BLACK BATHING BEAUTIES

bathing beauties

VENEZUELA HACIENDA: TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 29
My cousin, John, is an admirer of black bathing beauties. His is President of the World Admiration Society. He keeps large harems in various countries. His beauties prefer liquid mud to spring water and each paddock has a swimming hole. The ladies wallow through the heat of the day and presumably philosophise. Only their eyes and nose and sometimes their tails show above the milk-chocolate surface.
I envy them. The heat is fierce today. Philosophising in a mud bath must be preferable to riding a small Honda amongst homicidal maniacs.

AM I A CLOSET CONSERVATIVE?

big slogan



VENEZUELA: TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 28

I have been considering the last Post: MORALITY OR EXPEDIENCY.
I think of myself as an old Lefty. Am I a closet Conservative?
I have never been against people being rich. I am against people being poor.
I am against abuse of power, whether by the wealthy, or by Corporation or Government.
Poverty in Latin America is monstrous. Politicians and their supporters in the oligarchies are criminals. So are outside Governments. The US bears much responsibility, as did the Soviets and Cuba in fostering civil war. Yes, and we Brits were in there prior to World War 2 (the US took our investments in payment for armaments).
Even the best of elected politicians tend to think short term.
Dictators more often govern by caprice. Fidel Castro is a good example. He had an idea in the night. The idea became Government policy in the morning.
Chavez is similar.
Both have had good ideas.
Some ideas have born fruit.
Most fail through lack of planning or analysis.
And slogans don't solve poverty.
Solving poverty requires long term planning, long term effort, an end to coruption. It also requires National unity of purpose.
Latin America suffers too many divisions.
Chavez and Morales foster those divisions: they foster hatred.

MORALITY OR POLITICAL EXPEDIENCE

VENEZUELA HACIENDA: TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 28
I have ridden across only a small section of Venezuela. The hacienda is an island of discipline and productivity. One hundred and fifty thousand acres is a big island. Vision was the first step, followed by major investment in alliance with agricultural expertise.

Does the estate benefit the community?

Does the estate benefit the nation?

These are legitimate questions. Count those directly and indirectly employed with those employed on similar acreages, match the productivity. Unprejudiced economists would answer in the affirmative.
There is a question of morality in the ownership of so much land.
Land reform has a moral ring.
Break the hacienda into the minimum economic parcels. Each family averages three children. The children have three children. Ownership ties the children to the land - institutionalised poverty.
A worker's cooperative is a splendidly socialist alternative. Governments world-wide have a bad record at providing sufficient working capital for cooperatives or seeing cooperatives through bad years.
Finally there is nationalisation: think the UK's Groundnut scheme in Tanzania, the old USSR or Cuba - agricultural disasters.
Chavez has a different logic. He preaches that the rich are villains. The rich are responsible for poverty. Taking their land gains Chavez popularity amongst the urban poor.
There is an unfortunate biproduct. Threaten nationalisation or expropriation and banks withdraw credit. Farmers minimise investment. Production slumps. Prices rise. Shops nationwide are already out of milk and out of flour.

MILITARY LOVERS

VENEZUELA HACIENDA: NOVEMBER 28
I spend the afternoon and evening with the estate manager. He has been here from the beginning. He arrived as a young man in his early twenties. He is now in early middle age. His commitment is absolute. He will work a fourteen hour day until the sword falls.
He differs in character from his cattle manager. He has no need of arrogance. His achievements are manifest.
He reminds me of a lover dedicated to a long term relationship - and of a military commander. He has a lover's feel for the soil. The eye for detail is military. So is the planning and the precision and the delegation of responsibility down through the chain of command.
The estate is divided into huge quadrants, each with its own herdsmen. Quadrants are sub divided into paddocks in which grazing is controlled by electric fencing. Dirt roads divide the paddocks. A grader works the dirt roads. The roads are straight and well drained. Everything is neat and clean. Yes, very military.
My relatives are Generals. The vision was theirs. The over-all planning is theirs, as is the allocation of resources. They visit, stay a few nights, inspect, where necessary make suggestions. They are also lovers.
I stalk the house they have built for themselves and discover small details that tell of their love...and of their pride in their creation. The estate is their baby. Now it is threatened with expropriation.
They are fortunate in having other, older children.

