, dressed in blood red garments and grotesque but colorful masks, take to the streets of San Francisco de Yare. This unusual religious festival originated in the mid-18th century. According to legend, during a severe drought, the blacks, who worked the land, were desperate because it hadn’t rained for so long and so they asked God to send them rain. That year, it rained a lot and there was plenty of food. To give thanks for the miracle, the blacks began to dance. A bystander remarked that they looked like dancing devils. Soon, the Spanish tradition of devils’ images and masks featured in Corpus Christi feasts joined with the African-style masks and rhythms, eventually evolving into the ceremony of today.

For locals the “dancing devils” is a profoundly religious ceremony promising prosperity and protection, but for many it’s simply a folklore festival to enjoy. Kamil, three Venezuelan friends and I arrived for mass on a blistering hot afternoon as the “devils” presented themselves before the Eucharist to be blessed. A procession brought us to the town’s plaza where dancing and drumming continued. During the procession the “devils” try to approach the Holy Sacrament but are repelled by its divine power present in the Eucharist, a manifestation of the ceremony’s struggle between good and evil.

Mesmerized by the monstrous masks and rolling rhythm, intrigued by the unique blend of African and Catholic roots, full from food and festivities, we were given the chance to share these impressions with all of Venezuela when the state television station interviewed us, looking for the foreigner’s opinion.

Choroní: The Saturday after Corpus Christi a group of international students and I visited National Park Henri Pittier, Venezuela’s first national park, a few short hours from Caracas. The park is comprised of cloud forests, fishing communities, African beats, beautiful beaches and birds galore. We set up our tents and strung our hammocks under swaying palms on a lively crescent of sand 10 minutes from the costal town of Puerto Colombia/Choroní. What distinguished Choroní most from other beaches I’ve been to in Venezuela was the bus ride. The bus from Maracay to Choroní, early Saturday morning, was transformed into a mobile-discoteca. As we boarded the brightly painted bus, the driver greeted us with a big smile and turned the stereo-system volume up several notches, a sign of the ride ahead. Those who rushed to the back of the bus cracked open their morning beers and led the “bus choir” in the hottest reggaetón, salsa, merengue, and tambor tunes. Whoever didn’t intentionally dance along to the music swayed in their seats from the constant curves of the tortuous road. It’s the most sense of community I’ve ever felt among fellow bus passengers. If Venezuelans can create such a jocular and joyous ambiance on a simple bus ride, it is no surprise that they’re recognized as one of the happiest countries in the world.

My seat companion on the bus was a young girl from Maracay and our conversation is an example of how tourism can unexpectedly turn educational. By shouting over the blaring music and listening closely, we got to talking. She told me about her family and how hard they work. Those who study are ahead one year in their studies and her father goes to Caracas (2-3 hour commute each way) to sell Chichorón (fried pig) every day. Her father wants her to study rather than work. Nonetheless, she helps out financially by competing in song and dance competitions. As a poor family, the Chavez government has helped them tremendously. Mission Miracle blessed her mother with free eye surgery. Barrio Adentro, or Inside the Neighborhood, provides her with free inhalers and free medical check-ups from the Cuban doctors who staff local clinics. And Mercal, the subsidized food markets, she said “you have no idea how much that helps.” And she’s right. I can’t know how much these basic services ease financial burdens, because I don’t spend the majority of my income on food or medical expenses….but many of the world’s poor do. It’s important to hear and value the stories from the direct beneficiaries of these programs. Those are the people who realize and feel their importance, not the critics (or even supporters) who only experience the programs from their computer screens or newspapers.

