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.
Showing posts with label Venezuela. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Venezuela. Show all posts
Saturday, January 12, 2008
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.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
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.
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.
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...
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
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!
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!
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