The Role of Television in Venezuelan Politics.

This is an interesting news article I ran across. The road trip report is being written, and revised, so please be patient. I also have my recent trip to Angel Falls to report on, another trip to Colonia Tovar, Greg's visit, my rock band, and an upcomming fishing trip. I have been busy.

Financial Times FT.com

Venezuela’s Televised Revolution

By Benedict Mander

Published: August 7 2008 21:01 Last updated: August 7 2008 21:01
At 11am on Sundays, Venezuelans turn on their television sets to watch the most loved and hated programme in the country. Its charismatic but controversial host holds forth about politics for hours – his record exceeds eight – preaching and philosophising, telling personal anecdotes and giving history lessons. He cracks jokes at one moment and flies into a rage at another, and rails aggressively at his enemies as often as he tenderly caresses small children and old women.
The host is none other than Hugo Chávez, Venezuela’s president (pictured right), and his weekly chat show Aló Presidente (Hello President) on the main state channel, Venezolana de Television (VTV), is often the most important political event of the week. Not only is it Chávez’s tool for educating and informing the populace about the progress and aims of his so-called Bolivarian revolution (named after the 19th-century independence hero Simón Bolívar), and lecturing on the evils of capitalism and imperialism (read: the US). It is also an innovative form of government, where significant announcements are made and public policy explained, as cabinet ministers diligently take notes in the audience. Ministers are fired and scolded, companies nationalised, farms expropriated, hospitals and factories inaugurated. On TV Chávez even ordered tank battalions to the border with Colombia, leaving some fearing war.
Aló Presidente is Chávez’s direct line to the people, and the show rarely takes place in a television studio. No, Chávez and his team travel the length and breadth of the country, setting up a dais and presidential desk anywhere they will fit – on a beach, at the top of a mountain, in the shadow of a giant oil refinery or in the middle of a field with cows grazing in the background. Adoring subjects from nearby villages come to cheer their president and perhaps even get one of his generously distributed embraces.
But Chávez’s show is only one example of the use of TV for political ends. Another is the notorious "cadena", which all channels on the public airwaves are obliged to show:it consists mainly of presidential speeches, which can last several hours. There have been more than 1,600 since Chávez has been president, adding up to more than 1,000 hours of airtime.
In the past 10 years, the politicisation of the media – or the "mediatisation" of politics – has been remarkable. In fact, Chávez owes his initial rise to fame to a brief appearance on television. After a failed coup d’état in 1992 he was allowed to announce his defeat to the nation on "cadena" and urge his fellow insurrectionists to throw down their arms. The formerly unheard-of Chávez became a hero. He was democratically elected as president in 1998.
But it was not until he was on the receiving end of a coup in 2002 that the full power and potential of television became clear to him. Opposition-controlled private TV channels were accused of biased coverage and encouraging the coup, and even engineering a news black-out when it became clear there was widespread popular rejection of the coup, showing classic movies and cartoons instead.
Ever since then, Venezuela’s bombastic president has made a concerted effort to challenge the private media by setting up multiple media outlets to promote his self-styled socialist revolution. From just one state television channel before 2002 there are now six, gaining its latest addition when the government refused to renew the concession for one of the country’s most popular channels, RCTV, largely because of its alleged involvement in the 2002 coup. It was replaced with the state-funded TVes (which as pronounced in Spanish means "you see yourself"). Another includes the continent-wide Telesur, a 24-hour news channel set up to challenge the US-centric news on CNN.
According to Marcelino Bisbal, who teaches communications at the Andrés Bello Catholic University in Caracas, these public TV channels have become instruments of the government. Ina recent study of VTV, he found that news items (intended basically to inform on the government’s achievements, he says), official or party propaganda and publicity and presidential speeches made up more than 80 per cent of programming.
"It is used to further the aims of the president’s political project, and cannot be called a public service channel," says Mr Bisbal. Indeed, three high- profile prime-time presenters have recently been elected to the 14-person directorate of the government’s United Socialist party of Venezuela. Two of them are running for pivotal positions in the all-important regional elections in November, one as mayor of the capital city Caracas, another as gov- ernor of the state that contains Vene- zuela’s third-largest city, Valencia.
While there is little doubt that the state channels are highly politicised, the private TV channels, which have a far greater viewership, have traditionally hardly been free of bias – and this is the government’s main justification for the way it uses state channels. But news coverage on private channels has improved markedly. Of the "four horsemen of the apocalypse", as Chávez once described the four main private TV stations, one has since been removed from the public airwaves (RCTV), and two have significantly toned down their coverage since the 2002 coup and are now considered to be fairly balanced. Only the 24-hour news channel Globovision remains openly critical of the government – but unlike the other channels its concession is not up for renewal any time soon.
The contrast between private and state media is perhaps the most striking aspect of Venezuelan TV, evidence of how deeply polarised society has become: those in favour of the revolution, and those against it. At any given moment, while on a private channel you may find a game show or soap opera, on state TV it is more probable someone – if not the president himself – will be expounding enthusiastically on the virtues of the revolution. Certainly, in Venezuela, the revolution is being televised.
This article is part of a series on TV around the world. For earlier pieces, visit www.ft.com/arts/tv
Copyright The Financial Times Limited 2008

Bogotá, Columbia

A few weeks ago Mary and I went to visit a friend from Washington D.C., Diane and her very cool cat, Miss Lily (thank you for letting us stay with you!!), in Bogotá Columbia. (link to information about Columbia) First of all, Bogotá is an absolutely beautiful city. It sits at about 8600 ft elevation on a large flat plain and is nestled up against the mountains to the east. Bogata is a city of sidewalk cafés, fine restaurants, lovely parks, wide boulevards, art galleries and museums. It is remarkably safe, considering its recent history, although it would probably not be considered truly safe by U.S. standards. But I live in one of the most dangerous cities in the Western Hemisphere, so it felt pretty safe to me. It is also a lot less expensive than Caracas. Meals at restaurants were a fraction of what they cost in Caracas and cab rides were quite affordable. The area of town we were staying in abuts the mountains and is one of the few hilly parts of the town. We were within very easy walking distance of the Zona Rosa, which is an area of bars, restaurants and nightclubs similar to Dallas’ West End.

The trip to Bogotá almost did not happen, however, due to the classic, screwed up nature of travel, and life in general, in Caracas. We got to the airport about 2.5 hours early, after encountering little or no traffic on the drive to the airport (which was a surprise given the near constant gridlock in Caracas). We parked in the “Diplomatic Lot” which is right next to the terminal (Oh, yeah…we’re in the front row). We went into the airport, found the Avianca counter with no problem, there was no line and we got checked in. The only hassle to this point is that we had to check a bag because it was too large for carry on. Then we went to the cashier to pay the “Exit Tax” and got the proper stickers. We then went to the security check point where we were screened by metal detectors and X-rays twice, once by the Guardia National (military) and once by regular airport security similar to the TSA in the U.S. This is a little weird, since we literally went through a metal detector/X-ray, walked 25 ft and repeated the process. Perhaps there is a little turf war going on over airport security in Venezuela? Then we went to Immigration. We learned about the “Exit Tax” from a previous trip, so we had that covered already. But apparently there is another tax/fee to leave the country for which we did not have the proper forms. So Mary ran off to secure the proper forms from the airline counter (the idiots did not give us the proper forms) while I waited by the Immigration booth. I should have gone with her because the people at the airline counter hassled her about giving her two forms since I was not there with her. She got the forms and made her way past the two security checks and we approached the Immigration booth again. Bear in mind that we are going to the lane for “Diplomats”. We hand the young man working at the “Diplomat” line the correct forms and our Diplomatic Passports and he asks Mary if she works at the U.S. Embassy. Then he starts asking questions about how to get a visa, what it costs, who to talk to, does she have a business card. Whoa! (sound of car brakes screeching!!!!) At that point she apologizes and says she does not have a card and her ability to comprehend Spanish suddenly dropped about 75% and we both said “no entiendo” a few times, shrugged our shoulders and finally he stamped the damn passports and we were on our way. The guy had a lot of nerve, especially after hassling us about the stupid form that I am certain he had copies of at his booth.