LASA: The following Monday morning I attended the Venezuelan section of the Latin American Studies Association (LASA) conference in Caracas. From personal anecdotes on a rickety bus to academic papers in a sophisticated university, my learning environments are diverse here, to say the least. Over the course of two days I listened to presentations on democracy, populism, President Chávez, the Venezuelan government, legitimacy, representativeness, and media wars. We wrapped up the academic part of the conference by viewing a well-done documentary called “Puedo Hablar?” on the 2006 presidential elections. The official closing ceremony was somewhat of a surprise for me. I’m used to academic conferences ending with a reflection and perhaps a cocktail where participates exchange contact information. LASA’s closing started as a cocktail, with wine and hors d'oeuvres, but quickly evolved into a traditional Venezuela party of tambor when the university’s live tambor group showed up. The night concluded with gringos and Venezuelans dancing tambor inside a circle of smiling scholars. Whether on the bus, the beach, or the closing ceremony of an academcic conference, it’s confirmed: Venezuelans know how to live.

Mochima: I describe Mochima in my travel journal as “amazing.” That one word sufficiently sums it up for me, but I imagine that I should elaborate for those of you who weren’t there. Mochima is a National Park of islands in western Venezuela, about 6 hours from Caracas. It’s supremely unique from any other costal environment I’ve visited so far. Its rocky shores and abundant wildlife reminded me of Acadia National Park in Maine. Arid mountains are contrasted with deep green waters, colorful coral, iridescent fish, pelicans galore, and dolphins….oh the dolphins!!!! We were so close I could have reached out my hand and touched them if they weren’t so fast. Check out the pictures for corroboration!

Returning to Caracas after spending the weekend in paradise is not the easiest transition. It never fails to be a struggle to balance classroom studies with “experiential learning;” but I do my best to heed the advice once given to me by a wise man: “Don’t let school get in the way of a good education.”

Rotary in Venezuela

I began the month of May by attending the annual district Rotary conference in Maturín, a small city in eastern Venezuela. Despite advanced notice of the event itself (but absolutely no details), I made a last minute decision to attend, and am glad I did. The conference restored my good opinion of Rotary in Venezuela.

It may seem strange for one who is receiving over $11,000 from an organization to study and live abroad for one year to have anything but a good opinion of that organization. But I must admit that what I’ve seen of Rotary in Venezuela comes closer to my idea of an old-men’s country club than a serious service organization. Fellowship, not service seems to be their principle purpose. Fellowship is important, but in a country with so much need, so much poverty, it is not acceptable for an organization purportedly dedicated to service to say they cannot find a service project. And yet that is what I hear. The problem, as I see it, is not that they cannot find a project, but that that is not where they are investing their energy. When I visit clubs and ask what activities or projects they are involved in I receive varied responses: “Ah! We have this house in Colonial Tovar where we go to barbeque with our friends,” or “we get a group together and go to the country club sometimes,” or “we play dominoes and drink whisky on the rocks, ever so often,” or “we’re planning a trip to the beach for next weekend, would you like to come?”

It’s this strong emphasis on sharing with friends that I hear the most, although I occasionally get the more service oriented answers as well. My club, for example, sponsors an afterschool program in a neighborhood that used to be low-income, but is now more lower-middle class. That’s wonderful, Rotary is helping the middle class escape its poverty! There is one club that does fund a school in a truly poor neighborhood. I visited the school after the district conference and left with good impressions. But for most of the clubs I’ve had contact with, vaccinating children or donating school supplies once a year is not enough, in my opinion, to be considered a service organization. At a typical meeting I often hear more complaining and criticism of the Chavez government than discussion of how to help others, leading Rotary in Venezuela to more closely resemble a political association than a service organization.

But what Rotary here lacks in service projects, it makes up in hospitality. Venezuelans are inherently open, friendly, outgoing, gracious people. Wonderful and warm conversationalists, they have a way of making strangers instantly feel like friends. And they treat new friends like gold. So while I might perceive a gap between Rotary International’s core principles and Rotary Venezuela’s priorities, my personal experience with the Rotarians here has been largely positive.


Even before I set foot in Venezuela, the Rotarians here were lending a hand. They helped me apply to the university, found me accommodations my first nights in the city, and a reliable ride from the airport to my hotel. My host counselor, Arnaldo, called me my second day in the country wanting to know “what my greatest need was at the moment and how he could help.” I never feel neglected at a club meeting, but rather attended like a king. Invitations to their homes or country clubs are as abundant as their welcoming smiles. The idea that rotary is a family is probably better expressed here than anywhere else in the world.

