GUARERO, VENEZUELA: TUESDAY, DECEMBER 5
I traveled through Venezuela at a critical time in the country's history - the referendum. As a result, my Venezuelan BLOGS contain a surfeit of politics and insufficient action. This is a final observation. As always in Latin America I am enraged by the monstrous disparity between rich and poor. This is particularly so in a major oil producer awash with petroleum dollars. Oil companies and their allies in the oligarchy were criminally irresponsible. Revolution is their deserved reward.
Only the type of Revolution is in question.
Chavez?
I don't believe so.
Chavez is a megalomaniac drunk on power.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
ADIEU VENEZUELA
THE FRONTIER: TUESDAY, DECEMBER 5
Stretches of tar have crumbled on the narrow two-lane highway. Potholes are deep and dangerous. Scrub trees close in. This is guerrilla country and bandit country and a smuggler's route. Traffic is sparse and mostly indigenous inhabitants driving old, rust-encrusted pick-ups with bent chassis and fenders lashed with wire. I am overtaken by two motorcycle cops. The cops don't wear helmets. I try to keep them in site. They turn back at the frontier. I dismount and produce my documents. The Venezuelan officials are polite and speedy.
Stretches of tar have crumbled on the narrow two-lane highway. Potholes are deep and dangerous. Scrub trees close in. This is guerrilla country and bandit country and a smuggler's route. Traffic is sparse and mostly indigenous inhabitants driving old, rust-encrusted pick-ups with bent chassis and fenders lashed with wire. I am overtaken by two motorcycle cops. The cops don't wear helmets. I try to keep them in site. They turn back at the frontier. I dismount and produce my documents. The Venezuelan officials are polite and speedy.
FAKE HOUSES AND REAL BIRDS
TO THE FRONTIER: TUESDAY, DECEMBER 5
Sixty Ks to the frontier: this is indigenous territory. Chavez posters border the coastal highway. Many posters boast of new houses built under the partnership of Chavez and the State Governor. I pass a clutch of pale blue huts crammed on a patch of freshly spread gravel, no shade. The huts are the size of a suburban garden shed. Each hut has a door and one window. The huts are new and unoccupied. They are statistic houses - glories of the Revolution.
The highway cuts across a tidal lagoon and damns the flow of water. The lagoon inland of the highway is stagnant and odoriferous. The seaward side is a shallow haven of water birds. A herdsman dressed in shorts and a baseball cap drives a few thin cows across the lagoon to graze sparse grass on a dune. I park and count bird species: two kinds of heron, waders, ibis, duck, oyster catchers, what appear to be moorhens, a small bird with long legs and a long, thin, curved beak...
Why, oh why, don't I carry a bird book?
Because I don't have space.
Sixty Ks to the frontier: this is indigenous territory. Chavez posters border the coastal highway. Many posters boast of new houses built under the partnership of Chavez and the State Governor. I pass a clutch of pale blue huts crammed on a patch of freshly spread gravel, no shade. The huts are the size of a suburban garden shed. Each hut has a door and one window. The huts are new and unoccupied. They are statistic houses - glories of the Revolution.
The highway cuts across a tidal lagoon and damns the flow of water. The lagoon inland of the highway is stagnant and odoriferous. The seaward side is a shallow haven of water birds. A herdsman dressed in shorts and a baseball cap drives a few thin cows across the lagoon to graze sparse grass on a dune. I park and count bird species: two kinds of heron, waders, ibis, duck, oyster catchers, what appear to be moorhens, a small bird with long legs and a long, thin, curved beak...
Why, oh why, don't I carry a bird book?
Because I don't have space.
WILL VENEZUELA COME TO A HALT?
FRONTIER ROAD: TUESDAY, DECEMBER 5
My last day in Venezuela and I am out of bed and on the road by 6.30 AM. Market day in the last town before the frontier and traffic is heavy. A yellow digger backs across the road to load a dumpster truck in the town center. The first car brakes. A driver tries to squeeze through on the outside. A driver tries to squeeze through on the inside. The same happens the far side of the dumpster truck. These are Venezuelan drivers. Giving way is unthinkable. In minutes the road is blocked solid three vehicles wide. Klaxons and curses accompany me as I ease off the road, ride fifty metres in a dirt ditch, reach the market and inch between market stalls. I circle through a couple of dirt lanes and back to the highway. Two complacent cops watch the blockage build. One of them gives me a grin and a nod. I follow the ditch out of town. By evening the blockage should be 100 Ks deep. Maybe it will spread to Caracas. Venezuela will come to a halt.
My last day in Venezuela and I am out of bed and on the road by 6.30 AM. Market day in the last town before the frontier and traffic is heavy. A yellow digger backs across the road to load a dumpster truck in the town center. The first car brakes. A driver tries to squeeze through on the outside. A driver tries to squeeze through on the inside. The same happens the far side of the dumpster truck. These are Venezuelan drivers. Giving way is unthinkable. In minutes the road is blocked solid three vehicles wide. Klaxons and curses accompany me as I ease off the road, ride fifty metres in a dirt ditch, reach the market and inch between market stalls. I circle through a couple of dirt lanes and back to the highway. Two complacent cops watch the blockage build. One of them gives me a grin and a nod. I follow the ditch out of town. By evening the blockage should be 100 Ks deep. Maybe it will spread to Caracas. Venezuela will come to a halt.
Friday, January 11, 2008
FRONTIER PORNO
TO COLOMBIA: TUESDAY, DECEMBER 5
The zone either side of the Venezuela/Colombia border has an evil reputation. Drug cartel killers and moralist left-wing killers (FARC) fight over territory. Venezuelan police practice a low profile and the military mostly keep to their barracks.
Two small towns separate me from the frontier. Cops at the first are checking vehicles. Late afternoon and a cop advises me to book into the only hotel and stay in my room. Outdoors after sundown is dangerous.
