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.
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