It was at the district conference in Maturín that this hunch was driven home. The conference was typical in many respects. Ceremonious welcomes, several plenary sessions, a few inspirational speeches, and 15 minute breaks for mini-sandwiches and orange juice. During these breaks I had the chance to mingle. I would start a conversation with the aging man to my left and learn that he is the ex-ambassador to Namibia. Later I would sit down next to a friendly looking fellow and lo and behold, the ex-vice minister of tourism! Rotarians would start conversations with me as well, always eager to hear my story. I met many wonderful people (all extraordinary regardless of their occupation) who made me feel incredibly welcome over the course of the weekend. It was at this conference that I experienced the “spirit” of Rotary as Venezuelans understand it.

Given my above critique, I'd like to insert a disclaimer here. While I may be a bit disappointed with Rotary’s service “record” in Venezuela, I do recognize and respect Rotary International’s dedication to service. I realize that I am a direct beneficiary of this service and am extremely grateful for the opportunity to live and study here for a year. I admire the work they’ve done to eradicate polio and strongly support their international Peace Studies program. I also appreciate the unique opportunities that studying abroad with Rotary afford. As an ambassadorial scholar I am required to give at least 10 presentations to Rotary and non-Rotary audiences in Venezuela. These presentations serve as a formal space for cultural exchange and a way toward international understanding. I talk about Maryland as well as my experiences and impressions of Venezuela, often drawing contrasts between the two. We discuss politics, culture, perceptions, and misconceptions. Often, my ambassador qualities are challenged with hard questions concerning the tensions between our respective countries. One learns to be sensitive to the controversial topics of the host country, treating them carefully and diplomatically. Such an ambassadorial responsibility, if taken seriously, extends beyond Rotary venues and into everyday actions, making the study abroad experience much more enriching and purpose-driven.

Adventures in April

To turn in a 25 page, single spaced, extensively documented, paper that you wrote in a foreign language is something to be proud of. In a North American graduate program, I suppose I would mark such a moment by resting my mind and body from the rigorous semester, while preparing for the next. In Venezuela, however, I celebrated by planning my next adventure. The end of the trimester brought yet another one-week vacation, enough time, I figured, to visit the “Gran Sabana,” a unique grassland tucked away in a far south eastern corner of Venezuela.

Despite my good intentions to figure out some of the basic logistics (like when the bus is leaving on Friday and how we’re going to get to the station)before the day of departure, several farewell parties got in the way on Thursday night / Friday morning, and so the details were left to the last minute, literally. On Friday, at around 2:30pm, I found out that the last bus left Caracas at 5pm, and to get there on time (accounting for rush hour traffic in Caracas) we would have to leave the house at 3pm. So in half an hour, Kamil (fellow traveling companion and housemate) and I stuffed our bags while going over mental check lists and preparing the house for our 10 day absence. It was perhaps the first time in the history of all my globetrotting that I neglected to carefully fold or roll each article of clothing, and opted instead to carelessly shove anything I thought I might need into my sack. Our improvised and hasty departure would continue to characterize the remainder of the trip.

As chaos has its order, improvisation similarly has a way of working out, although perhaps in Latin America more than other parts of the world. Yolanda (my motherly landlord), just happened to be heading down to Caracas as we sprinted out the door, and offered us a lift to the bus station. Despite heavy traffic, we made it a few minutes before 5…but the fact that we showed up minutes before scheduled departure time was irrelevant considering the bus never actually left until 6pm.