The hotel is a short-stop facility, porno on TV. Each room has its own garage. Two guards pack big-game handguns that would put a rhinoceros to flight.
I dump my bags and ride in search of an Internet cafe.
It is not yet dusk.
The owner of the Internet cafe is about to lock up.
He says I should return to my hotel.
I take his advice.
I spot two mosquitoes in the bathroom. The shower head is missing, so is the seat off the lavatory bowl. The tiny cotton towel wouldn't dry a damp vole.
I surround the bed with mosquito coils.
I flick channels on TV. The choice is between two men sharing one woman, two women in a homosexual tryst, or a moderately banal male/female one-on-one.
Football would be more interesting and I don't much care for football.
Take-out is steak and fries or fries and steak.
This is a fun place...
The zone either side of the Venezuela/Colombia border has an evil reputation. Drug cartel killers and moralist left-wing killers (FARC) fight over territory. Venezuelan police practice a low profile and the military mostly keep to their barracks.
Two small towns separate me from the frontier. Cops at the first are checking vehicles. Late afternoon and a cop advises me to book into the only hotel and stay in my room. Outdoors after sundown is dangerous.
The hotel is a short-stop facility, porno on TV. Each room has its own garage. Two guards pack big-game handguns that would put a rhinoceros to flight.
I dump my bags and ride in search of an Internet cafe.
It is not yet dusk.
The owner of the Internet cafe is about to lock up.
He says I should return to my hotel.
I take his advice.
I spot two mosquitoes in the bathroom. The shower head is missing, so is the seat off the lavatory bowl. The tiny cotton towel wouldn't dry a damp vole.
I surround the bed with mosquito coils.
I flick channels on TV. The choice is between two men sharing one woman, two women in a homosexual tryst, or a moderately banal male/female one-on-one.
Football would be more interesting and I don't much care for football.
Take-out is steak and fries or fries and steak.
This is a fun place...
NO TO DICTATORSHIP
SANTA ANA DE CORO: SUNDAY/MONDAY, DECEMBER 3/4
Late evening and Coro is closed tight. I can't even buy a sandwich. Fireworks celebrate the undeclared result of the referendum. I doze off with the TV on - wake and discover the result. The people of Venezuela have voted NO. Chavez has lost by a couple of percentage points. Chavez boasted that he intended to be President in 2050.
Analysis shows abstentions amongst his supporters.
Venezuelans want change.
They don't want a dictator.
Chavez should be congratulated on the honesty of the referendum.
Or criticised by his followers for over-confidence.
He could have fixed the votem - Castro's Cubans have ample experience.
As to the people of Coro, they seem in shock.
Late evening and Coro is closed tight. I can't even buy a sandwich. Fireworks celebrate the undeclared result of the referendum. I doze off with the TV on - wake and discover the result. The people of Venezuela have voted NO. Chavez has lost by a couple of percentage points. Chavez boasted that he intended to be President in 2050.
Analysis shows abstentions amongst his supporters.
Venezuelans want change.
They don't want a dictator.
Chavez should be congratulated on the honesty of the referendum.
Or criticised by his followers for over-confidence.
He could have fixed the votem - Castro's Cubans have ample experience.
As to the people of Coro, they seem in shock.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
THE PAINTING PASSION OF ELIZABETH ORTIZ
LA VELA: SUNDAY, DECEMBER 3
The painter, Elizabeth Ortiz lives in La Vela. She has left a message for me at the hotel. I visit her in the evening. Her newly-built house on a mud road is part of village gentrification. She is a broad, dark, mature woman, comfortably overweight. She wears long skirts, lots of colours. She has travelled through a Catholic upbringing to Buddhism and brown-rice meditation. Now she is born again as a Baptist Christian. She is quiet but determined in her faith: it shines through her paintings.
Painting is her passion.
The painter, Elizabeth Ortiz lives in La Vela. She has left a message for me at the hotel. I visit her in the evening. Her newly-built house on a mud road is part of village gentrification. She is a broad, dark, mature woman, comfortably overweight. She wears long skirts, lots of colours. She has travelled through a Catholic upbringing to Buddhism and brown-rice meditation. Now she is born again as a Baptist Christian. She is quiet but determined in her faith: it shines through her paintings.
Painting is her passion.
She is a school teacher and part-time cab driver in her own car. She has two grown children, never bothered with a husband. She is dismissive of men, men are nothing but trouble.
Of the Chavez Revolution, she says: "The cure is worse than the illness. Men vote without thinking. Now they've voted, they are home getting drunk."
She says: "Christians must become part of the nation's political life: we must declare ourselves."
I wonder whether she is endangered in expressing her opinions.
"I am unafraid," she replies. "Write what I say."
Of the Chavez Revolution, she says: "The cure is worse than the illness. Men vote without thinking. Now they've voted, they are home getting drunk."
She says: "Christians must become part of the nation's political life: we must declare ourselves."
I wonder whether she is endangered in expressing her opinions.
"I am unafraid," she replies. "Write what I say."
THIS DAY OF DECISION
LA VELA: SUNDAY, DECEMBER 3
Elizabeth Ortiz is a painter. Her work is exhibited in the municipal art center across from the Cathedral. She paints women. Her style is simple. Her paintings are warm and full of heart and belief.
I call her home number. She is away. She will return in late afternoon.
Referendum day: few cars are on the road - no trucks. I ride 20 Ks out of town to La Vela, a fishing village famous for its restaurants and fresh fish for Sunday lunch.
The village is mid way between collapse and gentrification. Rain fell in the night and I inch through slippery mud and deep puddles. All restaurants are closed. Villagers wait in line at polling booths. Women walk carefully in pairs, holding hands. A good number of men are already drunk. They slouch in groups at street corners, caps reversed, sleeveless singlets, patched chinos, cheap trainers. Bottles are much in evidence. I am an intruder on this day of decision, a foreigner, an outsider shunned by stone faces - a welcome so un-Latin American.