BIG NUMBERS - TOUCH OF COLONIALISM

VENEZUELA HACIENDA: WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 28
Sixty four thousand hectares is one hundred and fifty thousand acres (give or take a few hundred). Farm is definitely inappropriate. We Brits would call it an estate. The same acreage in Texas or Tierrra del Fuego might sound impressive. Reality would be a few thin beasts grubbing for sustenance. This land is different. It is rich in topsoil and well watered.
My relatives have been its proprietors for sixteen years. They invested massively. At time of purchase the land held two small buildings and a beef herd of 450 animals. Now there are ten thousand beef cattle and one thousand water buffalo, good housing for workers and managers, machine shop, a/c offices with nine computers (I mention the computers because I went from desk to desk in hope of reading my mail: the Internet connection is a disaster).
I noted a few statistics in no particular order:
450 kilometres of electric fencing
200 kilos of fertiliser for each animal per year
200 kilos of dry feed per animal
A dairy manufactures three tons of cheese each month from buffalo milk.
I spend the morning with the cattle manager. The figures are his. He is a tall, handsome man, going grey, perhaps a little impatient, a little intolerant, very certain of his superiority.
I know something of agriculture. I left school early to learn farm management in what is now Zimbabwe. That was nearly sixty years ago. Now, seated in the pick-up, I am reminded of those white Rhodesian farmers. The professionalism is similar, the hard work...and the odd comment.
There is also a connection to modern Zimbabwe: this hacienda is under threat of expropriation.

VENEZUELA HACIENDA

VENEZUELA HACIENDA: WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 29
I rode twelve hours yesterday. I arrived exhausted. I was in no state to appreciate where I was. This morning I explore the house and its grounds. Though spacious, the house is simple in materials and decoration. Floors and benches are polished cement. Woodwork is carpentry as opposed to cabinet-making. This is Latin America: the wood oven and grill beside the pool could cook an ox. I slip naked into the water and swim a couple of lengths. The sun is low on the horizon. Sunlight, filtered by trees, dapples the water. I dry myself and stretch, waggle the bad ankle and do my squats. I am surrounded by emerald pasture spotted with white cattle. Bifocals in place, I admire the view. The farm manager collects me in a four wheel drive pick-up. Farm? Hardly an appropriate word for 64 000 hectares...

KILL HIM IF YOU CAN

FEAR: TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 28
I was scared last night. I never ride in the dark yet there I was, car and truck drivers attempting to commit me to oblivion.
I have ridden the length of the Americas. I am on my way back north. Drivers in other countries merely terrified me. An Argentine truck driver smashed my leg.
I have the experience to judge.
Believe me, Venezuelan drivers are the worst.
A police advertisement on television announces 35 000 road deaths in the previous twelve months. The cops show film of squashed cars and mashed trucks, decimated trees and steel-draped concrete pillars, lots of blood.
Was I sacred last night riding in the dark?
Too damn right!
Did I sleep soundly?
No.
I wake and ease tired joints outdoors to be blessed by morning sunshine.

TOO LONG IN THE SADDLE

NORTH FROM THE ORINOCO: MONDAY, NOVEMBER 27
I left the hotel this morning a few minutes before 7 AM. I am expected at a cattle farm this evening. The owners are distant relatives. I believe the farm to be thirty five Ks towards the next big town north of the Orinoco. Right road, wrong distance. The farm is thirty-five Ks short of the next big town. Late afternoon and I have a further hundred and fifty Ks to ride.
I lose the race against the setting sun. I quake and peer into murk thick with dust and bugs. Manic drivers hurtle down the road. I am five Ks beyond where the farm should be. I make a U turn. Two sets of headlights blind me. A car overtakes a truck and forces me off the tar. I miss the sign a second time, make a second U. Lights flash from a truck down a dirt road. The road leads to a bunch of farm buildings set amongst tall trees. Men are hosing a trailer. I am directed to the office. The farm manager greets me. I munch on a vast steak in the manager's home before being driven to the owner's house. The house stands on a low knoll in a grove of trees. The doors lead to a vast open-plan living room. Rough-cut beams support the roof. Two sides are open behind mosquito netting and wooden shutters. Big sofas form a square on a central dais - kitchen and pantry to the right, bedrooms on the left. I am too tired to explore - shower and bed.

