Good things come, and I’m not just referring to riding the buses. ~ Lionel Blue
It’s been a few months since my last post. I feel like so much has to be said because so much has happened, but I’m just too tired to repeat the story over and over. In truth, I’ve been quite sad and depressed about what has happened in Venezuela since the fraudulent elections took place on April 14th. It’s exhausting to live here on a daily basis even without seeing the most blatant display of corruption. So with the encouragement of my father, friends and a fellow blogger named Shelli (an expat writing great tales about living in Canada) I decided to put my thoughts down once again.
Post election has been a time of great uncertainty. Not only has an increase of Venezuelan military presence been seen and felt, but the Cuban military has their presence known as well. There are a lot of people (including practically every South American country) vying for power, for money, the status, and the “perks” from a country that is one of the largest producers of oil in the world, and a valiant few trying desperately to walk the right path, to repair a country in the wake of being subjected to 14 years of a seriously fucked up “Social Revolution”.
In times of crisis (and there is a serious crisis here) people cling to things like hope, family, and God. Venezuela, as a Catholic country, is no different. People here don’t just believe in Jesus and God, they also believe in prophets and mystics when it suits them. I understand their need. People are desperately struggling to find answers and solutions to every day problems such as food shortages. Even the Church is complaining that it doesn’t have the wheat to produce the wafers for mass, nor do they have enough Holy wine. Isn’t it just a tad ironic that one of the richest countries in the world is quickly running out of food and toilet paper? Why? Well the answers are as numerous as grains of sand. I think I’ll leave my theories for another post. But what I will do is tell you about how Catholicism is celebrated here.
First let me tell you what I think of Jesus. He’s like any other prophet that walked the Earth. I never grew up learning his stories, just like I never grew up learning Allah’s, Buddha’s , the Indian gods or countless others. Religion wasn’t in our home. And although my parents never practiced religion, they allowed us to explore it and come to our own conclusions about what we believed. I always respected that about them. The same cannot be said here. Catholicism is “the religion”.
Jesus (and sometimes Mary) is every where! I can’t help but think of him as “Big Brother”. It’s kind of unnerving to me on so many levels. I see him on bumper stickers,in government offices, in grocery stores, and even as graffiti. Canadians don’t generally broadcast to the world, let alone to ourselves, that we believe in “God” in any form. People quietly go to church. So if I had to describe the enthusiasm of Catholicism in terms of color, I’d say Canadians would be on the beige side of things and Venezuelans would be on the neon color spectrum.
Maybe the overwhelming public display wouldn’t bother me so much if I really believed that people took it (God/spirituality) seriously, sincerely. I think there is a real, tangible level of hypocrisy. I would think in a country that has this many Christians in it, the people would be more, uumm Christian. They’d adhere to the 10 commandments a little more, maybe starting with the You Shall Not Kill. With one of the highest murder rates in the world, not many people are observing this. Or how about Do not lie?! The last election showed the world how far and deep lies go. Do not steal. HA HA HA, I can’t help but scoff out loud at this one. Besides the most obvious theft of money (I’m talking individuals that have stolen billions, yes billions of dollars), the theft of the last 2 elections, plus the current government is stealing people’s rights and freedom of speech. I think one of the other 10 Commandments is to Put God First. That does not exist here. It’s come down to looking out for yourself. God isn’t first. In fact, I think he’s quite close to last.
There are many true, pious believers, but the general feeling I have about what they believe is how I view my horoscope. If it’s good and it suits my mood, I accept it. If not, I think it’s silly and don’t really pay any attention. Or maybe another way to view Him is that he’s a good luck charm. I don’t know how to explain it. Maybe it’s all a facade, but in a country where they actually name their children Jesus and Mary, plus a plethora of other saints, you’d think they’d keep in mind who they’re naming these children after.
I’m confused by the display of Jesus everywhere because people are lacking the Christian values He spoke of. It’s hallow. I don’t ever feel neighborly love. Sure people will speak to you on the bus, but even that has a falseness about it because you’ve become cynical and suspicious of their wants. Maybe the closest I can compare to in Canada is someone who goes to church every Sunday because that’s what they were raised to do. They go through the motions, but don’t ever really feel anything. They attend all the important masses like Easter and Christmas and that’s the extent of it. There is no real connection. A disconnect. So maybe the difference of display in Canada is people dress in their Sunday best and here people decorate buses. I call these Jesus Buses.
Buses, in general, are something to look at for various reasons, such as the age (some go back to the 50’s), the color, the guy, who I call the Town Crier, at the bus stop yelling where the bus goes to, the interior decor (curtains included) and the size of speakers. We’re in Latin America and music is a large part of life here. Reggaeton is generally the music of choice, although the slow sappy stuff is sometimes played. We’re at the mercy of the driver’s preference.