Elizabeth Ortiz is a painter. Her work is exhibited in the municipal art center across from the Cathedral. She paints women. Her style is simple. Her paintings are warm and full of heart and belief.
I call her home number. She is away. She will return in late afternoon.
Referendum day: few cars are on the road - no trucks. I ride 20 Ks out of town to La Vela, a fishing village famous for its restaurants and fresh fish for Sunday lunch.
The village is mid way between collapse and gentrification. Rain fell in the night and I inch through slippery mud and deep puddles. All restaurants are closed. Villagers wait in line at polling booths. Women walk carefully in pairs, holding hands. A good number of men are already drunk. They slouch in groups at street corners, caps reversed, sleeveless singlets, patched chinos, cheap trainers. Bottles are much in evidence. I am an intruder on this day of decision, a foreigner, an outsider shunned by stone faces - a welcome so un-Latin American.
WILL CHRISTMAS BE ILLEGAL?
SANTA ANA DE CORO: SUNDAY, DECEMBER 3
Sunday morning and I walk the historic quarter in search of breakfast. Referendum day, there is a heaviness to the air and that almost threatening stillness that precedes a thunderstorm; streets are deserted, shops and restaurants are closed. Finally I find a baker serving coffee. Two elderly men argue on the sidewalk. Are they arguing politics, football or ancient rivalry over a school-years sweetheart?
I attend mass at the cathedral. The interior has a perfect simplicity: pitched roof lined with timber, floor paved with unglazed tiles, white pillars, white walls.
Does the congregation know that Chavez' hero, Fidel Castro, closed churches, banned religion, that wearing even a small crucifix in Cuba was a criminal offense as was celebrating Christmas?
The streets of Coro are decorated with Christmas lights...
Sunday morning and I walk the historic quarter in search of breakfast. Referendum day, there is a heaviness to the air and that almost threatening stillness that precedes a thunderstorm; streets are deserted, shops and restaurants are closed. Finally I find a baker serving coffee. Two elderly men argue on the sidewalk. Are they arguing politics, football or ancient rivalry over a school-years sweetheart?
I attend mass at the cathedral. The interior has a perfect simplicity: pitched roof lined with timber, floor paved with unglazed tiles, white pillars, white walls.
Does the congregation know that Chavez' hero, Fidel Castro, closed churches, banned religion, that wearing even a small crucifix in Cuba was a criminal offense as was celebrating Christmas?
The streets of Coro are decorated with Christmas lights...
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
PIRATES OR HEROES? WERE THEY GAY?
first cross raised in south america
SANTA ANA DE CORO: SUNDAY, DECEMBER 3
Tradition claims that the cross raised in Coro was the first cross raised in South America. The cross is of wood and stands in a domed shrine in the plaza between a convent, the cathedral and a church. Secret cellars lie below the churches. The cellars were sanctuaries against pirate attacks. Francis Drake and his associates were the pirates.
I was taught at school in England that they were heroes.
The historians of Hollywood agree.
Brits only become villains with the American War of Independence.
Such is history.
Such is art.
All art is political declared Fidel Castro shortly after the Triumph. Homosexuals and politically incorrect writers and performers were excluded from the Artists' Union and banned from publishing or performing. Homosexual painters were forbidden exhibitions.
In Europe, Castro remains a hero of the Left.
Fewer and fewer English schools teach history.
Ah, well...
SHRIMP, LIES AND PARADISE
SANTA ANA DE CORO: SATURDAY, DECEMBER 2
Two guards sit on the steps to the Museum of Art. I am late. The museum is closed. The guards shift their backsides so I can mount the steps. The doors are open. One of the guards says, "Take your time..."
I don't ride at night. I take a cab to a Chinese restaurant. The cab driver is from Caracas. Violence made him flee the capital. He claims that Coro is a Paradise.
Maybe...However, shrimp at the Chinese restaurant are a disappointment.
I watch Chavez on TV in my mini suite at the Intercaribe. Chavez has been on all five channels for the past hour. He is attacking Western (US) media of monopoly dictatorship and broadcasting nothing but lies and propaganda. He names CNN as a major culprit.
Two guards sit on the steps to the Museum of Art. I am late. The museum is closed. The guards shift their backsides so I can mount the steps. The doors are open. One of the guards says, "Take your time..."
I don't ride at night. I take a cab to a Chinese restaurant. The cab driver is from Caracas. Violence made him flee the capital. He claims that Coro is a Paradise.
Maybe...However, shrimp at the Chinese restaurant are a disappointment.
I watch Chavez on TV in my mini suite at the Intercaribe. Chavez has been on all five channels for the past hour. He is attacking Western (US) media of monopoly dictatorship and broadcasting nothing but lies and propaganda. He names CNN as a major culprit.
POOL-SIDE CORO
SANTA ANA DE CORO: SATURDAY, DECEMBER 2
Chavez has announced on TV that he expects to be President in 2050. His ex-Minister of Defence has described the referendum as an attempted coup d'etat. I sit at a pool-side table and sip cold beer.
Why must the music be so loud?
Anti-thought this eve of the referendum?
Anti-thought every day?
Why think?
What is there to think about?
Venezuelans are similar to Argentinians in their attitude to life: The crash is inevitable. Dance and laugh till it hits?
A pretty young woman wears a pink T shirt on which she has written: I WILL LOVE YOU FOR ALL MY LIFE.
I ask if this is true. She says it will be true - though she hasn't found the man yet.
A voluptuous black late-teens wears black net over an almost non-existent black bikini.
A young man swings a rosary as if it were worry beads. The beads are pearl glass. His T shirt bears two dice and the slogan: YOU CANT PLAY THE PLAYER.
