I Live in the World's Most Dangerous City!

I don't usually get too political here, but today I am going to vent a bit. First, check out this recent article:
http://www.foreignpolicy.com/story/cms.php?story_id=4480

Caracas tops the list of the world's most dangerous cities. New Orleans makes a respectable showing for the U.S. It is good to know that I live in a city that is considered more dangerous than Port-Au-Prince Haiti, or Johannesburg South Africa, just to name two notoriously dangerous cities.

As noted in the article "El Presidente" is a big part of the problem. Frankly, he is equal parts idiot and a**hole. He spends most of his time trying to provoke the U.S. He recently expelled the Ambassador, called the Venezuelan Ambassador home, welcomed a Russian long range bomber, held joint naval excercises with the Russian navy in the Caribbean, and made deals with the Russians to buy weapons and nuclear technology. I guess he figured that being pals with the Russians is good policy. After all, look how well that worked out for Cuba. And Viet Nam. And Eastern Europe. And, for that matter, Russia. Perhaps the Venezuelans will now head to Moscow instead of Miami to buy their iPods, Lacoste shirts, and Louis Vitton hand bags. Rather than try to help the people of Venezuela, Chavez spends money abroad like a drunken sailor in an effort to increase his influence in other countries. He sends free gasoline to Equador, Nicaraugua and the Dominican Republic, sent free heating oil to low income families in New England and sent free high efficiency light bulbs to the poor of Houston Texas. (The press has, until now, completely ignored the plight of the poor of Houston who are struggling to get by with their inferior incadesent light bulbs. Thank you, Hugo, for providing them with highly efficient sources of light.) Meanwhile, there are as many poor in Caracas as ever. Drug smuggling is flourishing here and gangs rule the "ranchitos". The streets are in such deplorable condition that it is actually a bragging point that the roads in the area where I live are "82% free of potholes". That means almost 20% of the roads are not free of potholes. Inflation is hovering at about 30%. Banks pay interest of 23%. The smartest thing a person can do as a hedge against inflation is spend every penny of their paycheck each week on durable goods and foods that have a long shelf life. As a consequence, no one here has any savings. There are chronic food shortages. Staples like beans, chicken, milk, eggs, rice and cooking oil are frequently in short supply. The shortages hit the poor areas first. I know this because our maid always tips us off on what will not be available in the stores next week, because in her neighborhood it is already not available. One thing that he really excells at is insulting world leaders. He famously called G.W. Bush "The Devil", provoked the King of Spain into saying "why don't you shut up" during an economic summit meeting of Latin Countries, and refered to the U.S. as "sh*tty yankies" while throwing the U.S. Ambassador out of the country. Actually, he gave the Ambassador seventy two hours to leave the country, while dramatically holding up a watch in front of a crowd and noting the time. One of his advisors should have told him that the U.S. Ambassador was actually in the U.S. at the time. El Presidente is so small and petty that he won't let the Ambassador's wife return to collect their belongings and their dog. Nice touch, Hugo! That will show the "sh*tty Yankies" .

When I first heard of Chavez, I wanted to like him. I wanted believe that he would give the poor a break so that they could enjoy a slice of the economic prosperity that comes with being oil rich. I hoped that he would improve living conditions and offer economic opportunities to the poor. Instead, about all I can see that he has done is paint a bunch of slogans on the walls, surround himself with cronies, try to amend the constitution to give himself absolute power and the ability to rule for life and insult world leaders in an effort to provoke them. Chavez likes to portray himself as the hero standing up to imperialism, but in reality he is little more than a loud mouth clinging to power.

The Great Venezuelan Road Trip

Map of VE

Because we had scheduled a few days off and because we wanted to see a bit of Venezuela, Mary and I decided to set out for a road trip to the Andean city of Merida. We armed ourselves with maps and guide books, we solicited directions from knowledgeable persons in the embassy, and I studied Google Earth in an attempt to memorize the route. As dedicated readers of this blog know, we have a long history of getting lost on even the simplest of road trips. This time I was bound and determined that we would be well prepared. The good news is that, except for Barquisimeto, we did not get lost. I’ll tell you about Barquisimeto later.