GREAT BRIDGE - GREAT POVERTY

ORINOCO: MONDAY, NOVEMBER 27
Venezuela is an immensely rich nation.
I measure the bridge over the Orinoco: five kilometers. The end sections are supported on pylons. A suspension bridge spans the center. The bridge is a great feat of engineering.
Is feeding the poor of Venezuela so much more difficult? Or developing an economy in which today's extremes of poverty are confined to history?

RIVER ROMANCE

ACROSS THE ORINOCO: MONDAY, NOVEMBER 27
I have sailed the Beagle Chanel, crossed the Straits of Magellan and the Amazon. Today I cross the Orinoco. Ahead lie the Panama Canal, Mississippi, Delaware and Hudson, names recalled from childhood fantasies. Other rivers and channels exist in the Americas. None so romantic.

BAD NIGHT

NORTH THROUGH VENEZUELA: MONDAY, DECEMBER 27
I wake at 4 AM. A car alarm screeches directly below my window for twenty seconds; it does so every twenty minutes. My bathroom door locks itself from the inside. The room key doesn't fit. I have to go downstairs to use the lavatory behind the bar. I give up on sleep and load the bike. An organiser for Chavez is paying his bill. He has traveled widely through Europe, mostly in what was the USSR. He lives in Caracas. Guidebooks and other travelers warn that Caracas is dangerous. The politico says the people are good. They are poor. Poverty is inescapable. Stealing is their only possibility.
Must they rob with violence?

YES WITH CHAVEZ

ONWARD NORTH: SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 26
The road escapes from the mountains and rain forest into open farmland. One week remains before the referendum which will give Chavez powers of a dictator. Villages are bedecked with red banners bearing Chavez' portrait and a simple message: With Chavez, Yes.
Cars bear red banners across their rear windows. Buses are similarly bedecked.
I see no visible sign of opposition.
Then an open air cattle market and hundreds of pick-ups and mud-spattered SUVs, an opposition politician on a platform...
Dusk approaches. I turn off the highway into a small town and find a hotel across from the church on the central square. Applause for socialism boom from boom boxes on a banner-draped truck. Cheer leaders urge support from the flat bed of the truck. The truck circles a few blocks. Two pick-ups, three scooters and around thirty pedestrians complete the procession. All participants wear red shirts, WITH CHAVEZ, YES printed across their shoulders. Organisation is obvious, enthusiasm less so.
I watch and eat an excellent pizza at an outdoor table the church side of the square.
Sunday evening and the church is locked.
Is the parish priest frightened by socialism's bully boys?
Or perhaps he visits a mistress on Sunday evenings?

SUNDAY LUNCHEON

SOMEWHERE ON THE ROAD: SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 26
Spotted by light rain, I stop for lunch at a jumble of shacks huddled at the foot of a gorge. The shacks are trying to be a town without success. Three restaurants line the road, charcoal fires outdoors. Three locals wait for takeaway at the first. Surely a good sign?
The cook is a buxom black woman, 50s, white apron over a flowered dress, spotless white cap.
I ask for soup.
Soup is served in a big bowl. Chunks of beef and root vegetables bathe in dark broth. The broth is rich and spicy.
"A perfection," I tell the cook.
She replies, "Have a good journey, my heart."
So much happiness and companionship gained in two short lines of conversation!

