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.”
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
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.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
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 br
ought 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.
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 br
ought 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.Wednesday, March 26, 2008
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
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Travel
In the interest of this ambassadorial endeavour and my own sanity, I have decided to escape Caracas frequently. While Caracas is the cultural, economic, and political center of the country, it does not represent all of Venezuela. Many Caraqueños realize this when vacations come around, considering it a punishment to be stuck in the city during the holidays. So far I have done a fair share of exploring. On one mid-January weekend I visited La Guaira, a costal town that lies directly north of Caracas. My housemate and I were in search of the pristine Venezuelans beaches described in our Lonely Planet travel guide but when we finally found one we were a bit disillusioned...it was pretty freaking dirty. Trash everywhere and very crowed. It was still nice to smell the sea, listen to the waves, watch the surfers, taste the salt, and dig my fingers into the sand. While not impressed with the beach we were taken by the people. As the sun set we found a seaside kiosk serving fried fish, plantains, and rice. With reggaton (Spanish rap music) blaring in the background, we got to talking to the locals and learned of the 1999 mudslides that left over 50,000 people covered, destroyed much of the town, and left the once beautiful beaches a mess never to be completely cleaned up. These coastal towns have never been the same after The Tragedy. Typical Venezuela style, our new friends started buying us beer after beer until it was pitch dark and we were the only remaining beach goers left. After declining an invitation to go back to their house to dance the night away we accepted their invitation to walk us to the bus station. To top off our first adventure of the year the bus fittingly broke down on the way home.
On another Saturday afternoon my housemate and I took the cable car to the top of El Avila, the mountain the looms over Caracas. On a clear day you can see Caracas to the south and the Caribbean to the north. We were not fortunate enough to enjoy such views from the top and contented ourselves with a hike through the misty cloud forest that covers the mountain. We did, however, see Caracas from our cable car on the accent, before entering the clouds. It is a blessing to have El Avila National Park so close. On the mountain one can breathe deeply, hear the songs of the birds, and feast on the color Green. On the mountain, the stresses of the city evaporate into thin air.
For Carnaval (1st week of February), some new friends from the university and I visited Colonia Tovar, a Germany colony several hours outside of Caracas. In 1843 a group of Germans immigrated to Venezuela, where the government was encouraging Europeans to settle and work in Venezuela to help revive a post-war economy. For a century the colony was isolated from the rest of the country due to the lack of roads and rules prohibiting marriage outside the community. Consequently the community preserved their German language, culture, and architecture. It was not until 1940 that Spanish finally became the official language. We tasted fresh strawberries with cream, candied apples, German sausage, and coleslaw, meandered through open-air markets of colossal carrots and huge heads of broccoli, and mingled with blond-haired, blue eyed Tovareños, effectively transporting me back to rural Indiana and Maryland and even to the Germany I’ve never visited.
I ended my crazy Carnaval adventure with what some might call a “hot shower.” The day after we got back from Colonia Tovar I was finishing up a routine shower when suddenly the electric water heater directly attached to the shower started to sputter, growl, smoke and whoa, sparks started flying and a steady flame made itself comfortable right above my befuddled head. Still soaked and not exactly sure how to handle the electric fire blazing above me, I grabbed a towel, rushed to my cell phone and called my landlord Yolanda next door. No answer. I tried her home number. It’s busy. Oh my gosh, the house is going to burn down, what to do, what to do. So I raced next door in nothing but a towel (the way Yolanda tells the story I’m wearing nothing but a skimpy dish towel, but she likes to embellish, or in this case diminish) and inform Pichicho, Yolanda’s husband that the house is on fire. He (not me) streaks down the stairs and into the bathroom, which is now full of smoke and grabs the first thing he sees on the floor with which to smother the flame, my dirty boxers. My boxers don`t quite get the job done so he yanks the cables, cutting the circuit and extinguishing the fire. Phew, that was close! I vowed to Yolanda that I would not take a shower again until I returned to the United States. Too risky to shower in Venezuela.