Oh, well. We were still two hours early for our flight, so we headed to the Duty Free shop to buy half price booze for the trip and look at all of the fine electronics and cosmetics. After securing plenty of very high quality rum (I should do a post about the rum in Venezuela…its good!) we head to our gate to wait for our flight. When we got to the gate that was noted on our boarding pass it was a ghost town. The sign over the gate said a different flight was departing from that gate. We went and checked the electronic “departures” board and it said our flight was at a different gate on the other side of the airport. Now it’s not that big of an airport, maybe the size of Love Field, or Hobby Airport, but that is still a pretty good walk. So we headed off to the new gate, no hurry, still have an hour and forty five minutes. In fact, we stopped into the McDonalds at the airport and had some dinner. We get to the new gate and it is a ghost town also, but the sign over the gate says it’s for our flight. So we sit and wait. We still have well over an hour before our flight leaves. Still a ghost town. 45 minutes until our flight. 30 minutes until our flight. No activity. The sign still says our flight number and destination. 20 minutes. Still a ghost town. At fifteen minutes before our flight I decide to walk down and check the electronic departures board again which is in a central concourse off of which both the wing in which our original gate is located and the wing we were now waiting in. When I look at the board our flight number is flashing and it says “boarding”…and the gate number is the original gate we went to! I run back to where Mary is still waiting and three quarters of the way there I hear an announcement that it is last call for our flight at the original gate. I am soon met by a panic stricken Mary who is running toward me with all of our carry on bags and we both run to the original gate waiving wildly at the gate agents as they are about to close the door to the jet way. We arrive just in time, completely out of breath, to be the last people on the plane. The door is closed behind us. We damn near missed our plane.

During the flight they served complimentary beverages, including the alcoholic variety. Not having had Scotch in about 6 months, I asked for a Scotch on the rocks. The flight attendant said that they were out so I said a rum on the rocks would be fine. There were two flight attendants working the beverage cart and they each headed out in different directions. One came back a few moments later with a drink and handed it to me. I was just beginning to enjoy my rum on the rocks (the rum is good enough to drink on the rocks) when the other flight attendant returned with a drink. I laughed, she laughed and shrugged and handed it to me. I took the drink said I already had a rum on the rocks, she shrugged and I began to pour the new drink into the same cup as the first drink, so as to not look quite so much like a two fisted drinker. Suddenly the flight attendant says “no, no, no, no, nooooo….” I had poured about two thirds of the drink into the first cup. I looked up and she said “that is scotch.” Oops. The guy sitting next to me laughs and I say “it’s a new cocktail”. This all transpired in Spanish. I drank what was left of the pure scotch, then drank the rum and scotch, which was not as bad as it sounds, but was not really good either. It had been that kind of day.

Thankfully, when we got to Bogotá we were met by our driver, who escorted us through customs and immigration (straight to the front of the line, cutting in front of everyone without so much as a “pardon me”.) Having a driver is nice, especially since the airport in Bogotá was a mad house. The driver shooed away the taxi drivers that were pestering all arriving passengers with shouts of “taxi, taxi” and led us to our van and we were on our way. He pointed out interesting sights along the way, including the U.S. Embassy. We arrived at Diane’s apartment, visited a while. After our long day we decided to go to bed early.

The next day we had a nice brunch at a wonderful café, then headed over to the Candelaria area of town which is the colonial heart of Bogotá, where the government palaces are located, the Cathedral, the Plaza and a lot of museums including the Botero Museum which I really enjoyed. For those of you not familiar with Botero here is a link. (and another link.) The museum had a pretty respectable collection of modern art in general. We had dinner at a very nice restaurant (a big, thick, juicy steak!!!) and walked to the Zona Rosa for after dinner drinks. The next day, Sunday, we went to the Ciclovia, which is one of the coolest things I have ever seen in a major city. The Ciclovia is a circuit of major roads and an autopista (freeway) which are closed to vehicles each Sunday so the denizens of Bogotá (what are they called? Bogotoans? Bogotians? Bogotaleros?) can engage in their collective obsession – bicycle riding. They are out by the thousands (perhaps millions) on bikes. Many are in serious bicycle gear (brightly colored tight bike pants and shirt, helmets, gloves, special shoes, fancy racing bikes) and others are riding whatever they have – mountain bikes, BMX bikes, old Schwins Stingrays with banana seats and sissy bars (remember those?) you name it. Some folks, like us, walked along the circuit. I propose that every city in the U.S. should close a freeway every Sunday for bicycles and joggers/walkers to use. It would cut down on gas consumption that day because it would make travel in the city more difficult thus encouraging people to stay home, or simply ride their bike. Bogotá is a city of about 7 million people so I think little ole Dallas or Houston with around 3 million each could pull it off with out the fabric of society unraveling. It might also help shrink some expanding waistlines.

We walked to an open air market a few miles from Diane’s apartment and bought all manner of cool things including a small Botero statue replica, a coffee scented candle, and local handicrafts. We had dinner at another nice restaurant the evening.

Diane had to go to work the following day, so Mary and I went to see the church at Montserrat which is at the top of a mountain and has a commanding view of the city. It is really beautiful, but somewhat commercialized. They sell beer at little stands on the church grounds, as well as religious trinkets of every size and description and general tourist souvenir junk (like “Columbia” shot glasses, T-shirts and baseball caps.) From there we went to the Leather District, where Mary purchased a couple of new purses. For people that live in Bogotá the Leather District is really cool because you can get a custom fitted and tailor made leather garments for a fraction of what it would cost off the rack in the U.S. After the Leather expedition, we ate crepes and waffles at a restaurant called Crepes and Waffles then headed over to a store that specializes in emeralds (something for which Columbia is famous, by the way) and looked at both the loose stones and set stones they have for sale. We decided that we need to learn more about emeralds before making any major purchases, but Mary did get a nice charm for her charm bracelet. We walked around the nearby University district before heading back to Diane’s apartment. It had been a long day and we were pretty tuckered out.

The one downside to Bogotá for me was that I suffered from altitude sickness the whole time we were there. It was a strange sensation of being “out of it”. I was a little woozy and light headed the whole time we were there, and had a mild headache. Any physical exertion would exacerbate the problem. After sitting for any period of time, when I stood up I got a head rush. It affected my appetite somewhat but I did manage to eat some very enjoyable meals. It was unsettling because I have been in high altitude environments many times before, like ski areas, and even engage in strenuous physical activity, like skiing. Some thing about the altitude in Bogotá just got to me.

We arrived back and all was well. We got some cheddar cheese at the Embassy Commissary (Diane got it for us along with a whole passel of other groceries – thank you Diane!!!) which we brought back to Caracas. So now we have Velveeta, Cheddar cheese, real bacon, good coffee (Juan Valdez) and other American delicacies.

Thank you again Diane and Miss Lily for letting us stay with you.

It was a very good trip and I highly recommend a visit to Bogotá.

Up next: The Great Venezuelan Road Trip.

Office Space....

Just so you don’t think my life here in Venezuela is all fun and games, here is a glimpse of my average day:

The scene: Inside the CAC (I don’t know what that stands for) a concrete room, with bullet proof windows that features a door in on one side of the room and a door out on the other. Think of the DMV Driver’s License Office. There is a metal detector and X-ray machine like they have at airports and about five armed security guards milling around. The guards are not at all menacing, in fact they are quite jovial and show people which line to stand in. Along one wall are five windows like they have at a 24 hour gas station, with bullet proof glass, a tray under the window and a counter on which sits a box with a glowing green glass top – the finger print scanner. I am sitting at one of the windows. The room is crowded with people waiting to be fingerprinted.