We set out at about 5:00 am in order to beat the ever present traffic that often extends to areas well outside of Caracas. The stretch of highway from Caracas through Maracay and then to Valencia is particularly bad for traffic since it is the main artery for truck traffic between Maricaibo, which is a big oil and manufacturing area, Puerto Cabello which is the main port facility, Valencia and Maracay (lots of manufacturing) and Caracas. Our plan worked and we sailed along finding out turn in Valencia and heading south into the region known as Los Llanos by about 8:00 am. I should also mention that I made a very important discovery on this road trip: my GPS works in Venezuela! It even has the overlay showing the principal roads in Venezuela. So not only did we not encounter any traffic to this point, we knew where we were at all times.

Heading south from Valencia the road rapidly deteriorated. Under the best of circumstances the roads in Venezuela are difficult. There are potholes in the middle of freeways, aggressive drivers, no signs and few traffic control devices. Every twenty miles or so there are toll booths, but no tolls to pay. Most of them are not even attended. The toll booths are simply relics of a bygone era when tolls were collected. Now they act as a sort of speed bump and commercial center since traffic is forced to slow down to pass through the lanes of the toll booth and all sorts of vendors gather to sell their wares to the slow moving traffic. There are also police check points at every town. These consist of a set of speed bumps, perhaps an orange cone or two and one or more police officers or Guardia National. Often the post is staffed by one person, lounging in the shade watching as traffic passes. At other posts, however, there are five or six well armed and stout looking officers aggressively inspecting vehicles. We always got waved on through, perhaps owing to the fact that we are two gringos with diplomatic license plates. But as we got farther into Los Llanos, the roads became decidedly third world. At one point, the highway disappeared altogether, becoming a dirt road that extended for several miles. In all fairness I should point out that there was some road construction involved, but in the U.S. there would have been at least some pavement on a road that is basically an interstate highway. Our traffic karma fell apart as well and we sat in a hellish traffic jam, on a dirt road, surrounded by huge dump trucks spewing out noxious black smoke for what felt like an hour or more. We were also really, really hungry. We overlooked packing food for the trip. I was so focused on not getting lost that I forgot about food. Unfortunately, there are very few places to eat along the road in Venezuela, and even fewer that you would actually want to eat at. Which brings me to a rather humorous story.

We started seeing signs for a place called Café Madrid. It appeared to be a five star rated restaurant, at least the five stars prominently displayed on the advertisements along the road seemed to indicate it was a five star establishment. As we approached each town we would see the sign advertising Café Madrid, but we never actually saw a Café Madrid. The signs often had the name of the town on them, indicating to us that there was a Café Madrid in the town we were about to enter. But, alas, our tummies continued to growl and the hunger continued unabated as we never actually saw a Café Madrid. We both wondered aloud, several times, where the elusive Café Madrid, the five star bistro advertised on so many roadside signs, might be located. They certainly did a lot of advertising for a restaurant so difficult to find. We gave up on Café Madrid and ate arepas filled with pernil (roast pork) at a very pleasant little roadside parador (that’s what they call roadside restaurants here). Later in the trip, while buying some pastries at a bakery, we discovered that Café Madrid is actually a brand of coffee. I happened to look at some items for sale on a shelf in the bakery and saw several bags Café Madrid coffee sitting on the shelf. That’s when I realized that each of the signs was really a “welcome to (name of town)” sign, sponsored by a brand of coffee much the same way that Coke-a-Cola or Pepsi might sponsor such a sign. Boy did I feel dumb!

Along the way we also saw a lot of very helpful signs in front of buildings. For example, the sign that said “No Hay Aspiradora” (there is no vacuum cleaner ) provided a vital piece of information, as did the signs informing us that there was concrete, and that there were not concrete blocks. These signs were generally in front of houses. I’m still scratching my head.