No one tells the kids to collect crisp packets and sweet wrappers and soda bottles they strew at the pool side or in the pool.
I finish my beer, dress and seek shelter in the 16th century...
Chavez has announced on TV that he expects to be President in 2050. His ex-Minister of Defence has described the referendum as an attempted coup d'etat. I sit at a pool-side table and sip cold beer.
Why must the music be so loud?
Anti-thought this eve of the referendum?
Anti-thought every day?
Why think?
What is there to think about?
Venezuelans are similar to Argentinians in their attitude to life: The crash is inevitable. Dance and laugh till it hits?
A pretty young woman wears a pink T shirt on which she has written: I WILL LOVE YOU FOR ALL MY LIFE.
I ask if this is true. She says it will be true - though she hasn't found the man yet.
A voluptuous black late-teens wears black net over an almost non-existent black bikini.
A young man swings a rosary as if it were worry beads. The beads are pearl glass. His T shirt bears two dice and the slogan: YOU CANT PLAY THE PLAYER.
No one tells the kids to collect crisp packets and sweet wrappers and soda bottles they strew at the pool side or in the pool.
I finish my beer, dress and seek shelter in the 16th century...
WAITING OUT THE REFERENDUM
SANTA ANA DE CORO: SATURDAY, DECEMBER 2
Chavez supporters will be empowered by a Yes vote in the referendum. Big city riots are forecast. I want to witness the referendum. I want to witness the referendum from somewhere safe. Coro fits the bill. The Hotel Intercaribe is at the entrance to the historic district. It has a pool. Back a few years it was the smartest hostelry in Coro. The hotel is near empty. I ask for a room and am shown a damp poky cupboard. A second room has two narrow single beds. The third room has a double bed; it also has an air conditioner that could provide the sound track for a war movie. Finally I am shown a mini suite. The suite is great (though the carpet needs changing). I negotiate the room rate for three nights down to the price of a single. I park and unload and head for the pool.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
SANTA ANA DE CORO
SANTA ANA DE CORO: SATURDAY, DECEMBER 2
Though a State Capital, Santa Ana de Coro is small and manageable. Spaniards founded the town in 1527. It is a safe clean joyful place - no warnings against robbers, muggers, drug addicts, homosexuals or degenerates. You can relax and walk the historic quarter in the evening. Search here in vain for the splendours of Oaxa or Cusco. Coro is on a humbler, more intimate scale. Even the cathedral is little bigger than a parish church. Yet if perfection is simplicity and immaculate proportions, then Coro is a jewel. Sad that Coro is on UNESCO list of World Heritage Sites in danger...
Though a State Capital, Santa Ana de Coro is small and manageable. Spaniards founded the town in 1527. It is a safe clean joyful place - no warnings against robbers, muggers, drug addicts, homosexuals or degenerates. You can relax and walk the historic quarter in the evening. Search here in vain for the splendours of Oaxa or Cusco. Coro is on a humbler, more intimate scale. Even the cathedral is little bigger than a parish church. Yet if perfection is simplicity and immaculate proportions, then Coro is a jewel. Sad that Coro is on UNESCO list of World Heritage Sites in danger...
BRITAIN - A US SATELLITE
ROAD TO CORO: SATURDAY, DECEMBER 2
I stop to take on gas and coffee thirty Ks short of Coro. A big Yes for Chavez poster is affixed to the wall of the service station cafeteria. The man behind the bar doesn't like foreigners. He isn't rude - merely stone-face resistant. I encounter this instant rejection two or three times a day. I have ridden the length of Hispanic America and Brazil. It is a reaction unique to Venezuela. It isn't common. But it happens. Foreigners are the enemy (unless Cuban). Chavez says so - particularly citizens of the US...And Chavez condemns Britain as a US satellite. George W Bush is the devil; Blair was his acolyte...
I stop to take on gas and coffee thirty Ks short of Coro. A big Yes for Chavez poster is affixed to the wall of the service station cafeteria. The man behind the bar doesn't like foreigners. He isn't rude - merely stone-face resistant. I encounter this instant rejection two or three times a day. I have ridden the length of Hispanic America and Brazil. It is a reaction unique to Venezuela. It isn't common. But it happens. Foreigners are the enemy (unless Cuban). Chavez says so - particularly citizens of the US...And Chavez condemns Britain as a US satellite. George W Bush is the devil; Blair was his acolyte...
COMPARATIVE SAFETY
ROAD TO CORO: SATURDAY, DECEMBER 2
Rain clouds cool a pleasant cattle country of rolling hills. I have escaped the oil fields. Fewer trucks menace. Drivers of pickups and cars are more humane. Midday and I seek shelter from a shower in a small restaurant beside a gas station. Colour lithographs of soulful saints and the Virgin Mary decorate the walls. A rosary hangs behind the bar. The owner is first generation Venezuelan. His parents emigrated from Portugal.
Why Venezuela rather than Brazil?
He grins and says, "A mistake. They weren't good at geography."
Orange juice and big bowl of mutton soup cost a dollar.
Rain clouds cool a pleasant cattle country of rolling hills. I have escaped the oil fields. Fewer trucks menace. Drivers of pickups and cars are more humane. Midday and I seek shelter from a shower in a small restaurant beside a gas station. Colour lithographs of soulful saints and the Virgin Mary decorate the walls. A rosary hangs behind the bar. The owner is first generation Venezuelan. His parents emigrated from Portugal.
Why Venezuela rather than Brazil?
He grins and says, "A mistake. They weren't good at geography."
Orange juice and big bowl of mutton soup cost a dollar.