Most of these older buses are, let’s say, well-used. They’ve been around for decades, the floors are worn, the window tint is peeled back and some (more than you’d think) with curtains are covered in a layer of very visible, allergy inducing dust.
I’m ALWAYS curious when we go on a Jesus bus. There usually something interesting to look at. The seats are so narrow that there are times when I think I can barely fit my skinny butt onto one. People cram in and those who don’t get a seat usually have to commute with their heads bent. Being short is an advantage here. I’ve never had to commute in a bowing/praying position. Another thing that fascinates me is the fact that the bus door never closes. People stand in the stairwell holding onto the bar while the driver takes his route. I don’t know how they don’t fall off! I can hardly sit on the seat across from the door for fear of falling out, but people here have no fear of that.
Well, now you have to opportunity to see what I’m talking about. Put on some loud music, sit back and have a look at the gallery. Soak it all in.
Most seats have covers such as these. My guess is they don’t get washed often. The headrest is frequently on the glossy side from hundreds of heads rubbing against them.
It appears like the same art is used and a different message is passed along.
The art work is either hand-painted or it’s a decal. One thing is for certain, even in Venezuela, Jesus is white. I never understood that. I mean, how could he have been white?
I particularly like Jesus and the palm trees. That’s a nice touch!
I should point out that there is more than one virgin and numerous female saints. This one happens to the the Virgin of the Valley. Personally, I have no idea who She is.
I also find it’s interesting, or again maybe ironic, that the art work is on the back window of the bus. Perhaps if they were decorated on the inside people would reflect. Or maybe it’s on the outside to remind drivers not to be selfish or be assholes when they’re out on the roads, you know consider the 10 Commandments. It could also serve as a reminder to ask for protection. I’ve seen countless people make the sign of the cross before mounting a motorcycle. Funny, because they’re the ones who take the most unnecessary risks. Me, I pray to my god to protect me from numerous things while in the car.
Well, whether this population really believes in Jesus or not, I can say with absolute certainty that Venezuela is in need of one very large miracle. If the people took back what they valued instead of going against everything they were taught, some real changes could be made here.
Government! Three fourths parasitic and the other fourth stupid fumbling. ~ Robert A. Heinlein
I needed to renew my ID and the prospect of this filled me with a profound sense of dread, 100 times more dread than filling my taxes.
Whenever we have anything to do at the start of the day I have to mentally prepare myself. I repeat a mantra that goes goes something like, everything will be fine, be patient, try to remain calm, and limit your swearing. But when we have to go downtown I need a little something extra, like donning a super hero type invisible shield.
I’ve written before about the parking lot effect of commuting in Caracas. I can not clearly express the insanity of it all, so when we have to go downtown we usually opt for public transit. I wouldn’t say that it’s the better option, but it’s less stressful for Juan to have to concentrate so hard while listening to my colorful commentary while trying to take over the horn.
After hopping a mini bus (I think I need to write about these soon) and riding the subway we arrive in the center of the city. Downtown is a world of its own. Juan’s mom tells me that it used to be beautiful and people would go out of their way to walk in the plazas, shop and have coffee on the terraces. Now, it’s skid row. People are loud, shifty, untrustworthy, and always trying to hustle their wares. The threat of violence is always present and palpable. I’m quickly learning to look without watching. The grime is thick and the smell of piss is sharp. It’s a very poor area of the city. People wear years of sorrow and struggle on their faces and show their pride of Chavismo on their shirts. The irony of this is not lost on me. This is where the government office is. I call it the 7th Circle of Hell after Dante’s 7th Circle.
I would really like to say that government offices here are organized chaos, but sadly I cannot. They are absolute chaos. The process went something like this:
Join the already super long line outside of the building. Listen to the people on both sides of us complain.
Wait around an hour to get to the front of the line, only to be told which line I need to go through once inside.
Argue with the “doorman/bouncer” to allow Juan to escort me and be my translator. His answer, no! Juan explains I don’t have a bank account to pay my fees and that he needs to pay on my behalf.
Doorman tells Juan he cannot pay for my fees and I that need a voucher that can only be paid for at a bank. Juan heads to the bank to purchase said voucher.
I go inside and try and find the line that I’m supposed to be in. It’s beyond confusing because there are 3 separate lines that occupy almost all available floor space. My line is making a perimeter around 100 sitting people. The line is almost a complete rectangle, reaching back to the entrance.
I don’t want to generalize about all Latinos, but my experience with Venezuelans is that they’re a very loud bunch. The cacophony of raised voices was deafening.