Just two weeks ago I accepted an invitation from Predro, a Venezuelan friend and fellow Frisbee fanatic, to visit Morrocoy National Park in the north western part of the country. It was a great trip, brimming with beauty, convenience, and relaxation. Pedro graciously drove us to Chichiriviche where his family owns an apartment 10 minutes from the coast. All day Saturday and Sunday we enjoyed the whitest beaches and the clearest, bluest waters I’ve ever seen. The beachscapes were truly out of a Caribbean travel brochure, boasting shades of blue that don’t exist in Indiana or Maryland and a serene but intense beauty unique to the tropics.
Holy Week starts tomorrow and I’m off on a road trip with Kamil, Pedro and Steph. From Caracas to Coro to Maracaibo to Merida, where we’ll spend a few days before returning to reality.
On another Saturday afternoon my housemate and I took the cable car to the top of El Avila, the mountain the looms over Caracas. On a clear day you can see Caracas to the south and the Caribbean to the north. We were not fortunate enough to enjoy such views from the top and contented ourselves with a hike through the misty cloud forest that covers the mountain. We did, however, see Caracas from our cable car on the accent, before entering the clouds. It is a blessing to have El Avila National Park so close. On the mountain one can breathe deeply, hear the songs of the birds, and feast on the color Green. On the mountain, the stresses of the city evaporate into thin air.
For Carnaval (1st week of February), some new friends from the university and I visited Colonia Tovar, a Germany colony several hours outside of Caracas. In 1843 a group of Germans immigrated to Venezuela, where the government was encouraging Europeans to settle and work in Venezuela to help revive a post-war economy. For a century the colony was isolated from the rest of the country due to the lack of roads and rules prohibiting marriage outside the community. Consequently the community preserved their German language, culture, and architecture. It was not until 1940 that Spanish finally became the official language. We tasted fresh strawberries with cream, candied apples, German sausage, and coleslaw, meandered through open-air markets of colossal carrots and huge heads of broccoli, and mingled with blond-haired, blue eyed Tovareños, effectively transporting me back to rural Indiana and Maryland and even to the Germany I’ve never visited.
I ended my crazy Carnaval adventure with what some might call a “hot shower.” The day after we got back from Colonia Tovar I was finishing up a routine shower when suddenly the electric water heater directly attached to the shower started to sputter, growl, smoke and whoa, sparks started flying and a steady flame made itself comfortable right above my befuddled head. Still soaked and not exactly sure how to handle the electric fire blazing above me, I grabbed a towel, rushed to my cell phone and called my landlord Yolanda next door. No answer. I tried her home number. It’s busy. Oh my gosh, the house is going to burn down, what to do, what to do. So I raced next door in nothing but a towel (the way Yolanda tells the story I’m wearing nothing but a skimpy dish towel, but she likes to embellish, or in this case diminish) and inform Pichicho, Yolanda’s husband that the house is on fire. He (not me) streaks down the stairs and into the bathroom, which is now full of smoke and grabs the first thing he sees on the floor with which to smother the flame, my dirty boxers. My boxers don`t quite get the job done so he yanks the cables, cutting the circuit and extinguishing the fire. Phew, that was close! I vowed to Yolanda that I would not take a shower again until I returned to the United States. Too risky to shower in Venezuela.
Just two weeks ago I accepted an invitation from Predro, a Venezuelan friend and fellow Frisbee fanatic, to visit Morrocoy National Park in the north western part of the country. It was a great trip, brimming with beauty, convenience, and relaxation. Pedro graciously drove us to Chichiriviche where his family owns an apartment 10 minutes from the coast. All day Saturday and Sunday we enjoyed the whitest beaches and the clearest, bluest waters I’ve ever seen. The beachscapes were truly out of a Caribbean travel brochure, boasting shades of blue that don’t exist in Indiana or Maryland and a serene but intense beauty unique to the tropics.