Monday, January 07, 2008
GOD SAVE ME FROM VENEZUELA
TO CORO: SATURDAY, DECEMBER 2
I ride through my last city in Venezuela. I am on a six-lane thruway. A small Chevrolet whips across from the outside lane to the hard shoulder and overtakes a truck on the inside before swerving back out to the fast lane. A truck pulling a trailer loaded with steel girders sits on my arse. I slow a second and he hits his klaxon. I am scared. I am so scared I want to weep. I don't know which exit I should take. The overhead signs mean nothing. I look up for more than a moment and a maniac will kill me. I want to give up, pull in to a gas station, hire a truck to transport me out of this hell. A pickup shoots from the fast lane to an exit. The driver misses me by inches. Please God save me. What am I doing here?
I ride through my last city in Venezuela. I am on a six-lane thruway. A small Chevrolet whips across from the outside lane to the hard shoulder and overtakes a truck on the inside before swerving back out to the fast lane. A truck pulling a trailer loaded with steel girders sits on my arse. I slow a second and he hits his klaxon. I am scared. I am so scared I want to weep. I don't know which exit I should take. The overhead signs mean nothing. I look up for more than a moment and a maniac will kill me. I want to give up, pull in to a gas station, hire a truck to transport me out of this hell. A pickup shoots from the fast lane to an exit. The driver misses me by inches. Please God save me. What am I doing here?
THE MORE THAT CHANGES, THE LESS CHANGES
WEST FROM CARACAS: FRIDAY, DECEMBER 1
I find a small beach hotel with a pool and drink beer and eat fresh fish on the terrace with a young Venezuelan. The Venezuelan runs two open launches for scuba diving and tours of the Marine National Park. He is booked tomorrow by a Venezuelan family. He has had no foreign tourists this season. Either the referendum or the sub prime crisis has kept them away.
He relates his experiences visiting cousins in Australia. Strangers accosted him in bars: he presumed that they were either drug dealers or took him for a drug dealer (Latino). He took a while to realise that Australians were simply friendly. And he needed time to relax and accept that it was unnecessary to ask whether it was safe to walk outside.
"Here nowhere is safe. We Venezuelans need eyes in the back of our heads..."
His dad helped him buy the launches and he is a No voter. He understands the Yes vote.
The poor lived without hope.
Chavez offered change. Many supporters dislike Chavez. However, the alternative is a continuation of the insupportable.
"We are all to blame. Venezuelans think only of themselves. See the way we drive. No one believes in the law or in justice or in politicians..."
Supporters of Chavez are no different. A big wheel in the party has built himself a mansion on the peninsular of the Marine National Park, on National Park land. The politico was penniless before Chavez came to power.
"It is how we are, we Venezuelans. Each for himself..."
I assure him that Cubans are no different. Castro's long term companion, the sainted Celia Sanchez, commandeered Havana mansions for all her family in the first weeks of the Triumph. How do I know? When first living in Cuba, we rented a mansion from Celia Sanchez' niece.
I find a small beach hotel with a pool and drink beer and eat fresh fish on the terrace with a young Venezuelan. The Venezuelan runs two open launches for scuba diving and tours of the Marine National Park. He is booked tomorrow by a Venezuelan family. He has had no foreign tourists this season. Either the referendum or the sub prime crisis has kept them away.
He relates his experiences visiting cousins in Australia. Strangers accosted him in bars: he presumed that they were either drug dealers or took him for a drug dealer (Latino). He took a while to realise that Australians were simply friendly. And he needed time to relax and accept that it was unnecessary to ask whether it was safe to walk outside.
"Here nowhere is safe. We Venezuelans need eyes in the back of our heads..."
His dad helped him buy the launches and he is a No voter. He understands the Yes vote.
The poor lived without hope.
Chavez offered change. Many supporters dislike Chavez. However, the alternative is a continuation of the insupportable.
"We are all to blame. Venezuelans think only of themselves. See the way we drive. No one believes in the law or in justice or in politicians..."
Supporters of Chavez are no different. A big wheel in the party has built himself a mansion on the peninsular of the Marine National Park, on National Park land. The politico was penniless before Chavez came to power.
"It is how we are, we Venezuelans. Each for himself..."
I assure him that Cubans are no different. Castro's long term companion, the sainted Celia Sanchez, commandeered Havana mansions for all her family in the first weeks of the Triumph. How do I know? When first living in Cuba, we rented a mansion from Celia Sanchez' niece.
BRAVE AS A LION (WIZZARD OF OZ)
WIZZING THRU CARACAS: FRIDAY, DECEMBER 1
A motorway cuts straight through Caracas and out the far side. I stop once to check with a cop that I am on the right road. Approaching Caracas, I was too preoccupied by terror to notice that the road climbed. Now the highway plunges, twisting and turning towards the sea. Down-hill drivers play fairground dodgem cars, swerving this way and that. Long convoys of Chavez buses climb towards the capital. An imaginative opposition would seek the bus park and puncture the tyres. Chavez supporters would be unable to return home to vote.
A motorway cuts straight through Caracas and out the far side. I stop once to check with a cop that I am on the right road. Approaching Caracas, I was too preoccupied by terror to notice that the road climbed. Now the highway plunges, twisting and turning towards the sea. Down-hill drivers play fairground dodgem cars, swerving this way and that. Long convoys of Chavez buses climb towards the capital. An imaginative opposition would seek the bus park and puncture the tyres. Chavez supporters would be unable to return home to vote.
ROBBERS, MUGGERS AND REVOLUTIONARIES
ROAD TO CARACAS: FRIDAY, DECEMBER 1
I resist riding a 200 kilometre detour. Bikers ride through Caracas every day. Not all of them get hijacked or robbed. Nor can the robbers and muggers be more dangerous than Venezuela's drivers.
The anti Chavez vote mounted a huge demonstration in Caracas last night. Today is the Yes vote mobilises. Every bus in the country is crammed with red shirts headed for the capital. Banners wave, fresh painted slogans gleam, klaxons screech a premature victory tattoo. Buses, old and new, collect at service stations. Red shirts swirl in the forecourt and in cafeterias or clump forlornly beside a steaming radiator or a flat tyre with the tread worn smooth as an egg. Hills slow the ancient to a crawl. Putative mechanics peer under a relic's hood. Bricks support an antique marooned by a broken spring. A shattered half-shaft strands another.