I ask (yell at) the woman in front of me if the seated people are the people ahead of us. Yes, was her response. I let out a low sigh and mumble dios mio (my god) knowing the day was going to be a long one.
Juan apparently demands to be let through the door (to give me my voucher) and finds me in the immobile queue. Once we start moving we discover that my line is actually two, one for foreigners and the other for Venezuelans. Another hour later, I have my ticket.
My paperwork is whisked away (being checked for something) and returned. I get to keep my ticket. I only had to wait for 35 more people to take their turns before mine. I was slightly hopeful that time would pass quickly, but my hopes weren’t high.
The queue moves slowly rotating between foreigners and Venezuelans. By 11:30 we noticed that the foreigner’s numbers are no longer being called. So for an hour we waited while a skeleton staff dealt with the Venezuelans. Don’t misunderstand me, there was staff milling about, texting on their phones, talking to each other in small groups, but not working. For some unknown reason, I wasn’t the least bit fazed. I totally expected this. Ha! Maybe my mantra worked.
Juan took the opportunity to go out and find a snack. Work “resumes” and I have about 15 numbers ahead of me. At 1:45 my number is called and I go to the assigned booth. I sit down and say good afternoon and the guy looks at me like I have 3 heads. I think he was offended. Whatever, I maintained my smile. The guy spoke so fast that I understood about 3 words. Thankfully Juan translated. That done, I get shuffled to another line.
This department was called Supervision. I laughed out loud. Juan says it’s a make shift job. She essentially printed out a slip telling me the date I was to pick up my ID. The last guy could have done this. Anyway, the date? The following day! I couldn’t believe it. I thought, wow, it’s all worth the wait if I can have it tomorrow. We leave a little after 2pm. Not bad, almost 6 hours.
The following morning we decided to drive downtown. We know that picking up my ID should take less than an hour. Traffic? Beyond horrible. We have no idea what happened, but whatever it was affected the entire city. Gridlock like you wouldn’t believe. Sigh. We got close enough that I could walk to the building while Juan searched for parking. We met, I pushed my way past the “bouncer” (I knew from the previous day that I could get away with it if I asserted myself), entered a new lineup, and waited. While waiting all I could think about was, if it’s too good to be true, then it probably is. Not 10 minutes later I leave empty-handed. No ID.
The bottom line is that I have to return in 20 days. I guess the woman at the “Supervision” desk had it all wrong. Not surprising. We chalked it up to another day of trying to get stuff done in this city of madness.
Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage ~ Anais Nin
This quote is dear to me. There have been times when I’ve said it over and over in my head to push myself in making decisions. It’s kind of like a mantra, if you will. And it really makes sense if you think about it. If you have little or no courage your life will shrivel like fruit left to dry in the sun, but if you have some courage your life will expand in all directions. Living life to the fullest is kind of the point, isn’t it?
Last week was one of those weeks where I reflected heavily on courage. You see there is a presidential election coming this Sunday and last week the leader of the opposition was in Caracas to speak to the people. Now some of you are thinking, so what? That happens all of the time, all over the world. First let me preface by saying that I’m not a fan of politics, but unfortunately living here means I cannot escape it. It permeates everything. It’s like air; you simply cannot avoid breathing it in.
This particular election is important because for the first time in almost 15 years there is the possibility of a man becoming president, a man who has the foresight to see the huge potential of Venezuela, a man who wants to end the farce that is known as Chavez’s Social Revolution, a man who really, in all honesty, wants to end poverty and suffering of his people. Capriles is intelligent. He doesn’t want a communist country. He doesn’t want to give gifts in the form of hundreds of thousands of barrels of oil daily to countries such as Cuba. He wants Venezuela to produce its own food, he wants a safer country and he wants to do it all democratically, not by force, not by cheating, not by dividing Venezuelans down the middle, not by inducing fear, not by paying people to support him, not by murder or by kidnapping and, most importantly, not by denying millions of people their basic human rights.
Anyway, I digress. Let me get back on track. There was a march called The Heroic March in support of Capriles and Juan really wanted me to go with him, but the problem is/was I have a fear of large crowds. I get panicky about not finding an escape route, or being trampled on. Another legitimate concern I had was the possibility of violence. There are A LOT of guns in this city, so many that there are signs in almost every public space prohibiting them. There are also millions of people (Chavistas = Chavez supporters. It’s kind of a misnomer now that Chavez is dead, but the name has stuck) who don’t approve of the opposition and some who have absolutely no fear about committing violent acts, not just at election time, but pretty much all of the time. Ah Mom and Dad, if you’re reading this particular post, you’ll have to understand why I kind of failed to mention this part. Just know that we really do live in a safe part of the city and we’ll be moving soon. Caracas is one of the most violent cities in the world, making it the most violent in South America. In 2011 there was on average 53 murders per day, although I think this figure is low considering that many murders aren’t reported. So yea, I was scared.