Me: Buena (Venezuelans rarely say the entire phrase “buenas dias”. Saying “buena” is like saying “morning” or “afternoon” as a greeting. See the note below on not saying the last letter of a word.)
Applicant: Buena
Me: Necesito su pasaporte y su planilla (I need your passport and your form)
(Applicant places passport and form in tray under window, but out of my reach)
Me: Por favor, empujelo por la ventana. (Please, push it through the window)
Me: (look at form, enter batch number, pull up case on computer, confirm passport number, e.g. “D1234567”, confirm date of issuance and date of expiration)
Me: Cual es su nombre completo? (What is your full name? Actually, literally it means “which is your full name” but that is how it is asked.)
Applicant: Angel
Me: Su nombre completo.
Applicant: Angel Enrique
Me: Y su apellido? (I have to ask for the last name because they still don’t understand that I want the same name that appears on the passport)
Applicant: Coromoto Rangel del Valle
Me: Y su fecha nacimiento? (and your date of birth)
Applicant: (mumbles something I can’t understand)
Me: Como? (literally means “how?” But this is how you say “what?” when you don’t understand something.)
Applicant: (deliberately slow) veintidós siete mil novecientos ochenta y cinco
(22-7-1985, they invert the month and date)
Me: (After confirming that the name and DOB are correct) Ponga su mano izquierda en el centro de la pantaella. (“put your left hand in the center of the screen” referring to the fingerprint scanner right in front of them)
Applicant: (holds up right thumb)
Me: Su mano izquierdia. Los cuatro dedo (“your left hand. The four fingers.” And, yes, it should be “cuatros dedos” but Venezuelans never say the last letter of a word, especially when it is plural. For example, I live in “Caraca”)
Applicant: (holds up the right hand, four fingers.)
Me: Su otro mano izquierda. (your other left hand)
Applicant: (holds up left thumb)
Me: Su mano izquierda. Los cuatro dedo.
Applicant: (holds up the four fingers of the left hand)
Me: Si, en la pantaella, presione fuerte. (yes, on the screen, press hard)
Me: Mas juntos, como muestra en el foto en la pared (“more together, as shown in the photo on the wall” meaning they need to put their fingers together. I should also mention that there are instructions on the wall immediately to the left of the applicant, complete with photographs of how to successfully complete the fingerprinting process. Really, this is not that hard.)
Me: Mas abajo. (“lower” meaning they don’t actually have their fingers on the screen, just the palm of their hand)
Me: Mas arriba. Como muestra en el foto. (“Higher. As shown in the photo.” Ok. I’m starting to get pissed off.)
Applicant: (gets it right)
Me: Mas fuerte. Presione mas fuerte. (Harder. Press harder) (they never press hard enough)
Me: Gracias. Y su otro mano igual. (Thanks, and your other hand the same)
Applicant: (holds up right hand)
Me: Si
Applicant: (puts right hand on the screen and gets it right, they have had some practice after all)
Me: Gracias, y los dos pulgares juntos asi (“And your two thumbs together like this” I hold up my thumbs together like a double Fonzi “Eeeehhhh”)
Applicant: (Tries to do it awkwardly with bent elbows. Fails.)
Me: Es mas facil con brazos rectos. (It is easier with straight arms)
Applicant: (Tries again awkwardly. Fails)
Me: Senora, mira, brazos rectos. (“Ma’am, look, arms straight” while gesturing with straight arms)
Applicant: (gets it right)
Me: Gracias. Vaya a la sala de espera por esa puerta. (Thanks, go to the waiting room through this door)
Applicant: (looks around)
Me: Hacia adentro (go inside)
Me: Pase un buen dia (have a nice day).


I do this on average 150 times a day. I am actually pretty slow. The other fingerprinters average about 250 per day. I am one of the more friendly fingerprinters. One guy barks one or two word orders at people like “right hand,”, “left hand,” “thumbs,” ”waiting room.” When the applicant has sweaty hands we have to try to get them to dry their hands with the paper towels provided. If that does not work we have alcohol wipes. When their hands are too dry, we have them rub their fingers on their forehead or face. I have seen missing fingers, missing hands, and hands that don’t work. Old people have no finger prints, they are worn off. I can tell if someone is a laborer by their fingerprints. Desk jockeys, like myself, have beautiful finger prints. People that work with their hands don’t. They have callused hands and fingers with no finger prints. The worst ones are the people who pushed their way to the front of the line to get into the fingerprinting area, hurried through the metal detector and rush up to the window still holding their wallet, belt, watch and various papers. These people are invariably in a huge rush and have not listened to any instructions and when they get to tothe window they are in such a rush that they don’t listen to me or read the sign with the color photos which explain the complicated process of placing one’s fingers on a finger print scanner. I do take some pleasure in telling the “rushers” to go get in line outside, gesturing to the huge line of people waiting to get into the waiting room for their interview that usually goes all the way to the parking lot. The process of obtaining a visa takes hours.

The management style at the State Department is very, shall we say, "Lumbergian." If you don't know what I am talking about, run, don't walk, run, out and rent the movie "Office Space" from your neighborhood video rental store.

Oh, well. It’s all in a day’s work.

Scuba Diving

As noted in previous posts, I have been doing quite a bit of scuba diving lately. For the most part I have been going to a town called Chichiriviche de la Costa which is about 80 km from Caracas, but it takes about two hours to drive there because the roads are so bad. A 4X4 is best but I have made the trip three times in a regular passenger vehicle, twice in the intrepid BMW. Here is a map. The first part of the drive is pretty easy, just shoot on down to the airport, autopista all the way. Then the road starts to get progressively worse. First it narrows to a two lane road, then it snakes up and down hills through little towns, which are really like open air markets, past a oil fired electric plant (yuck), past a cool abandoned building that looks like a castle, along the beach, up into the mountains, down through the selva (jungle), and past a posh resort at which point the pavement stops and the last 30 km or so is on dirt “road”. This last section is pretty harrowing since there are a lot of camionetas (light trucks) hauling seafood up from the town and tourists racing to the beach, many of whom are on motorcycles. The road feels like it is hung from the side of the mountain and it is about 1.5 car widths which means some maneuvering is required when there is oncoming traffic. It looks like it is about 500 ft straight down to the sea, although it is probably only about 450 ft. After a steep and winding descent into town, and a short drive down a narrow lane you are there. There is parking in some yards in the town where, for 10 BsF a guy drinking a beer will watch your car. He will also let some of the air out of one of a tire and “helpfully” offer to direct you to a shop with compressed air for a nominal fee, but I will save that story for another day. Crowds of Afro-Venezuelan children gather around offering to carry your gear for a BsF (about .30 cents) for the walk of about 300 yards to the dive shop on the beach. Once geared up, it is just a short walk across the beach and into the water.

The town from the water

Another view of the town

Completing an underwater navigation excercise

Once in the water the diving is pretty good. The visibility and range of sea life is not as great as some places I have been, but it is easy, super cheap (costs about $20 for two dives) and there are a lot of interesting things including Seahorses, Eels, schools of Squid, Octopus, and huge schools of “Silversides”, large schools of small silver fish, probably Anchovies, that are amazing to watch as they dart this way and that way, morphing in shape like a gigantic living organism. I have been diving so much I have obtained my PADI Advanced Open Water Diver certification.