Holy Week starts tomorrow and I’m off on a road trip with Kamil, Pedro and Steph. From Caracas to Coro to Maracaibo to Merida, where we’ll spend a few days before returning to reality.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
The University
La Universidad Simon Bolivar (USB), founded in 1970, is a state school that is world renowned for its excellent science and engineering programs. I don’t think there are even any humanity programs at the undergraduate level. However, the graduate program in political science is well respected and supposedly quite good. Many Venezuelan politicians have passed through the program, including Hugo Chavez, who began a Masters in Political Science at USB in 1990 but never finished after being imprisoned for leading an abortive coup in 1992.
USB has a gorgeous green campus with plenty of open, inviting grassy spaces on which to sprawl out after a three hour discussion on participatory democracy or the particulars of the Bolivarian Revolution. Plenty of palm trees give the campus a tropical, relaxed feel, not exactly conducive to a rigorous study schedule. Out of the 12,424 students enrolled in the university, 9,524 are undergraduate students and 2,810 are graduate students. I’ve noticed that the government takes care of the students fairly well here. For one, food is subsidised. I pay a whooping 15 cents for a lunch consisting of soup, salad, a main dish, fruit, bread, and juice. Although extremely inefficient, transportation to and from the university is free. The down side is that I have to wait 30 minutes plus at the bus stop inhaling low emission standard exhaust from an endless line of bumper to bumper traffic. More often than not a sympathetic fellow student offers me a lift. Other times I walk and arrive before the bus does. Finally, the undergraduate students don’t pay tuition. Besides a $15 or so registration fee, university is free. What a bizarre but attractive concept.
I am enrolled in two graduate political science classes: Understanding the Bolivarian Revolution, a doctoral level class opened to masters students and Democracy, Society, and Citizen Participation in Venezuela: Student Movements, an undergraduate opened to masters students and supplemented with additional reading material and research projects. So far the classes aren’t as rigorous as I imagine graduate school in the
Politically, USB identifies as an anti-government school. This is partly because the majority of students are middle to upper class and in
But while the USB community is largely opposed to Chavez it should not automatically be associated with the “opposition,” that is, the opposition media and political parties. Although tempting at times, I am trying to avoid placing people into simplified political categories of either Chavista or Opposition. While it’s true that extreme political polarization exists here there’s also a political spectrum that tends to be overlooked. The student movement, for example, has proven to be less radical and more rational than the opposition media. The other day I met a student at USB who voted for one block of the constitutional reform and against the other (the reform was presented in two separate blocks). While perhaps rare, there are people here who recognize both the negative and the positive of the Chavez government.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Living Situation
I live in a gated community called El Placer (The Pleasure), about an hour outside the center of Caracas and five minutes from the university. It’s an upper middle to upper class neighbourhood, perched on the side of the mountain boasting breathtaking views of El Avila and the city. Palm trees line the quite, deserted streets.
I share a spacious, comfortable independent annex with three other international students who attend La Universidad Simon Bolivar. Kamil is a Polish-Canadian undergraduate chemical engineering majors from Ottawa, Stephanie is a 4th year undergraduate Urban Studies major from New Mexico, and Juliana is a Panamanian doing an intensive month long professional internship. We are renting the annex from a warm, welcoming Venezuelan family. The mother, Yolanda, acts more like our host mom than a landlord. She takes us grocery shopping, occasionally makes us coffee and arepas for breakfast, and worries when we’re not home before dark. We enjoy cable, a fickle wireless internet connection, a stove with one functioning burner, irregular hot showers, and a washing machine.
I share a spacious, comfortable independent annex with three other international students who attend La Universidad Simon Bolivar. Kamil is a Polish-Canadian undergraduate chemical engineering majors from Ottawa, Stephanie is a 4th year undergraduate Urban Studies major from New Mexico, and Juliana is a Panamanian doing an intensive month long professional internship. We are renting the annex from a warm, welcoming Venezuelan family. The mother, Yolanda, acts more like our host mom than a landlord. She takes us grocery shopping, occasionally makes us coffee and arepas for breakfast, and worries when we’re not home before dark. We enjoy cable, a fickle wireless internet connection, a stove with one functioning burner, irregular hot showers, and a washing machine.
First Week In Caracas
Since yesterday marked my first month in Venezuela, it seems like an update is long overdue. In an attempt to break up this entry some I’ll write and post my following ruminations by theme (e.g. university, politics, culture, travel, etc...).