Los Llanos is a very interesting area. For about half the year, during the dry season, it is hot and dry. There are vast praries of brown grass and parched trees dot the landscape. Then the rain comes and it rains relentlessly for about 6 months and suddenly the plains turn into vast marshes of reeds and tall, lush, green grass. We were there during the rainy season. I have also been to the Llanos during the dry season (see the blog about fishing at Lake Camatagua). I liked the rainy season better. We drove along through the plains in view of the Andes mountains to our right. It was a beautiful sight. We drove on Highway 5 through Tinaquillo, Tinaco, San Carlos, Acarigua, Guanare, and finally to Barinas. We then turned onto Highway 1 in Barinas and headed up into the Andes Mountains, through Barintas, Santo Domingo, Mucuchies and finally into Merida. The Andes are stunningly beautiful. We stopped briefly at a waterfall that cascaded down the mountains, and there would be many, many more waterfalls. At first the mountains were forest, which turned into Cloud Forest, then high mountain pines and, as we went over the pass, we were above the tree line and the only plants were short scrub brush and mosses. Here are a few photos:

However, as we drove through the Andes the road got progressively worse. Worse even than what we previously encountered in Los Llanos. In fact the roads became positively dangerous. There were places where a small landslide occurred and the road was partially blocked by a large mound of dirt that had obviously been there for quite some time because it was covered with grass and weeds. The road crews decided that it would be better to just paint some stripes on the road warning of the impending obstruction than to actually remove it. We saw fallen trees in the road and even several places where a whole lane of the road was washed down the mountainside. The solution? Paint a warning stripe or two on the road and leave the road washed out. The poor condition of the roads was, however, the least of the hazards we faced. Buses and trucks raced up and down the mountain roads, driving on the wrong side of the road, passing slower traffic (including us) and generally being maniacs. Then, with no warning at all, a bus would suddenly slow down and stop to pick up a passenger. Moments later that bus would run up on our tail flash its headlights then pass us. Head light flashing is an important form of communication in Venezuela. Depending on the context it could mean “get out of the way” or “you go first, I insist” or “danger: road washed out ahead” or “get out of my lane”. You never really know for sure, but when a bus is tailgating you flashing its lights it is a safe bet he means “get out of the way”. Despite all the hazards, challenges, trials and tribulations we covered 450 miles in 11.5 hours and never got lost. We drove into Merida and literally to the front door of the posada on the first try.

Merida is a lovely town. It is a colonial city and is known as “La Cuidad de los Caballeros” (The City of Gentlemen “caballero” literally means “horseman” but also means gentleman because only the landed gentry had horses.) I was told that it derived its name from the fact that it was a very prosperous town during the colonial era. Now, it retains much of its colonial character, but, like all of Venezuela, it suffers from the plight of the Venezuelan zeal to tear down beautiful old buildings and build new, ugly ones in their place. It is also a college town, and while we were there there were riots going on about a mile away. The people at our posada (Casa Del Sol), in the restaurants and on the street seemed completely unconcerned about the student riots, so we did not concern ourselves either. It was a little weird to dine al fresco while listening to sirens and the pop, pop, pop of tear gas canisters going off.

The next day we went up the Teleferico (Cable Car) up to the snow capped peak of Pico Espejo, one of the huge mountains in near Merida which is next to Pico Bolivar, the highest peak in Venezuela. The ride up took about 1.5 hours, with three stops. Merida sits at an elevation of about 5500 ft and the top of the Teleferico is at about 15,500, giving the mountain a vertical rise of about 10,000 ft. That is bigger than most of the mountains in Colorado. It is higher than Whistler in Canada. At 15,500, that was the highest I have ever been with my feet on the ground. The top of the Mountain was shrouded in fog, but we did get to see some snow, in Venezuela, in the summer (and yes, it is technically summer here in Venezuela because we are north of the Equator).

Women in Venezuela almost always wear high heels. Watching this woman struggle through the ice and snow on the mountain peak was quite amusing. Mary was wearing a pair of "Croc" sandals in the snow which was almost as amusing.

We also met a woman named Andrea from San Francisco while waiting for the Teleferico, who we would run into several more times in the coming weeks during our various travels in Venezuela. We ate soup and arepas at a café at the top of the mountain, muffled our laughter when some guy leaned up against a freshly painted wall and came away with his backside covered in blue paint, then tried to non chalantly check to see if we too had blue paint on our butts and generally had a good time. Although the top was shrouded in fog, the next stop down was not and we were able to get out and walk around a little and see some of the amazing scenery above the tree line. Here are some of the photographs.

The next day we went to a little village high in the mountains called Jaji (pronounced “Ha-hee”) which is in a colonial village nestled in a very high mountain meadow. Along the way we stopped to take some pictures of a beautiful waterfall…and ran into Andrea. She was sitting there at the waterfall waiting for a bus to take her to Jaji. She had been on another bus but wanted to get off at the waterfall to look at it and take pictures and so she had to wait for the next bus to come to continue her journey. We offered her a ride, and set out once again. Here are photos of the waterfall.