Six chrome-and-polish monsters steamroll me off the hard shoulder. I hit soft dirt, skid as I break and nearly fall. The engine stalls. I sit astride the bike, legs trembling, heart pit-a-pat and a fear-pain in the belly. Thanks buddies, thanks for the brotherhood of man. Long live the Revolution.
I resist riding a 200 kilometre detour. Bikers ride through Caracas every day. Not all of them get hijacked or robbed. Nor can the robbers and muggers be more dangerous than Venezuela's drivers.
The anti Chavez vote mounted a huge demonstration in Caracas last night. Today is the Yes vote mobilises. Every bus in the country is crammed with red shirts headed for the capital. Banners wave, fresh painted slogans gleam, klaxons screech a premature victory tattoo. Buses, old and new, collect at service stations. Red shirts swirl in the forecourt and in cafeterias or clump forlornly beside a steaming radiator or a flat tyre with the tread worn smooth as an egg. Hills slow the ancient to a crawl. Putative mechanics peer under a relic's hood. Bricks support an antique marooned by a broken spring. A shattered half-shaft strands another.
Six chrome-and-polish monsters steamroll me off the hard shoulder. I hit soft dirt, skid as I break and nearly fall. The engine stalls. I sit astride the bike, legs trembling, heart pit-a-pat and a fear-pain in the belly. Thanks buddies, thanks for the brotherhood of man. Long live the Revolution.
BOUNDLESS BIGOTRY
AFTER DINNER: THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 30
I find an Internet cafe. The Internet doesn't work. I chat with a Venezuelan civil engineer, mid-forties, short hair, heavyweight chinos, work boots. He is anti Chavez and anti the Cubans that he claims are flooding the country - together with other foreigners. He says:
"Here it is similar to Chile at the time of Allende or to Nicaragua with the Sadinistas. Chavez surrounds himself with foreigners. They are everywhere. If we must have a Revolution, let it be our Revolution.
"Why must Chavez have all these outsiders? They want to use our oil. They are no different to those Chavez has expelled.
"Chavez is a creation of the rich. Their corruption of the system has created him."
The engineer talks for half an hour on the telephone, giving detailed technical explanations and instructions. Later I fetch coffee and we talk of the US. He accuses US oil companies of arrogance and of possessing a colonial attitude - people in the US believe themselves superior and believe that only they are competent to run an oil field.
He laughs when I tell him that I have been advised to detour round Caracas.
True the city is dangerous but tens of thousands drive through Caracas daily.
I have travelled 30 000 kilometres. Colon, Panama, is the only city where I have felt in danger.
The engineer has worked in Panama. He says, "In Colon they are the same people. Blacks. Blacks are lazy and dangerous. Look at cities in the United States. All the Blacks have guns."
I consider mentioning Afro American military commanders and an Afro American Secretary of State and an Afro American candidate for President. There is no point...As there was no point in asking the cop in Barcelona why he listed homosexuals as dangerous.
I find an Internet cafe. The Internet doesn't work. I chat with a Venezuelan civil engineer, mid-forties, short hair, heavyweight chinos, work boots. He is anti Chavez and anti the Cubans that he claims are flooding the country - together with other foreigners. He says:
"Here it is similar to Chile at the time of Allende or to Nicaragua with the Sadinistas. Chavez surrounds himself with foreigners. They are everywhere. If we must have a Revolution, let it be our Revolution.
"Why must Chavez have all these outsiders? They want to use our oil. They are no different to those Chavez has expelled.
"Chavez is a creation of the rich. Their corruption of the system has created him."
The engineer talks for half an hour on the telephone, giving detailed technical explanations and instructions. Later I fetch coffee and we talk of the US. He accuses US oil companies of arrogance and of possessing a colonial attitude - people in the US believe themselves superior and believe that only they are competent to run an oil field.
He laughs when I tell him that I have been advised to detour round Caracas.
True the city is dangerous but tens of thousands drive through Caracas daily.
I have travelled 30 000 kilometres. Colon, Panama, is the only city where I have felt in danger.
The engineer has worked in Panama. He says, "In Colon they are the same people. Blacks. Blacks are lazy and dangerous. Look at cities in the United States. All the Blacks have guns."
I consider mentioning Afro American military commanders and an Afro American Secretary of State and an Afro American candidate for President. There is no point...As there was no point in asking the cop in Barcelona why he listed homosexuals as dangerous.
GREED, CORRUPTION, IRRESPONSIBILITY
TOWARDS CARACAS: THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 30
Dusk approaches. I pull off the highway into a small town that is mostly high rises for oil workers. I find a modern mid-market hotel a block back from the beach. The hotel suffers from lack of maintenance and a poolside bar that doesn't serve alcohol. I swim in the pool and ask for a cold soda. The refrigerator is broken. The manager tells me that walking the block to the beach is safe if I am careful. A restaurant on the beach serves excellent fresh fish. A couple of beers and I feel less depressed. A young handsome couple with a two-year-old daughter sit at the next table. The daughter won't eat. Her mother tells me that the child never eats. I suggest that she is watching her waist line. We get into conversation. Politics is foremost.
The husband will vote No in the referendum. He rates himself as middle class. His family have sufficient money to put him through a good high school and University. He works in the family business. He says that the super rich, with their greed and corruption and irresponsibility, have created Chavez.
"What will happen if Chavez wins the referendum?"
"We will resist. We are not like Cubans. Cubans are soft."
Both he and his wife warn me not to ride through Caracas.
Caracas is dangerous.
They suggest a detour that would add a couple of hundred Ks to my journey.