Oh, and it is really beautiful there:

We also went to an area called Morrocoy further west. (map here) Morrocoy is a collection of cayos (keys) off the coast. The Cayos were beautiful with white crushed coral beaches, tall swaying palms and crystal clear turquoise water in clam lagoons. We stayed in a town called – you are going to love this – Chichiriviche. Yep, there are two of them. We took a boat out to the cayos and to go diving. Unfortunately the diving is not so great. Apparently, in the late 1990’s there was a chemical spill from a plant not too far away that killed most of the coral. Now it is like a coral ghost town, but it does show some signs that it is making a slow recovery. Since it is about 4-5 hours away, and not as good a dive site as the closer Chichiriviche, we probably will not go back. But, like I said, the beaches were very nice. The pictures I took were not as good as the ones at the link above. Check it out.

Up next: Our trip to Bogota, Columbia.

Bonus Photos From Trinidad

This is me going to buy a Trinidad & Tobago flag. Mary thought I was being totally dorky so she took a picture of me. A few minutes after this photo was taken a horde of American adolescents descended upon this vendor.

Me and my flag. I guess it was a little dorky.

Mary and I in the jungle. We used the Gorilla pod to take this picture. We got this shot after about 10 tries. I was wearing this outfit when we got stopped by the Trinidad Police.

Cool bird nests in Asa Wright Nature Center. The birds hang their nests from the trees so the monkeys can't get them. The monkeys won't go out to the end of the branch for fear it will break. There are no flying monkeys in Trinidad.

The jungle is a really beautiful place. It reminds me of our backyard in Houston.

Careful Dar Now Boy!

We went to Trinidad and Tobago (specifically the island of Trinidad) for the Easter holiday (Semana Santa en Espanol). We had a very hard time finding flights to anywhere for Easter, which is, apparently, a very big travel holiday for Venezuelans. We have found that air travel in general in Venezuela is difficult due to various governmental policies, not the least of which is the limitations on the number of flights foreign carriers can make to or from Venezuela. The up shot is that, ironically, Miami, or even Houston, is a much better base of operation for travel to South America and the Caribbean than Caracas.

In any event, we did manage to find a flight to Trinidad which was no too ridiculously expensive and off we went to the birthplace of Calypso music. The trip there was pretty uneventful, except for the realization that it costs about $50 USD to leave Venezuela and the hassle of finding where in the airport one has to pay the “exit tax”. Upon arriving in Trinidad our first introduction to island culture was at the rental car counter where there was no sign of the person working at the counter for the company through which we had reserved a car. The young lady at a neighboring counter helpfully guessed that the guy had gone to lunch, but really she had no idea where he was. Frustrated, we asked if we could rent a car from her company and she asked us if we had a reservation. Um…no, we reserved a car with the missing-counter-agent-company. Then, no, she did not have any cars. About this time, the counter agent for yet a third rental company shows up at his counter, a company called something like “Singh’s Car Rental” and it turns out he does have a car for rent. At this point I should say a few words about the people of Trinidad and Tobago. The population is made up of descendents of African slaves brought by the English to work the sugarcane plantations, the descendents of East Indians (like as in India) brought as indentured servants after slavery was abolished, the interbred mixture of the two, and the white, English landowners. English is the official language, and it is spoken with either a British accent, or a “Rastafarian” accent. Hard work does not, however, appear to be something fostered by the island culture. Back to the story. So we go outside to see our rental car, which is a small compact car in what I would describe as “marginal” condition. Virtually every fender and bumper is slightly dented or scratched. And then it hits me. The steering wheel is on the wrong damn side of the car. Trinis drive on the wrong side of the road just like Brits. Here is a picture of the car:

Unless you have actually driven a wrong-side-of-the-road car, you have no idea how weird it feels. As soon as you sit down in the driver’s seat you reach to the middle of the car for the seat belt and grab nothing but air. Then you try to find the ignition, and come up with nothing. Go to shift the car into drive (thank goodness it was an automatic) and you grab the door handle. Go to make a turn and you flick on your windshield wipers instead of your turn signal. When backing up you keep trying to look down the outside of the car instead of through the center. The rear view mirror is not where it is supposed to be. Left turns feel wrong and right turns almost land you in oncoming traffic. Driving on the wrong side of the road is challenging to say the least. But we did overcome that obstacle.

We stayed in Port of Spain, the largest city in the country, which is about half the size of Waco, Texas. We stayed at the Gingerbread House a bed and breakfast that is a Victorian house in front with an ultra-modern attachment on the back. It had a small courtyard for a yard with a pool the size of a big hot tub with very cool, shiny tiles that looked like Abalone shells. We were staying in an older part of town, a residential district which is near the town center and the old government palaces on the Queens Park Savannah. The palaces are known as the “Magnificent Seven” (due to the fact there are seven of them). The government is now housed in two twin towers, which resemble 30 story versions of the former World Trade Center, located near the port facility. Several of the Magnificent Seven are quite run down and boarded up, others are under renovation. We visited the zoo which was a little sad:

We met a friend of Mary’s from her Con-Gen Class in Washington D.C. who is posted to Trinidad and Tobago for dinner and we saw her apartment which is very similar to our apartment in Caracas. In fact she had the exact same couch, love seat and dining room set. We went to a nice, but somewhat expensive, dinner at a restaurant called “Paisley” and met several of the other officers at the T&T embassy. We also got to experience getting lost in yet another country and found ourselves in the Rastafarian part of town. (I should re-name this blog “Lost” since so many of my stories revolve around being lost in a new city.)

The next day we went on a driving tour of the northern coast of Trinidad, then trough the coastal mountain range and cloud forests/jungle, into the central lowlands and back to Port of Spain. This a link to a map (you can move it around, zoom in and out, etc) insewrting it here makes the page too slow:

http://maps.google.com/maps?hl=en&safe=off&q=trinidad%20%26%20tobago&um=1&ie=UTF-8&sa=N&tab=wl

We started by heading north from Port of Spain toward Maraval then to Maracas Bay about 30 minutes from Port of Spain on the north coast. The coast is beautiful. It resembles Venezuela in that it is very rugged and the beaches are limited to small isolated coves bookended by imposing mountains that rise dramatically up from the sea. Here are some photos:

I should also say that the Trinis are really friendly. This guy sang a song for me, admittedly he was hustling tips, but the song was really funny. I though he was making it up on the spot

because he was incorporating elements into it like the fact that I am American and the road we were driving on was built by the Army Corps of Engineers and that I look like I might be an American engineer. But then I heard him sing the same song to another American Tourist.

We hung out at the beach at Maracas Bay which was beautiful in the way that only a Caribbean beach can be, lounging under towering palm trees and watching a large group of what I am guessing were American high school students on their first day of a spring break trip rough housing in the sea and then, as a group, flocking to a beach vendor selling cheap seashell jewelry. We ate lunch at a little shack on the beach called "Tantie Rita's" and had a local specialty called “Bake & Shark” which is a piece of deep fried battered shark on a deep fried bread that resembles a large New Orleans beignet dressed with sliced cabbage, garlic sauce and tomatoes. Mmmmmm…really good. It was worth the trip to the beach just to eat a Bake & Shark.

After continuing along the coast on increasingly narrower roads we made our way to the town of Blanchisseuse (which did not have a public beach) and turned south toward Mome la Croix heading into the jungle and we began our climb into the mountains. The road got worse and worse until it became little more than a one lane path with two way traffic. The jungle was breathtaking. Because it is high in the mountains it is quite cool and of course foggy and wet.

Venezuela and Trinidad have really changed my view on jungles. I always thought jungles were hot, steamy, mosquito infested swamps. But along the Caribbean coast they are cool, and lush with an amazing array of beautiful creatures and flowers.