I noticed while we were there that many of the shops sold statues of a man that looked a little like Charlie Chaplin. The statues depict a man in a black suit and hat with a moustache standing with his hand behind his back. I had also seen statues of this odd person in various roadside shrines (there are small shrines along the roads all over Venezuela and, indeed, all over Latin America) right along side statues of the Virgin Mary. The man is Dr. Jose Gregorio Hernandez, and he is part of a cult dedicated to worship of a mythical figure called Maria Lionza. More on this below.

From Jaji we continued west across the Andes toward Azulita, heading for the other side near Lake Maricaibo. As we neared the divide, at what must have been at least 10,000 ft in elevation, we started to see lots of Holstein cattle, the dairy variety, in lush green pastures of very picturesque farms. We (and by “we” I mean “I”) took lots of photos in along the way, too many to post here, and frankly, too many for Mary. The drive seemed to take forever because of the winding mountain roads. While we did not cover a great distance, it took four or five hours to do it on the narrow mountain roads. At times the roads were in even worse condition than the roads up. (Is a theme emerging here? Something about bad roads?) We also got a little lost in Azulitas, but made a good recovery. Here is a photo of a wonderful waterfall just outside Azulitas.

Before we left the posada, we asked the woman at the front desk if the road on the Maricaibo side of the mountain was good. She got a little indignant and said “claro, es una autopista” meaning “of course, it is a highway.” Well, she was wrong. Very, very wrong.

We descended down to almost sea level and got on the Autopista in Santa Elena, which was hot and humid. The Lake Maricaibo side of the Andes is what most people envision when they think of South America. In addition to the heat and humidity, there were banana trucks everywhere, the roads were lined with tropical plants, and there were pedestrians lining the road. We could not go five miles without coming to a new town, where we had to slow to a crawl behind the banana trucks. Even when we could go 50 or 60 miles per it was dangerous because of the potholes. I literally saw a car have a blowout after hitting a pothole while passing me. (Karma can be a bitch.) As the day wore on, and the miles crawled by we finally found ourselves in the mountains again as we turned back to the east, back toward Caracas. Now we were beset by a driving rain storm in addition to the trucks, pedestrians, potholes and towns. Darkness fell and we were no where near our goal of Barquisimeto. It was nearly 9:00 pm when we got to Barquisimeto, and neither of us had eaten since breakfast. Our navigational luck ran out as well and we got quite lost. Part of the problem was that we did not have a good map. After driving around in circles for nearly two hours and calling the posada several times, we finally broke down and hit a drive thru at a McDonalds. Little did we realize that we were about five blocks from our posada. We followed the directions we were given by the posada, did yet another circle around the town and finally arrived to our posada. By this point Mary and I were not speaking to each other.

Things got much better the next day. We found our way out of town with no problem (after a spirited debate between the posada manager, a cleaning lady and a grounds keeper as to which route was the “best” one to get to the Autopista). We set our sights on a small town called Chivacoa, which is home to the followers of Maria Lionza. Here are some links that explain the religion, which is a mixture of Catholicism, Voodoo, Santaria, and indigenous beliefs. Here. And Here. And Here. There is a mountain nearby (Sorte) that is said to be a place of strong magical power and is held sacred by followers of the cult. The town itself is full of “Perfumerias” which sell the necessary items for the practice of the religion, such as the statues of the various deities (The Virgin Mary, Dr. Jose Gregorio Hernandez, Simon Bolivar, Negro Pedro, Cacique, the Viking, The Ganster and, of course, Maria Lionza, who is depicted riding an animal called a tapir) as well as candles, incense, cigars, rum, playing cards, and small metal charms. Not wanting to miss out on a potential religion, we purchased a Dr. Hernandez statue and a Maria Lionza statue to go with the Virgin Mary statue we already have. After a quick lunch of pastries at a bakery (where I solved the Café Madrid mystery) we headed home to Caracas. The remaining drive was uneventful. I just zoned out and drove.

We drove over 1000 miles in four days, and spent about 30 hours in the car.

Coming up next: I become a rock star, and the Angel Falls Adventure.

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."