I want out of Venezuela by the fastest route.
Dusk approaches. I pull off the highway into a small town that is mostly high rises for oil workers. I find a modern mid-market hotel a block back from the beach. The hotel suffers from lack of maintenance and a poolside bar that doesn't serve alcohol. I swim in the pool and ask for a cold soda. The refrigerator is broken. The manager tells me that walking the block to the beach is safe if I am careful. A restaurant on the beach serves excellent fresh fish. A couple of beers and I feel less depressed. A young handsome couple with a two-year-old daughter sit at the next table. The daughter won't eat. Her mother tells me that the child never eats. I suggest that she is watching her waist line. We get into conversation. Politics is foremost.
The husband will vote No in the referendum. He rates himself as middle class. His family have sufficient money to put him through a good high school and University. He works in the family business. He says that the super rich, with their greed and corruption and irresponsibility, have created Chavez.
"What will happen if Chavez wins the referendum?"
"We will resist. We are not like Cubans. Cubans are soft."
Both he and his wife warn me not to ride through Caracas.
Caracas is dangerous.
They suggest a detour that would add a couple of hundred Ks to my journey.
I want out of Venezuela by the fastest route.
FEAR AND FATIGUE
BARCELONA: THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 30
I have been away from home since mid-June. I travel on a Honda 125 designed for city transport (my record is 800 Ks in a single day - that was Brazil). I am old and tired. Being run down in Tierra del Fuego has made me nervous. Venezuelan drivers scare me. I am scared for most of each day. Add that everyone I meet warns that Venezuelan cities are dangerous and I have a strong desire to be somewhere else. I tour the historic quarter of Barcelona: no glorious churches, no glorious buildings, neither a cloister nor a beautiful square - and no sidewalk cafes. Disappointment is an understatement. I am out of here...
I have been away from home since mid-June. I travel on a Honda 125 designed for city transport (my record is 800 Ks in a single day - that was Brazil). I am old and tired. Being run down in Tierra del Fuego has made me nervous. Venezuelan drivers scare me. I am scared for most of each day. Add that everyone I meet warns that Venezuelan cities are dangerous and I have a strong desire to be somewhere else. I tour the historic quarter of Barcelona: no glorious churches, no glorious buildings, neither a cloister nor a beautiful square - and no sidewalk cafes. Disappointment is an understatement. I am out of here...
Sunday, January 06, 2008
THIEVES, DEGENERATES, DRUG ADDICTS, HOMOSEXUALS AND PROSTITUTES
BARCELONA: THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 30
Rain forest cloaks the south face of the coastal mountains. The north face is arid. The sea is spread with rocky islands. The coast is pierced with coves and inlets and gulfs. Drivers should ignore the magnificent views. Don't be tempted to pull off the road. Venezuelans consider the hard shoulder part of a race track.
Two frigate birds float peacefully overhead.
I envy the birds.
Riding a small bike in Venezuela is truly terrifying.
Barcelona is draped in red posters and banners.
A cop directs me to the historic district. "After dark, it is dangerous," he warns. "Very dangerous. It is full of thieves, degenerates, drug addicts, homosexuals and prostitutes."
Why are homosexuals numbered amongst the dangerous?
And why stop somewhere where you can't sit out in the evening at a sidewalk cafe?
Nor is the historic district remotely comparable with the glories of Colombia or Peru or Ecuador.
Rain forest cloaks the south face of the coastal mountains. The north face is arid. The sea is spread with rocky islands. The coast is pierced with coves and inlets and gulfs. Drivers should ignore the magnificent views. Don't be tempted to pull off the road. Venezuelans consider the hard shoulder part of a race track.
Two frigate birds float peacefully overhead.
I envy the birds.
Riding a small bike in Venezuela is truly terrifying.
Barcelona is draped in red posters and banners.
A cop directs me to the historic district. "After dark, it is dangerous," he warns. "Very dangerous. It is full of thieves, degenerates, drug addicts, homosexuals and prostitutes."
Why are homosexuals numbered amongst the dangerous?
And why stop somewhere where you can't sit out in the evening at a sidewalk cafe?
Nor is the historic district remotely comparable with the glories of Colombia or Peru or Ecuador.
SUICIDE IS VENEZUELA'S NATIONAL SPORT
BARCELONA: THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 30
I chatted with a couple of German travelers last night and with two Germans resident in Venezuela. They warn that Caracas is dangerous, Merida is dangerous, even Barcelona is dangerous. Barcelona is my next stop. It has an historic centre. Hopefully the centre will be less of a disappointment than Carupano.
Mount up and head out...
The coast road is curves and heavy traffic. I cling to the hard shoulder and pull off where ever possible to let trucks and cars pass. Don't let them pass and they overtake on the next blind curve. Why? Because this is Venezuela.
Suicide behind the wheel is Venezuela's national sport.
Players are homicidal maniacs with a minus IQ.
They scare the shit out of me.
I chatted with a couple of German travelers last night and with two Germans resident in Venezuela. They warn that Caracas is dangerous, Merida is dangerous, even Barcelona is dangerous. Barcelona is my next stop. It has an historic centre. Hopefully the centre will be less of a disappointment than Carupano.
Mount up and head out...
The coast road is curves and heavy traffic. I cling to the hard shoulder and pull off where ever possible to let trucks and cars pass. Don't let them pass and they overtake on the next blind curve. Why? Because this is Venezuela.
Suicide behind the wheel is Venezuela's national sport.
Players are homicidal maniacs with a minus IQ.
They scare the shit out of me.
TEACHING INDIGENOUS GRANNIES TO SUCK EGGS
POSSADA NENA: WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 29
I chat with an intelligent woman. She reads books in a hammock while her husband scuba dives. Her husband is an expert on Central America. In Honduras he taught poor Central Americans to build cheap houses for themselves. Now he oversees junior German aid workers teach poor Central Americans to build cheap houses. He is a small man determined to be muscular. He showers and changes from one short-shorts sports outfit to another short-shorts sports outfit. His wife is an adult. He is a teenager. Both are in their mid-forties.
