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.

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."

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.