I should also mention that the roads we were on clung to the sides of huge mountains. On one side was a steep drop off, the exact location of which was obscured by thick grass and plant growth that gave the appearance of adding several feet to the width of the road. On the other side the mountain. At one particular point, as several cars passed from the opposite direction (and remember, we are on the wrong side of the road) I nearly got the left front tire over the edge, which was apparent to the dreadlocked driver of the car passing me who said to me through his open window “careful dare now boy” in a heavy rasta accent. That became the theme of our trip from that moment on. Later, I got too close to the rock wall of the mountain and added some of my own minor damage to the car (which went unnoticed when we returned the car). Along the way we passed the Asa Wright Nature Center in the heart of the jungle and finally made it to Arima where we intended to get on the road to Port of Spain. Unfortunately, we got lost in the town and ended up on a “Priority Bus Road” that runs east and west trough central Trinidad. At one point while stopped at a traffic light we asked the driver of a bus if we were on the road to Port of Spain. He looked like Bob Marley, with a graying beard. In his heavy Caribbean accent he said “dis road go to da city, mahn, but it be only for da buses. Dee police see ya mahn dey gonna stop ya. Jus tell em dat ya lost, dey let ya go mahn.” Sure enough, about 15-20 km down the road there was a police check point and we get pulled over. The police officer, a large, bald, black man with a deep baritone voice with a very British accent, informed us we were on the bus-road and asked to see our driving permit. We handed him our passports instead. He asked if we had a driving permit and I handed him my Texas driver’s license. He looked at it and said, in a British accent, “Texas” and handed it back to me. He then asked for our insurance and I told him it was a rented car and that while I am sure that it is insured, I have no paperwork to that effect. He asked how long we had been in Trinidad and we told him we just got there yesterday and that we were lost and trying to find Port of Spain and that we thought this was the right road. He told us it was not the right road, but that trying to find the right road would probably just get us more lost, and told us to continue on down the bus road to Port of Spain. Then he shook my hand, welcomed me to Trinidad and sent us on our way. Now I represented police officers in Houston, Texas for several years and I can assure you that someone visiting from Trinidad, with no driver’s license or insurance, driving in what is basically the HOV lane would not have been given a hand shake, warm welcome and told to continue on in the HOV lane so as to not get lost. More likely the unfortunate soul would at least get a lecture and a ticket, and might get hauled off to jail. About two or three more km down the road, at another stop light, the bus driver pulls along side us and hangs out the window laughing and said “I told ya da police dey gon get ya, but dey gon let ya go.” The light changed, and we dove off. The bus driver was still laughing. Trinis are really friendly.

The next day was spent back in the jungle at the Asa Wright Nature Center. We saw lots of cool birds and plants and flowers. A photo can describe it better than my words.

This guy was hanging out on the side of the road. The rope goes right through his nose.

Trinis love KFC. There is one on every corner, including this one which is probably the largest KFC I have ever seen. The proprietor of our B&B said she thought they should put Colonel Sanders on the official Trinidad & Tobago Coat-of-Arms.

At the beginning of this post I mentioned that Trinidad, and in particular Port of Spain is considered the birth place of Calypso. Unfortunately, although we searched high and low for some Calypso, including in some pretty seedy parts of town, we never found any live Calypso. There was plenty of Reggae and Euro Disco pumped through sound systems, but no live music. I guess you have to come during Carnival for the Calypso. We finally found a Calypso band the day we left. All 80 of them were standing in line in front of us at the airport checking in for our same flight to Caracas.

Long Time, No Blog

Hola! It's been a long time since I bloged at ya. I understand that gas costs about $3.50 a gallon in the U.S. Here, you can fill your 16 gallon tank for $3.50. I just thought I would mention that up front. I wish we brought a huge gas guzzling SUV instead of the 25 MPG BMW.



Here is a list of what we have been doing in the last six or so weeks: (1) went to Trinidad (2) went scuba diving three times (3) went to El Hatillo (4) saw a cool museum and classical music concert (5) went to a party at the Embassador's house (6) went to several more parties here in Caracas (7) Started a new job as the editor of the Turpial which is the embassy newsletter (8) got my interim security clearence and started working at the finger printing job I was originally hired for (9) went on business to Puerto Cabello (10 ) hosted a fish fry (11) found some guys to play guitar with (12) Went to some great restaurants (13) went to the Avila (14) went to a giant store in Caracas that is like Sam's Club and (15) got weekly hour long massages (we still do that). I will try to fill in all the details over the course of the coming days and weeks. But, for now I have reprinted an article that I recently saw that pretty well sums up things in Caracas. It does a good job of describing the love/hate relationship Venezuelans have with Hugo Chavez and illustrating why Chavez is where he is today:



Wednesday April 23, 2008

It's Not Your Parents' Venezuela

By JOE O'NEILL

Columnist

Editor's note: This is the first of two parts about Joe O'Neill's recent trip to Venezuela.

The crowd at Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard and Himes Avenue - not counting two uniformed police officers and one in plain clothes - numbered about 60 people.

Their nationalities-in-solidarity: Venezuelan and Cuban. Their signs: hardly nuanced - notably, "Chavez = Castro + Hitler." Their ardent message: Hugo Chavez, Venezuela's easily demonized, polarizing president, must go.

"We're here to tell the world, 'No more Chavez,'" said protest organizer Norma Camero Reno, a Temple Terrace lawyer and one of an estimated 2,600 Venezuelan natives living in Hillsborough County. "He's dangerous. He's signed treaties with Iran. Sure, the U.S. makes mistakes, but we've got to take care of our hemisphere first. There has to be a leader. If not the U.S., who?"

What's a super power to do?

Arguably, it's the question of the ages for the United States, especially in America's own backyard. And nowhere, including Fidel- less Cuba, is this more apparent or important than in the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela, the socialista South American nation with oil and attitude.

I was there for two weeks recently with the Washington-based Latin American Working Group, and although I wouldn't presume to have divined all there is to know, I do feel confident in saying that Venezuela looks much like a country in the midst of a sloppy, hybrid upheaval.

You can't always get milk or black beans; inflation hovers near 25 percent; and an even-tempered discussion on oil-revenue-as- foreign-policy-priority is an oxymoron. But it has its own time zone (Eastern minus 30 minutes); satellite dishes dominate skylines; and gas goes for about 15 cents a gallon.

This is not the zero-sum solution that Castro imposed on Cuba at the end of a gun barrel. This is a messy mix of bona fide ballot box, unwieldy bureaucracy, education and health commitments to the traditional "have-nots" and swaggering, in-your-face nationalism combined with socialism, consumerism, idealism, pragmatism and populism. Sprawling, carbon emission-choked Caracas has five-star hotels, a financial district, high-end fashion, auto dealers, over- the-top media, tony neighborhoods, Domino's Pizza delivery, a spotless, world-class metro system, Internet cafes and ubiquitous visages of Chavez, Che Guevara and Simon Bolivar.

It also features gridlock, motorcycle mayhem, street crime and some of the worst slums anywhere. Caracas has relegated Bogota, Colombia, to the runner-up spot as South America's most dangerous capital.

Venezuela is one of those Latin American countries that, until Chavez was elected in 1998, largely stayed under the geopolitical radar.

Sure, it had the usual hemispheric syndrome: a negligible middle class, a majority of dark-skinned poor and an entrenched, largely white, minority upper class - plus endemic corruption, "Midnight Express" prisons and electorate-insulated politicians. However, this country of 26 million was stable; it loved baseball, beer, American fast-food franchises and T-backed bathers; it led the world in Miss Universe finalists; and it was a reliable energy source. Our kind of OPEC member.

The charismatic Chavez has become a geopolitical game-changer and unwelcome security variable for America, Venezuela's biggest oil- trade partner. One upshot: The United States regularly ups the ante on aid to quasi-governmental entities - such as the National Endowment for Democracy, the International Republican Institute, the U.S. Agency for International Development and the Office for Transition Initiatives - that "promote democracy" in Venezuela without actually (illegally) intervening in a sovereign country's domestic politics. Talk about fine lines.

