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.
Showing posts with label Chavez. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chavez. Show all posts
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Friday, January 11, 2008
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."
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
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.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
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...
Monday, January 07, 2008
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.
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.
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