19 hours later we drifted into Santa Elena…a lazy, bilingual town on the Brazilian boarder, located at the southern end of the Gran Sabana. Relieved to escape the freezing cold, double-decker bus that deprived us of a good night’s sleep, we grabbed our bags and hiked toward the center of town. Now, our original plan for the Gran Sabana was to hike, Roraima, the legendary flat-top mountain (tepuy) that inspired Sir Arthur Conan Doyle ‘s Lost World. But the first thing we found out upon entering Santa Elena was that Roraima was closed for cleaning during the week. We had arrived in the depths of off season hoping to enjoy the lack of tourists. For the same reason, the national park service thought it an appropriate time to clean the trails. But when one door closes, another opens; so after pouting for several minutes over our poor luck we set off to look for another open door. It happened to present itself in the form of a charming German-run hostel and two Swiss girls who were traveling South America. Besides a comfortable room, the hostel offered a 2 day tour of the savanna, and the Swiss girls: wonderful company and curious insights on my American idiosyncrasies. Eager to get acquainted with our new travel companions and have another country-stamp on his passport, Kamil was quick to invite us along when the girls said they needed to go to the Brazilian boarder to obtain a Venezuelan entry stamp. So we all pilled into a taxi and headed to the line. Brazil was nice. I bought some souvenirs, took some pictures, and practiced some Portuguese. It’s in my plans to return someday.

The next two days was spent exploring the Gran Sabana with Gustavo, our guide, and his three children. With our party now quadrupled, we hit the vermilion dirt road with our sights set on El Paují, a once thriving town of miners, indigenous, New Agers, hippies and artists, and home to what Gustavo referred to as “the abyss.” Rain pounded the earth as we rolled into town, turning the streets into rivers of orange. To reach the abyss required a respectable hike, so we sought refuge in a tiny convenient store to wait out the storm. I think it might have been me who casually pointed out that the rain had let up some and, already a bit restless, suggested that we continue.

It was when the rain let up that our adventure began. Our lively party piled back into the jeep and continued along the orange road, until we reached the edge of an ostensibly crossable river, full but not excessively so. Gustavo decided to ford nature’s fence; but nature triumphed, as it often does. The jeep plunged into the river and we unexpectedly dropped like a rock into the deepest part: thud! Gustavo guns it and the tires, instead of propelling us forward, sling massive amounts of mug onto the bank behind us creating a hole beneath the right rear wheel. And the worst part? At this point the rain begins to pick up again and the river begins to rise. Water starts entering the drivers side door, submerging the peddles. Our smiles quickly bend into worried frowns and later we all confessed our individual designs of how to best escape, fearing our refuge would became our ruin. Once clear that we weren’t getting out alone, Gustavo´s son, Aldolfo, scrambled out the window, onto shore, and off to seek help.

While following Aldolfo out the window seemed like a prudent course of action, Gustavo advised us to stay put. The seasoned guide knew the personality of his land, and flash floods, he said, did not pose a threat on the savanna. So trying to get over our jitters we cracked open some beers, made some sandwiches and enjoyed a nice lunch in the middle of the river. Thankfully the rain eventually eased and the water level stabilized. We soon quit the jeep and ventured out into the clean, sunny savanna. Another jeep arrived soon after but the, rescue attempt failed due to some crummy cables. So Kamil, Aldolfo, and I set off to see the abyss. It’s worth noting the grades of preparation for this hike. I, in my leather hiking boots, Kamil in worn sandals, and Aldolfo, bravely barefoot.

The grueling climb rewarded us with remarkable views from the top. The abyss turned out to be, not a deep crevasse as I had imagined, but a small mountain with a steep, cliff-like drop that dramatically reviled the Amazon Basin and some of the most stunning views I’ve ever seen. A sea of jungle green extending on for miles before stumbling into mountains in the distance. The beauty was in its expansiveness, impossible to catch on film, and so we enjoyed the view with naked faces. Our awe was interrupted by dark clouds approaching, so we quickly started down the mountain. By this time, the jeep had been pulled out of the river and the rest of the group was waiting for us at the trail head.

