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

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.

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 US would be. The biggest challenge so far hasn’t been the quantity of reading but the fact that the reading is in Spanish, which will undoubtedly become easier as the year goes on.

Politically, USB identifies as an anti-government school. This is partly because the majority of students are middle to upper class and in Venezuela class and political affiliation are closely connected. However, it also probably has to do with the fact that Chavez has lost much of the initial support he enjoyed from the autonomous intellectual community. They say it's difficult to find an intellectual that supports Chavez, outside of the Bolivarian Universities. My professors seem to strive toward objectivity in the classroom, but everyone has their opinion and even they acknowledge that their biases will inevitably seep through any attempt at disinterested discourse.

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.

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.

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.