Venezuela also is a volatile border antagonist to Colombia, America's South American surrogate.

For Venezuelans living in the teeming barrios and remote rural areas, Chavez is the avatar of hope. Illiteracy has been virtually eliminated and infant mortality rates are down during his tenure.

For political incumbents, the business community, the private media and the traditionally educated, professional class of Venezuela, Chavez is a worst-case scenario. There are no upsides to an authoritarian enamored of nationalization. It's hardly happenstance that the ranks of Venezuelans in Florida, especially Miami, have been swelling for nearly a decade.

There is no neutrality, no political DMZ. Chavez, 54, is the personification of polarization. He has survived a coup attempt (2002), a devastating strike/lockout (2003), a recall referendum (2004) and an ongoing, opposition-media drumbeat. He was re-elected in 2006.

"Inflation is bad, there are shortages, this is not working," said Ingrid Melizan Lanser, the coordinator of educational programs for Fundacion Cisneros, the media conglomerate owned by billionaire Gustavo Cisneros. "Chavez is embarrassing in some of the things he says and does. We are stuck with him until at least 2012."

But, interestingly enough, Lanser, hardly a prototypical Chavista, voted for Chavez - the first time. She said the festering poverty and Third-World housing that dot the hillsides surrounding Caracas were demeaning reminders of derelict priorities.

"Nobody ever did anything," she sighed. "We needed a change from the past. He had appeal - but no more."

Then there's Carolina Bello, wife and mother of two, who lives in a modest house at the base of a citrus hill in Charallave outside Caracas in northern Venezuela. Her husband, Emilio, is a bus driver. She talked about what the Bolivarian Revolution has meant to her and why she was grateful. She mentioned access to schools and health clinics, and community councils. When she got to "hope," tears welled and she sobbed reverently about "a brown man with a mole" who was her president.

This is what Chavez has tapped into. He doesn't look like a Spanish land baron. The indigenous people see themselves in their president. As do others: An estimated 60 percent of the population is of African ancestry.

When Chavez called President George W. Bush "Satan" at the United Nations, Americans saw a buffoonish caricature. When he insulted King Juan Carlos, Spaniards saw a Latin lout. But Chavez's constituency of workers and the dirt poor - and it is a majority - saw one of their own standing up to the imperialist bully and a classic symbol of colonialism.

The challenge for Chavez, it would seem, is meeting the lofty expectations he ushered in with his people-empowering call for a "Bolivarian Revolution."

The plan to keep expanding and upgrading health clinics as well as eventually replacing the thousands of Cuban doctors and related health care personnel must work.

Improvements in housing, crime rates and inflation must be manifest. Venezuela, the fifth-largest oil exporter in the world, has a petro-skewed economy that cries out for diversification. Using oil revenue for weapons purchases as well as a barter-and-leverage commodity throughout Latin America must be seen by the disaffected as a meaningful benefit.

Chavez's poll ratings have slumped recently, which government officials attribute to bureaucratic bungling and resultant frustrations. The Chavez administration also lost an important referendum vote (51 percent to 49 percent) four months ago.

Although it was vote up or down on a 69-amendment proposal, no one denies that a critical provision was the one to remove the president's term limits. It's no secret that Chavez thinks 2012 is too soon to call it a career. And no one thinks that referendum won't be soon revisited with a down-sized package and a major get- out-the-Chavista-vote campaign starring Chavez, his own best advocate, especially on television. Chavez has his own show, the Sunday afternoon "Alo, Presidente."

Chances are that channeling Bolivar, who distrusted the United States and dreamed of uniting the continent, will only go so far with those expecting their piece of the action. Rallying cries against "neoliberalism" and all things Adam Smith won't help the need for bread-and-butter-issue help. And Venezuelan oil, among the most expensive to extract in the world, is particularly vulnerable to recessionary ripples because of Chavez's ambitious domestic agenda.

Phil Gunson, who covers Latin America for The Economist magazine and is based in Caracas, thinks Chavez is teetering politically.

"Only high oil prices stand between this government and a really frightening economic, social and political collapse," Gunson said. "And the worst thing is there's no organized alternative ready to take over if the government implodes."

And, yet, there's no gainsaying the impact of clinics and schools where there were none. Or higher education access for those traditionally excluded. Or community access TV and public radio for areas previously considered too unimportant. Or the visceral power of "hope" for those who see the face of Venezuela in "a brown man with a mole."

Fishing at Lake Camatagua

The weekend before last I traveled to the Gran Sabana with two new buddies from the Embassy, Mike Brown and Reid Hoke, for a fishing outing at Lago Camatagua. The trip was put together by Mike Brown’s wife Jennifer. It was a little touch and go as to whether it was going to happen due to difficulties lining up a hotel and boats, but it all came together beautifully at the last minute. Thank you Jen!!! I met Mike and Reid at the Embassy parking lot at about 6:30 am, a little worse for the wear from the 60’s Woodstock Happy Hour at the embassy followed by the St. Paddy’s Day party at the Marine House the night before. We got home about midnight and I still had to pack for the trip. I got about 4.5 hours of sleep. The drive out of town was easy, there is no traffic at that uncivilized hour, and we were well out of Caracas by the time people were starting to stir. This trip was mostly on the back roads of Venezuela, winding, twisting and turning through mountain valleys, towns and finally dropping down into the Gran Sabana.

The Gran Sabana is a visually stunning area of plains (llanos) interspersed with rolling hills surrounded by mountains. It is currently the dry season and the whole area is quite brown. The tall grass, which resembles the Prairie Grass of the US Plains, is completely brown and most of the trees are bare although there was the occasional splash of vibrant orange or purple flower covered trees. The whole effect is quite similar to photos I have seen of the African Savannah, which is appropriate given that “Gran Sabana” means “Great Savannah”. The dryness causes the area to be like a tinderbox and it seemed like there were a lot of fires. The country side would be burning away and the locals just went on about their business. Most hills had some evidence of a recent burn, and we saw numerous active fires, some up close, as we fished. The guide told us that about half of the fires are caused by spontaneous combustion (he suggested that the beer bottles that litter the roadside account for a number of the fires, but I find that hard to believe.) The other half are intentionally set by farmers and squatters to clear land to plant crops. In any event, the fires seem to be a fact of life and no one pays them any mind, much less even lift a finger to extinguish the fires.