After day two of touring the savanna we took a night bus north and by the following evening were swinging to sleep in hammocks hung at the edge of the great river Orinoco. I wrote in my travel journal on April 15th, “Yesterday we charged over the hills of the Gran Sabana in search of roaring waterfalls. Today we seek silence and tranquility in the wilderness of the Delta Orinoco. As we await dusk at the river’s side the sounds of motor boats denote signs of civilization that were absent in the boundary waters. Nonetheless, I feel a resemblance. Last night disappeared for me and I woke to the sights and sounds of a big city: Puerto Ordaz.” Deciding to pass up the tours offered in Puerto Ordaz or Ciudad Bolívar, we and the Swiss girls (who had now become faithful travel companions) headed to the capital of the Delta Orinoco opting to hire a local. We arrived in Tucupita around mid-day and asked the first person we met in the bus station how to get a tour of the Delta. The guy made a phone call and soon after, Robin showed up. We bargained a good price for 3 days, 2 nights and he sounded legitimate (although his proof was a notebook of comments left by previous tourists) so we paid half up front, gave him all our bags and walked off to pursue the plaza while he went to buy provisions for the all inclusive trip. It didn’t take to long to start wondering whether handing all our bags over to a stranger had been such a good idea. We decided that no, it was not, and hoped hard that he would come back at the agreed time and place. Thankfully, Robin was not a con-artist; but we still had to chastise ourselves for rash and reckless trust, which depending on the context can be either a virtue or a vice. In this case, a vice.

With our bags safely back in our company, we boarded the motor boat, and our tour of one of the largest river deltas in the world commenced. The scenery of the Delta proved to be fairly repetitive. At times I felt like I was traveling along interstate 70, heading from MD to OH: a wide, multi-lane waterway with nothing but trees on either side of you for hours at end. Besides the redundant scenery, however, the resemblances were few. Howler monkeys hung from trees along the shore, river dolphins jumped from the water at night, bright pink birds and bright blue butterflies added color to their green backdrop. Warao fishing communities stood on stilts at the river’s edge. Houses with a floor and a roof, but no walls, lined a single boardwalk that stretched from the first to the last house, boats floating underneath. The violent sun shone strongly and the mosquitoes bit frequently, but the people were warm, like their climate, receiving us well, sharing their culture and showing us their wilderness.

To give back to those who receive us when we travel is an important gesture not practiced often enough. It’s a lesson I learned attending Church of the Brethren work camps during my high school years and has stuck with me ever since. Traveling is more meaningful, and thus more enjoyable, when you’re helping those who host you. Of course whirlwind sightseeing tours don’t often offer opportunities for volunteer service as time is tight and knowledge of the destinations is limited. But once in a while chances do arise. The night before we were to return to Tucupita, Antonio, our guide, invited us to attend his sister’s class across the river. Curious to see what school on the delta was like, we agreed. When we arrived at the one-room school house we learned that the classes were a government social program (Misión Ribas) that allows high school dropouts to finish their degree. After observing for awhile one of the two teachers asked if I would help her with the English lesson. Even though they were in charge of teaching basic English to the class, they themselves knew very little. So for the next hour I sat down with one professor and gave her crash course in English grammar and pronunciation, while the other continued teaching math and geography. Very appreciative of my help, they proposed I come back to teach full time, in exchange for Warao language lessons. I told them it was tempting but unlikely.

As we took the boat back across the river I thought about the common criticism directed toward the government’s educational missions: the substandard quality. How are the professors supposed to teach what they themselves don’t know? And how will students learn if the professors cannot teach? I understood the exceptional circumstances of this particular example (English is the subject the professors are least likely to know and the delta is extremely isolated) but nonetheless worried that it reflected the rule rather than the exception. In any case, substandard education is better than no education at all. The same goes for service, I think: it is better to contribute what you can, than not at all, if even for one hour.