I spent my first week in Caracas a few blocks off la Plaza Altamira in a clean, white-washed, sunny hotel room with bamboo furniture. Altamira is located in the Eastern part of city and is one of the few zones where I feel comfortable walking the streets alone at night. So while the price was a bit steeper than what I’m used to paying for Latin American hotels, it was a safe place to start out my stay.
I happened to find myself in Caracas during the New Year break and a week before I could move into my house due to a stroke of miscommunication. The first acceptance letter that the political science department sent me back in November stated that classes would start on January 7th. So, wanting to have a least a week in the country before I hit the books I though it would be a good idea to arrive on the first. It turns out classes didn’t start until the 14th and I couldn’t get into my house until the 8th. I decided to use this idle time to learn about the new city and country, which for the next year I will call home. Each day I set off on a new mini-adventure. A stroll through an 82 hector former hacienda, turned recreational park, complete with duck ponds, baseball fields, botanical gardens, and even places where it’s possible to escape the din of traffic and hear the leaves rustle. A jaunt to the city zoo, where monkeys range free and will snatch the hat right off your head if you’re not careful. A visit to a gigantic five story mall, supposedly the largest in South America, where I lost myself in the sea of shoe stores. A walk along cobble stone streets lined with quaint cafes and vendors selling traditional Venezuelan food in the more authentic Sabana Grande. I discovered that when you seek out authenticity you should expect both the good and the bad. It was in Sabana Grande that I had my first encounter with authentic Venezuelan police. As I was walking along two young male officers stopped me, asked to see my passport, search my things, patted me down thoroughly and then proceeded to give me advice on how to “hook up” with Venezuelan women during my visit in their country. Their treatment of me seemed superfluous, especially considering the high crime levels in Caracas.
When I wasn’t out exploring I holed up in my room or found a bench in the nearby Plaza Altamira and read. Venezuela Politics in the Chavez Era, Changing Venezuela by Taking Power, and Cowboy in Caracas are all very informative books about the political situation here.
I spent my first week in Caracas a few blocks off la Plaza Altamira in a clean, white-washed, sunny hotel room with bamboo furniture. Altamira is located in the Eastern part of city and is one of the few zones where I feel comfortable walking the streets alone at night. So while the price was a bit steeper than what I’m used to paying for Latin American hotels, it was a safe place to start out my stay.
I happened to find myself in Caracas during the New Year break and a week before I could move into my house due to a stroke of miscommunication. The first acceptance letter that the political science department sent me back in November stated that classes would start on January 7th. So, wanting to have a least a week in the country before I hit the books I though it would be a good idea to arrive on the first. It turns out classes didn’t start until the 14th and I couldn’t get into my house until the 8th. I decided to use this idle time to learn about the new city and country, which for the next year I will call home. Each day I set off on a new mini-adventure. A stroll through an 82 hector former hacienda, turned recreational park, complete with duck ponds, baseball fields, botanical gardens, and even places where it’s possible to escape the din of traffic and hear the leaves rustle. A jaunt to the city zoo, where monkeys range free and will snatch the hat right off your head if you’re not careful. A visit to a gigantic five story mall, supposedly the largest in South America, where I lost myself in the sea of shoe stores. A walk along cobble stone streets lined with quaint cafes and vendors selling traditional Venezuelan food in the more authentic Sabana Grande. I discovered that when you seek out authenticity you should expect both the good and the bad. It was in Sabana Grande that I had my first encounter with authentic Venezuelan police. As I was walking along two young male officers stopped me, asked to see my passport, search my things, patted me down thoroughly and then proceeded to give me advice on how to “hook up” with Venezuelan women during my visit in their country. Their treatment of me seemed superfluous, especially considering the high crime levels in Caracas.
When I wasn’t out exploring I holed up in my room or found a bench in the nearby Plaza Altamira and read. Venezuela Politics in the Chavez Era, Changing Venezuela by Taking Power, and Cowboy in Caracas are all very informative books about the political situation here.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