View Larger Map

Lago (or “lake”) Camatagua is a man made lake situated in a very hilly area, with lots of islands that are the tops of partially submerged hills. Our quarry was the Peacock Bass, or Pavon as it is called locally. We were also after Capaburros, the local word for Piranha. Capaburro loosely translates as “donkey castrator”; at least that is what I gathered as our fishing guide explained the meaning of the word with liberal use of gestures. He first said “burro” and put his fingers up at the sides of his head in an imitation of donkey ears while making the “eee-awww” sound of a donkey, then grabbed his…um…package with one hand while making the scissor gesture with the other. Indeed, a Capaburro is well equipped to take a donkey’s package right off. In fact, after it was done with the package it is likely that the poor beast would be entirely devoured by the hungry fish. We caught a few piranhas, enough for some great photos, but many more got away because it is just plain difficult to get them into the boat. Those razor sharp teeth helped them get away with several lures, and pieces of lures. I would feel a tug, like I snagged my line on something on the bottom and when I reeled it in half the lure would be missing, bitten cleanly in half. I lost about six lures that way, and a few more when the line was severed. We did manage to land four of the piranhas however and I look forward to eating them (eating a Piranha = ironic). Our real quarry however was the prized Peacock Bass. These beautiful fish can easily reach 10-12 lbs and are beautifully colored, especially the juveniles, with a deep yellow body, intensely red belly, and peacock markings on its tail and body. We caught quite a few juveniles, which were all in the 1-2 lb range, which went back into the lake. The keepers were all over three pounds. We brought home about ten fish between the three of us, and truth be told, our guides caught some of the keepers, including a big 5 lb fella. The wildlife at the lake is amazing. In addition to the Peacock Bass and Piranhas, we also caught some pre-historic looking fish about a foot in length with very long needle-like teeth. In between catches (and there were long periods of not catching anything) we got to see some of the other creatures including a caiman, numerous herons and cranes, at least one parrot, a hawk or eagle that swooped down to catch a fish, but missed, and a herd of wild horses. At night we stayed overnight at a posada (inn) and were fed delicious deep fried Pavon with arepas, beans, plantains and a cole slaw made of carrots. (Astute readers will note that this meal is very similar to the fare in Chuao). We also met some guys from Caracas who travel around in a very souped up Toyota 4 wheel drive vehicle (with a snorkel, some kind of serious radio, special seats with jet pilot harnesses, roll bars, winch....the works). They compete in fishing tournaments for Peacock Bass, but last weekend they were there with their kids to go water skiing. Now, as you all know, I love water skiing, and I did initially gauge the lake’s potential for water skiing (very smooth water, lots of protected coves, long fingers with high hills on either side providing shelter from wind and waves) but immediately rejected any further consideration of Lake Camatagua after the first Piranha was caught and I saw those teeth and that jaw snapping. Pulling in a lure that was bitten in half just sealed the deal as did seeing a caiman scurry into the water. But these guys are out there with their kids water skiing. They assured me that in the open water there is no need to worry about piranhas (or anything else) because the piranhas like to stay close to the shore and in brushy areas with lots of cover.

I have been waiting for the photos, but decided to post without them because I am getting backlogged on the blog. I promise to post fishing photos when I get them.

Hasta Luego!

The Big Time Diplomatic Life

We have been as busy as a couple of one-armed paper hangers these past two weeks. It started off with Mary and I attending a big bash at a really posh hotel, El Gran Melia Caracas, thrown by the Kuwaiti Embassy in to celebrate their independence day, which is the day Desert storm ended (after we kicked Iraqi ass the first go-around). We met the Kuwaiti Ambassador, and a former Vice President of Venezuela, whom I regaled with a witty comment in Spanish that I am an “amo de casa” (“ama de casa” is a housewife, there is not really a word in Spanish for a male housewife, kind of like there is not a word in English for a male housewife, except maybe “house husband” which sounds funny, but not as funny, apparently, as “amo de casa”). We had our photo taken by a reporter for the newspaper who obviously did not know who we are (nobody) but did not want to chance missing a photograph of two important people. Every TV station had their cameras there, there was a red carpet with a gauntlet of cameras (we skipped the red carpet) and the party was full of the rich and famous of Venezuela. Being that drinking alcohol is a terrible sin for Muslims as well as a crime punishable by death in some horrible manner, there was no booze at the party. Instead they were serving unusual and rather tasty fruit juices. I sampled cantaloupe juice and watermelon juice and saw others drinking strawberry juice, pineapple juice and guava juice. After a few juices we asked for a regular old Coke which a waiter obligingly fetched. A short note about Cokes in Venezuela: They make them with real cane sugar, not corn syrup, and they taste really good, noticeably better than in the US. I think I am ruined for life on US Cokes.

The food was spectacular. I am not sure I can come up with enough adjectives to describe it. Indulgent is perhaps best. They had roast lamb (the whole lamb, several of them) roast pigs (a little surprising given the rules against eating pork in the Middle East), several huge slabs of roast beef, Middle Eastern food (tabouli, dolmos, kabobs etc.) sushi, seafood (shrimp, grouper, salmon, octopus) a huge array of cheeses, pasta, Venezuelan specialties, and of course, an enormous desert buffet. The only bummer was that our ride (we came in an embassy vehicle with a driver) was leaving at 8:30 and the eating began at 8:00. Don’t worry, we still stuffed our faces, taking care to not be seen stuffing our faces, which would not have mattered anyway since everyone there was eating like they had skipped lunch. We also learned an important lesson: when they play the national anthem of Venezuela and the country throwing the party, that is the queue to dig in (like at baseball games where the last line of the national anthem is “play ball!”). A lot of people got the jump on us because we stood around looking confused as people started jockeying for position at the food spreads. Next time we will be prepared. Yep, we’re living the big time diplomatic life.

Two days later, our HHE (State Speak for our stuff) arrived. The good news is our things have arrived; the bad news is it all had to be unpacked. So I spent the last weeks unpacking boxes and putting things away, knowing in the back of my mind (actually in the front of my mind) that two years from now I would be packing it up again as we head for who-knows-where. It was really interesting to see what we packed all these months later. There were a number of random things, some I remembered, and some I did not. For example, we brought several “boom boxes” that play CD’s but not a single CD. We brought three space heaters and an electric blanket, yet we sleep with the windows open at night. The feeling of randomness was exacerbated by the movers that sometimes seemed to put thing in boxes without any rhyme or reason. We found kitchen items in book boxes, makeup in boxes labeled “dining room”, and laundry room things in with the bedroom things. It is now all put away, thank goodness, and the pictures have been hung (by the embassy carpenters) and the computer set up, and the TV and stereo hooked up, cable is hooked up (after two service calls), boxes and trash have been removed, and all the furniture arranged. It was almost as much work to unpack as it was to pack. I am also pleased to report that there were no major causalities in the move; everything seemed to be in one piece.

We also got our car, the BMW, which has increased our personal freedom enormously. First, a note about some rumors spreading on the internet. It is rumored that gasoline in Venezuela only costs .12 cents per gallon. That is incorrect. By my calculations it is closer to .08 cents per gallon, for Premium, full serve, and that includes a tip for the person that pumps the gas. He also washed the windshield. This was at a BP station, not even PDVSA (the government-run oil company). I guess the price depends to some degree on the exchange rate. At the official rate, gasoline would be about .16 cents per gallon. Still, gasoline is basically free. Unfortunately traffic is INSANE. I have already described how Venezuelans drive without regard for the rules (which, by the way, once you accept and embrace rule-free driving, it is kind of fun since you can do what ever you want. If a bus stops in front of you…drive up on the sidewalk to go around it. Need to make a U-turn?...do it. Not in the turn lane when you need to make a turn? Just turn anyway and wave at the guy you cut off) But the traffic deserves a special mention. Even the shortest trip, like the 3-5 km drive to the mall to see a movie, takes about 45 minutes. I cannot imagine working downtown. The freeways are so congested all the time that people walk between the lanes of traffic selling things like bottles of water, car air fresheners, news papers, limes (?) and colorful cloth. Of course the only vehicles moving are the ubiquitous motorcycles/scooters which dodge, weave, juke and jive through the traffic. Parking is also an ordeal. It always costs money to park, though not much, and there is a chronic shortage of space. Most parking lots are double parking, meaning that an attendant must shuffle the cars to get a car out. A casual observation that Mary made is that many of the parking lot attendants do not themselves own a car and it shows in their driving skills. In Venezuela they take the term “bumpers” literally.

I interviewed for two jobs, Biometrics and Fraud Prevention Unit, and I was hired in the Biometrics position because my Spanish is not up to the level necessary to interview individuals involved in the fraud investigations. I did test out at a 2/3 in Spanish which means I have basic conversational ability (the ability to convey simple ideas in a grammatically correct manner in the present, past and future and to satisfy basic needs in a social setting or business context) and my reading and writing qualifies as a “good working knowledge” of Spanish. I can read the newspaper, although it helps to have a dictionary handy, and I can write much better than I can speak, because it is slower. It is quite difficult to quickly compose grammatically correct sentences when talking, but when writing a sentence if I realize that I am using an indirect object I can go back and insert the correct pronoun. That is hard to do when speaking.