The next day we returned to Tucupita and found our way to Puerto la Cruz, a costal town in the north. Kamil had a friend from Canada who was vacationing in Isla Margarita so we caught the ferry the following afternoon and arrived in Venezuela’s vacation Mecca after sundown. We spent our last weekend doing the 3 musts of Margarita Island: clubbing, beach bumming, and shopping. What makes this island different from more beautiful beaches in Venezuela is the thriving night-life, the duty-free zone, and the tourist infrastructure. On Sunday afternoon we caught a ferry back to Puerto la Cruz, then a bus back to Caracas that ushered us into the city by 2am. A friend picked us up from the station and before we knew it we were home, incredulous that the trip was over and amazed at everything we had seen. Classes started the next day.

School now, Facebook later

Holy week was a welcomed hiatus from my academic activities, but also a stern reminder that the trimester was coming to a close. Only two weeks remained the day classes resumed and I had yet to write two very large and important papers looming on my to-do list (one on the 2007 student Movement in Venezuela and the other on 21st Century Socialism). After being out of school for one year and a half I had apparently lost the important skill of pacing myself and acquired the dangerous habit of procrastination. Studying abroad certainly has its advantages and disadvantages. For example, the different culture, language, and political perspectives have all enriched my academic experience here. However, the general distractions of living in a foreign country (e.g., the temptation to explore ), and especially in a laid-back Caribbean culture where “taking it easy” and “partying” are national pastimes, does little to correct my lack of motivation to start a 20 page paper. Aware of being caught in this less than propitious environment for academic accomplishment and recognizing that time was not on my side, I set out to beat the system. My first step was to lay down some ground rules that would make these papers my number one priority for the next two weeks. Up until this time I had been intentional about balancing energy for friends here, friends/family back home, school, travel, extracurricular activities, internship, and personal time all while trying to stay healthy and happy. Balance is hard to come by and almost always something gets neglected. To make up for the neglect, my mantra for the next two weeks was: Work hard now, Rest later; Study now, Sleep later; Write now, Travel later; School now, Facebook later. I sought to eliminate all the distractions and temptations that lurk around my kitchen table where I set up my lap top. I assumed an unusual sleep schedule, often napping during the afternoons and working at night when no one could invite me out for a coffee, or convince me to catch a movie. Needless to say, my strategy was successful and the papers were turned in on time. While I wasn’t sure it was possible, I am capable of high levels of productivity here. This experience has inspired me to develop a disciplined routine for this trimester that will allow me to follow the Venezuelan news more closely, write more regularly in my blog, keep in touch with friends and family, study, travel, read outside of class, study Portuguese and live the moment. So far I’ve been faithful to this syncopated rhythm, which has helped me feel more settled, grounded, productive, and priority oriented.

Holy Week

Almost two months ago I ended my last blog entry announcing a super road trip during Holy Week with my two housemates and Pedro, a Venezuelan friend from the university. It’s hard to believe how quickly the time has passed since then. Mid-march has turned into mid-May with a blink of an eye. My former housemate, Stephanie, left for home a month ago, I’m well into my 2nd trimester here, and I have seen the majority of Venezuela by now. Perhaps my ambitious schedule makes the weeks glide by faster. Since I only have one year in this country, I want to soak up as much as possible: the politics, the culture, the people, the language, and the scenery. I’ll try to fill you in on how I’ve been doing.

Until Venezuela the traditional North American road trip had been absent from my repertoire of ways to experience Latin America. But since gas is cheaper than water, most middle class families have several vehicles, and Venezuelans are incredibly gracious, traveling by car here has become quite common for me. During Holy Week vacation, we took that norm to the extreme. The trip turned out to be a five day, 1100 mile, whirlwind circuit through Western Venezuela. Our first stop was La Vela de Coro, a small, friendly town known for the beautiful, bright-colored facades of its colonial houses. After a brief tour of one of the town’s historic homes and a visit to the Francisco de Miranda monument, we continued onto the sand dunes of Coro as the sun began to set. The dune-scapes were nothing like I had ever seen before: rolling hills and steep cliffs of golden sand stretching toward the horizon made us feel as if we were in the middle of the Sahara Desert.