I ask if he teaches adobe-making.
The question irritates. He doesn't answer.
I chat with an intelligent woman. She reads books in a hammock while her husband scuba dives. Her husband is an expert on Central America. In Honduras he taught poor Central Americans to build cheap houses for themselves. Now he oversees junior German aid workers teach poor Central Americans to build cheap houses. He is a small man determined to be muscular. He showers and changes from one short-shorts sports outfit to another short-shorts sports outfit. His wife is an adult. He is a teenager. Both are in their mid-forties.
I ask if he teaches adobe-making.
The question irritates. He doesn't answer.
FUN DIRT
POSSADA NENA: WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 29
A German in his 40s is on a GREAT ADVENTURE. He has shipped a big Suzuki trail bike from Germany. He has tattoos, muscles and a pony tail.
I ride a small Honda and have a grey beard and a belly.
The German's geographic knowledge is a little vague and he doesn't carry maps. He is heading for Chile to visit an uncle. He sort of knows where Chile is - Down there.
He is excited at meeting a fellow biker. He serves me a beer. He suggests we ride up some dirt-road mountain tomorrow. The road is rough. We will have fun bouncing from rock to rock and the view from the peak is great.
I say, "Old men on pizza delivery bikes don't do fun dirt."
A German in his 40s is on a GREAT ADVENTURE. He has shipped a big Suzuki trail bike from Germany. He has tattoos, muscles and a pony tail.
I ride a small Honda and have a grey beard and a belly.
The German's geographic knowledge is a little vague and he doesn't carry maps. He is heading for Chile to visit an uncle. He sort of knows where Chile is - Down there.
He is excited at meeting a fellow biker. He serves me a beer. He suggests we ride up some dirt-road mountain tomorrow. The road is rough. We will have fun bouncing from rock to rock and the view from the peak is great.
I say, "Old men on pizza delivery bikes don't do fun dirt."
WORLD HERITAGE FRAUD
CARUPANO: WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 29
Carupano is on the coast. Guide books describe it as a splendid colonial town, a World Heritage Site. What earns a city the accolade of World Heritage Site? Who decides? Do politics or money play their part?
The church in Carupano has been ruined by restoration - imagine a Bad B movie tart-up. A few houses are good. The rest is a mess. And there are no cafes where I can sit outside and drink a beer. A sign advertises a possada with pool and Internet. The pool is empty. Internet doesn't connect. Owner and guests are German. I am too tired to move.
Carupano is on the coast. Guide books describe it as a splendid colonial town, a World Heritage Site. What earns a city the accolade of World Heritage Site? Who decides? Do politics or money play their part?
The church in Carupano has been ruined by restoration - imagine a Bad B movie tart-up. A few houses are good. The rest is a mess. And there are no cafes where I can sit outside and drink a beer. A sign advertises a possada with pool and Internet. The pool is empty. Internet doesn't connect. Owner and guests are German. I am too tired to move.
PINK BATHING BEAUTY, CHAVEZ AND GARBAGE
NORTH TO CARUPANO: WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 29
Four days to the referendum that will invest Chavez with a dictator's power and the right to stand for President indefinitely. Red pro-Chavez banners and posters decorate every lamp post and road sign in each town and village. Pickets in red shirts stop traffic to distribute pro-Chavez windscreen stickers. I pull off the road and watch a picket from the shade of a mango tree: refuse the sticker and your name goes on a list.
Opposition is invisible in these small communities yet big city protests by university students feature on CNN. Is this US propaganda? If so, for whom? The wealthy are unlikely to support Chavez and only the wealthy have access to satellite TV.
The road climbs through rain forest where tin shacks drip. Roadside and village are strewn with garbage. Women scrub clothes. Men shelter and drink beer beside piles of discarded bottles and plastic containers. I pass a small netted vivarium, plants for sale witness to one man's or one family's hope for a better future. What quality differentiates the owner from his or her neighbours? The neighbours sit idle. Why don't they collect the garbage?
VENEZUELA HACIENDA: WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 29
I load the bike and have one last swim in the pool. Floating on my back, I peer myopically over my pink belly at the pool-side oven and grill. Will a local Chavez politico have the house next year? Sunday barbecues for loyalist beer bellies? Such is the way of Latin America.
I thank the estate manager for his hospitality. He is a fine man. The hacienda is an admirable achievement.
Four days to the referendum that will invest Chavez with a dictator's power and the right to stand for President indefinitely. Red pro-Chavez banners and posters decorate every lamp post and road sign in each town and village. Pickets in red shirts stop traffic to distribute pro-Chavez windscreen stickers. I pull off the road and watch a picket from the shade of a mango tree: refuse the sticker and your name goes on a list.
Opposition is invisible in these small communities yet big city protests by university students feature on CNN. Is this US propaganda? If so, for whom? The wealthy are unlikely to support Chavez and only the wealthy have access to satellite TV.
The road climbs through rain forest where tin shacks drip. Roadside and village are strewn with garbage. Women scrub clothes. Men shelter and drink beer beside piles of discarded bottles and plastic containers. I pass a small netted vivarium, plants for sale witness to one man's or one family's hope for a better future. What quality differentiates the owner from his or her neighbours? The neighbours sit idle. Why don't they collect the garbage?
VENEZUELA HACIENDA: WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 29
I load the bike and have one last swim in the pool. Floating on my back, I peer myopically over my pink belly at the pool-side oven and grill. Will a local Chavez politico have the house next year? Sunday barbecues for loyalist beer bellies? Such is the way of Latin America.
I thank the estate manager for his hospitality. He is a fine man. The hacienda is an admirable achievement.
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