As noted above the internet and cable TV are now hooked up, but not without a little bit of a hassle. The cable guy came and looked at the cable that was already hooked into the TV and said it is hooked up. I think he detached and reattached the cable from the TV, maybe he put a new cable wire from the wall to the TV, but it certainly was nothing requiring a visit from the installer. He did bring a modem for the internet. He did not, however, bring a cable box. I asked him if we need a cable box and he said no and he left. Well, we paid for HBO, and HBO does not work. So I call the cable people at the embassy (they have a whole department dedicated to dealing with the local cable and internet providers) and they contact the cable company and are informed that we did not order HBO. We did, and I have the contract to prove it. Oops. Then they claim they don’t have any cable boxes. When we demand a refund (or the embassy demands the refund, they would have laughed at us) they suddenly find some cable boxes and schedule an appointment to hook up the boxes. Now we have HBO and “Skin-a-Max” (Cinemax). Yippie!!

We hired a maid (Yaneth) and she comes three times a week (Mon.-Wed.– Fri.). It costs about $40 per week, which is $20 less than a house keeper for a half day in Houston! She cleans, does laundry, irons, washes windows, organizes Mary’s bathroom items and makeup, sews and cooks. She is a very good cook too! She made Pabellon which is a meal that is considered the national dish of Venezuela. It is shredded beef in a tomato sauce with garlic, onion and spices, with black beans, rice and fried plantains. Yum! She has also made Pollo con Arroz (chicken and rice), Curvina (a type of local fish that is like freshwater bass) a soup with name (with a tilde over the “n” pronounced “nee-ya-mae”) apio, pumpkin, potatoes, plantains and beef soup bones that she refers to as osso buco (but it is not osso buco). Name and apio are roots similar to potatoes, but different. I don’t know if I would describe them as “good”, but then I don’t think I would call potatoes “good” in the “mmmm, yummy potatoes” sense of the word “good”. They are different, equally good as potatoes and inject a little variety. Pumpkin is good, however. Here in Venezuela (and throughout South America I am told) they use pumpkin as a vegetable and not just as a Halloween decoration and pie filling. Slices of pumpkin are sold in the grocery stores and it is boiled and served as a vegetable, used in soups and used as a soup base. Plantains are another story as well. Plantains are really just huge bananas, but there are many varieties. Green ones are used to make fried crispy chips; brown plantains are used to make the sweet, sticky fried “sweet” plantains. There is another variety apparently that is a bit starchy and is put in soup. I know I will never see bananas the same way ever again. Apio must not be confused with celery which in Spanish is called “apio”, but in Venezuela celery is called “celery” and a root that looks like ginger, but tastes like a potato, is called apio – this was all explained to me by Yaneth because I bought her celery and told her it was apio, but she had to explain that it was not the right apio. Yaneth also interacts with the repairmen for me. She is from Colombia and speaks more slowly and clearly than Venezuelans, so I can understand her Spanish. Having a maid is very nice. Very, very nice.

While on the subject of services, we have also made arrangements for a woman to come to the apartment on a weekly basis and give us one-hour massages. We had our first massage this week and it was very relaxing. This is the deep muscle massage where the accumulated knots in my back and neck are (painfully) worked out. The cost for 2 one-hour massages, in our apartment? $20 USD. Sweet!

Last weekend we took a trip to Colonia Tovar, a small town about 80 km from Caracas. Colonia Tovar was founded by German immigrants in the 1800’s and looks like a Bavarian town. They have German restaurants, bakeries and, best of all, beer! The story that I read was that in 1843, after a particularly devastating civil war, Venezuela was in need of colonists and an entire Bavarian village, Kaiserstuhl, was enticed to relocate to the mountains in Venezuela. Thus, the butcher, baker, printer, shoemaker, every tradesman in the town, the farmers, their wives and families and everyone else, about 350 in all, packed up and moved to Venezuela. While in route, smallpox broke out on the ship, and about a third of the settlers died. When news of the smallpox reached Venezuela, the German settlers were kept in quarantine off shore for 40 days. Lack of food on the ship added to the suffering the settlers had already endured. When they were allowed to come ashore, it was not at the main port, but at a remote area. They were provided no help carrying their possessions and had to make the arduous journey through the mountains and jungles to where they were to settle. As a result of being basically shunned by the Venezuelans, the settlers shunned them back and built a self sufficient community completely isolated from the rest of the world until the 1940’s. There was not even a road to Tovar until 1963. The buildings, customs, language and food remained German. The town is named for the wealthy landowner that gave them the land to build their town.

We went to Colonia Tovar with Beth and Brian Smith, friends from FSI (Brian was in Mary’s Spanish class). We got terribly lost on the way (of course) and ended up in one of those barrios that the Diplomatic Security Officers tell you to never go to for any reason. (Rule #1: Never visit the ranchos.) We actually got stuck in a small alley (it looked like a good place to make a u-turn) between a dumpster being filled by a front loader and a bus behind us. (Thus, violating rule #2 “always leave yourself an escape route”) We drove around in circles, through open air markets, past vendors selling live chickens in the street, past “Mercal” stores (government subsidized grocery stores) with lines around the block and through areas that are not, well, safe. All of this craziness from four gringos in a BMW. We finally found the way to Tovar by cleverly asking the driver of a bus labeled “Colonia Tovar” how we might find our way to Tovar. He pointed to a street we had passed about a dozen times and told us to take a right. That did the trick and we did not get lost again on our trip. The problem is that they do not have street signs. The best one can hope for is a plaque built into the side of a building with a street name or sometimes the name of the corner (yes, corners have names here). The signs for the freeway exits are for neighborhoods, not streets. Once in a while there is a sign for an “Avenida Principal de (fill in the name of the neighborhood)” which means the neighborhood main street. I found, however, that these main streets are the hubs of commercial activity, like open air markets, and are not, therefore good choices for driving around, or trying to find the way to Colonia Tovar. The next day, not to be deterred by our getting lost the previous day, Mary and I set out for El Avila (the big mountain north of Caracas between Caracas and the Caribbean). One would not think it would be hard to find a huge mountain, but it was surprisingly difficult to find a street to take us to the mountain. I guess the Caraquenos don’t think mountains are such good places to drive and did not devote much effort to building roads to places where there are no roads. After getting lost in downtown, which was much better a place to get lost than the ranchos, and after much cursing, yelling and swearing of oaths to never drive in Caracas again, we found the freaking mountain. Then we drove along the freeway that runs at the base of the mountain (Av. Boyaca, which the locals call something like “mil metro” because the road is at the 1000 meter level of the mountain). As you might imagine, the view from mil metro is pretty spectacular, and since it was the one place in the city with no traffic, even on a Sunday afternoon, it is a fun place to drive fast in a BMW (remember, no rules!).

Tonight there is a happy hour at the embassy themed “1960’s Woodstock.” Mary went to work wearing blue eye shadow, white lipstick and a tie-died t-shirt. I cannot imagine how much it would suck to be denied a visa to visit Disneyworld by someone wearing blue eye shadow, white lipstick and a tie-died t-shirt. But it is gonna happen. Everyday Mary sees at least 100 people whose professed lifelong dream is to visit Disneyworld, and every day she shatters some of those dreams. Really, visa applicants should think of a new place they are claiming to be intending to visit. The whole Disneyworld thing is way overdone. Hasn’t anyone in Venezuela ever heard of the Grand Canyon?

For Easter (Semana Santa) and Mary’s B-day, we are visiting the island of Trinidad (see here also), birth place of Calypso music. A full report will be forthcoming.