Prepared to save a few bolivares, Pedro had packed his tent and so instead of checking into a hostel, we headed to a breezy beach and after a several attempts managed to set up our accommodations for the night. Drifted to sleep with the moon framed in the archway of the tent door and the sound of gentle waves coming into shore. I’m sure my slumber would have lasted the entire night had I not, at around 2 am, been abruptly awakened by two brusque voices quickly approaching our quarters. The first thought that flashed through my foggy mind? “Awww shit, we’re in trouble. These guys are totally going to rob us.” My fears certainly weren’t assuaged when the two men began violently shaking the tent, demanding that we wake up. Pedro, who was closest to the door, bravely poked his head out to see what our mid-night visitors wanted. “Get out of the tent,” they shouted, “You’re talking to the police!” I relaxed a little, reassured to know that at least they weren’t two thugs looking to run off with our car, but then remembered that many Venezuelans are more afraid of the police than the criminals, because the police are often criminals with immunity. Pedro sluggishly gets out of the tent to talk with the police.
“What are you doing here?” they ask.
“Sleeping,” Pedro replies frankly.
“And who’s that in there? Why are you hiding?” they question Stephanie, who had sat up in the tent to observe the conversation with groggy eyes.
“I’m just waking up,” she explains, slightly confused at the query. To avoid being interrogated myself, I remain frozen flat at the far side of the tent, pretending to sleep. The police don’t see me and so proceed with their final orders.
“Well, you can’t camp here; you need to move your tent 50 meters to the right,” they inform us. “It’s for your own safety.” We thanked them and they left. I’m convinced that if we had been camping 50 meters to the right, we would have had to move it 50 meters to the left. But afraid the officers might come back and give us more trouble if we didn’t move the tent, we reluctantly relocated it 25 meters to the right before falling back asleep.

The next day we toured Coro in the morning sun and then spent the afternoon living the phrase, “I want to see what I’m not missing.” Took a trip north to Punto Fijo to catch a glimpse of one of the largest oil refineries in the world and then headed off to sultry Maracaibo. We spent a few hours meandering around the plaza, perusing the flea markets, and strolling along Maracaibo’s own Lake Shore Drive. Soon we were ready to escape the suffocating heat and continue south to the Andean town of Mérida. Night fell as we climbed the mountains. To prevent car sickness we kept the windows down, letting the icy air rush in to sting our faces. We stopped in a steep mountain village to throw on our warm clothes, incredulous that only a few hours earlier we had been sweating bullets. Few cars passed us on the tortuous road. At one particularly deserted point Pedro suddenly stopped the car and said, “It’s time to listen to the silence.” We all got out, turned our faces toward the sky, and marveled at the stars above. We arrived at Pedro´s grandparent’s house late, travel-weary, and grateful for a warm bed and a roof over our heads.

While in Mérida we thought it appropriate to hike one of the many trails that snake through the Sierra Nevada National Park. At around 10am, on our last day, we left the trailhead shamefully unprepared for what awaited us. Pedro had been under the impression that it took only three hours to reach the lake, our final destination. Instead, it was a grueling 5 hour, fast paced hike there and an exhausting 4 hour return trip. Our biggest mistake was that we only brought 2 packs of Social Club crackers and 1 banana for each person, not nearly enough to fuel our bodies for the strenuous journey. While the hike through the cloud forest was beautiful (at first) and the deep green lake at the top provided decent views, I think my favorite part of the hike was the laughs we shared. We got so goofy because of the ridiculous pain we felt and ended up just laughing at it all to stay sane. We made it back to the car as the last bit of light was leaving the earth….exhausted. Left Merida early the next morning. The sky was blue and the mountains that had been mostly hidden by the clouds during our stay were spectacularly reveled.

How to view all my photo albums

Note: I can only post one photo album at a time on my home page so in order to access all my photo albums in the blog you must: 1) click on the photos posted on my main page, which will open Picasa Web Albums in another window 2) Select “My Public Gallery” located in the upper left hand corner of the page 3) Select the album you wish to view