COPS AND MILITARY

NORTH FROM SANTA ELENA: SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 26
The Federal police are the elite of Venezuela's guardians. I am told that that the Government considers them untrustworthy. They are confined to barracks. Cars and trucks queued for gas at service stations outside Santa Elena. Soldiers demanded documents and destination. Some drivers were turned away.
Now I am stopped at an army post on the road down from the Grand Sabana. Other than at frontiers, this is the first time that I have been asked for my documents during my travels through the Americas. These are serious soldiers, no small talk - or I have the wrong humor for Venezuela. My passport is examined. Where have I come from? Where am I going? What is the purpose of my visit? Finally a stamp and signature are added to the back of the temporary import permit for the Honda.
I am stopped three further times during the day by equally unfriendly military.

NORTH FROM SANTA ELENA

GRAND SABANA: SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 26
Today I enjoy one of the great bike rides. The road crosses the Grand Sabana National Park, a wonderful country of grassland and folded hills. Patches of woodland fill the hollows and palm trees edge the streams. Villages are a sprinkling of thatched adobe huts amongst wispy grass. The road climbs to a cold, windswept moor blanketed by charcoal cloud. A stinging drizzle drives me to seek shelter in the cafe of an indigenous tourist centre. No coffee, no soup. Nothing. The clouds lift to show a magic land of flat-topped mountains. What lies within the clinging mists and jungles of these small isolated plateaus? Imagine clambering the precipices, rocks slippery with spray from waterfalls, knotted tree roots - bight eyes of a dinosaur, ruined walls of a forgotten civilisation.
The road discovers a crack between mountains and plunges down and down from the cold moors into steamy rain forest. Mountain sides are vertical. Glancing up, I catch glimpses of cloud spilling over jungle table-tops.

VENEZUELA AND COLOMBIA

NORTH FROM SANTA ELENA:
I was reluctant to write of Chavez' Venezuela while in the country. Paranoia? Probably. However the country is full of Cubans. Newspapers report the presence of Cuban doctors. Venezuelans I talk with report the presence of Cuban secret police. Why is a Cuban working in the electricity office? Why is a Cuban in charge of the department for Folkloric studies? Are no Venezuelans qualified?
Now, on New Year's Eve, I am safe in the land of strident capitalism, a land ruled by the devil (Chavez's description of President Bush). Time to consult my journal and fill the gaps...

SNOW TO PROVIDENCE, RHODE ISLAND

DUTCHESS VIEW FARM: SUNDAY, DECEMBER 30
Reading the page proofs for OLD MAN ON A BIKE is done and the proofs returned to the editor. Anya's mother, Abby, has her birthday today. Abby has a cottage on the shore in Rhode Island. I will catch a bus over to Providence. We will enjoy a celebratory birthday dinner with Anya's brother and I will stay a couple of nights with Abby before heading into New York City for a day, then back to the farm. Snow is forecast for this evening. Hopefully the bus will get through in time for dinner. Abby likes to sit up nights. We can watch TV and adjudicate between the Presidential candidates in Iowa as they scratch each others' eyes out.
Huckabee and Romney are the most scratchy. Both are from the religious wing of the Republican Party.
I am an old Lefty. I would pick Edwards as President with Obama as Vice President.
I don't have a vote.
Unfair considering that Tony Blair made the UK a US Colony.

BOTH SAD AND HAPPY

lunar module


DUTCHESS COUNTY: SATURDAY, DECEMBER 29
Anya should have her baby in the next ten days. She and Michael unpack a NASA lunar module. Anya claims that it is a baby centre. How would she know? The directions for assembly are in Chinese English, the line drawings are early Maya. A news item on TV attracts my attention. A tiger escaped from San Fransisco zoo. The tiger killed one man and mauled two others. Michael is calm for the moment. He studies the lunar module instruction manual. He hides his bewilderment. By education, he is a lawyer. He can retaliate should the lunar module act tigerish.
I go upstairs to the studio and lie on my bed. I am immensely happy to be here. I am immensely sad not to be home in England with Bernadette and my four sons and with Sarah and the beloved Charlie Boo.