The thing is this march, this election, and Capriles are history in the making! I’m living in a historic time. A time where both sides (some Chavistas and non-Chavistas alike) want change, want to live in a safe country, want food (food/product shortages of the basics such as flour, chicken, oil and toilet paper), want electricity (lots of power failures), want solid infrastructure, want and end to corruption. This march essentially would bring all of these people and ideas together for the common good of everyone. Did I really want to miss out on that? Did I want to miss out on the incredible energy and the immense amount of hope? No! So what did we do? We compromised. I’d go to the march and walk among the crowd and if I felt worried, claustrophobic or down right scared, we’d stop.
Of the 12 km we walked, I felt scared only twice. Once when we were walking down a narrow street and there were some Chavistas protesting on top of a building. My vivid imagination got the better of me (I was thinking of snipers) and we moved from the center of the crowd towards the wall. And the second was when the line of people entered into a tunnel. We rerouted ourselves up a hill and across a street.
This march was energizing. People were singing, laughing, and dancing. There wasn’t any violence and the times when the crowds encountered Chavistas, there were innocent displays of beckoning for them to join our side.
So what really came from the march? Approximately, 800 000 people joined together to make one of the largest political statements in Venezuelan history, violence free. What did I learn? I learned that a lot of people’s lives expanded that day because they had courage to fight for their cause. This isn’t even my country, let alone countrymen, and I can’t tell you or even describe the amount of pride I have, especially in a country where the election process is so rigged, where fraud is rampant, and fear is sky high. They have courage to believe in a man they know can make a positive difference to all Venezuelans despite the odds stacked up against him. If I hadn’t gone, I would never had the chance to participate in something so large! Have a look at the aerial view of the march.
As I write this I’m getting news snippets from Juan: another murder, a kidnapping, the government has closed the Colombian boarders so thousands of Venezuelans can’t return to their country to vote…..and on and on it goes. Nobody really knows what will happen this Sunday. I just hope that all Venezuelans will have to courage to face and deal with the result, for good or bad.
If you’d like further reading on the situation here in Venezuela, check out these blogs. Daniel Duquenal tells it like it is and Caracas Chronicles is really well versed on the subject of all things Caracas.
So long as you have food in your mouth, you have solved all questions for the time being. ~ Franz Kafka
I remember when I first started dating Juan we met some of his friends at a Jazz fest and they started talking about traveling throughout South America. One particular woman was so excited about the arepas in Venezuela that she was salivating. Me? Well I was instantly put off by the name. A-repa.
Less than a year later I was in the land of arepa. You’re probably asking yourself, what exactly is an arepa? I thought it might be time for a little explanation seeing how it’s part of my blog name. It’s made from a finely ground corn flour, shaped into puffy disks and can be eaten with just about anything, at any time. The easiest way for me to put it into context would be to say it’s as important to Venezuelans as bread is to the rest of us. Think of it as their equivalent to the sandwich, albeit the savory kind. Most arepas are filled with cheese, shredded beef, plantains, beans, avocado or a mixture of all the above.
Once here, I was excited to try it. I mean it would be part of my daily diet and the possibilities sounded endless. I tried it and much to everyone’s surprise, didn’t like it. Juan’s mom just couldn’t wrap her head around the reason why. I don’t know, there was something about the texture I didn’t like; it was soft and spongy. That was it, I didn’t eat another one for the remainder of my time here. It doesn’t sound like a big deal, but it’s kind of like going to Asia and never eating noodles. Well all of that changed 2 years later when I’m sitting at a friend’s place (in Montreal) and her brother in law sets down a huge basket of arepas to accompany the best tasting cilantro garlic chicken I’ve ever tasted in my life. These little corn discs were crunchy on the outside and a little doughy on the inside. Good thing for second chances because the little arepa was redeemed! Oh the irony.
Areperas (arepa restaurants) here are like Subways or MacDonald’s. There is one on every corner and they’re cheap! They’re the go to meal/snack. They’re also something that you eat and it keeps you full until your next meal. I can only ever eat one; that’s how filling they are. My favorite is filled with the humble avocado.
If you live in a multicultural city, you can find “harina pan” and make your own. If Just follow the directions on the bag and your dough will be perfect. Well almost, you need to add a bit of salt. Juan’s mom, like all good mom cooks, doesn’t measure anything. So until you’re a pro, I’d stick with the instructions.
After making the pucks, the best thing to do is to fry it on both sides in a tiny bit of oil until crispy and then put them in a warm oven. Having made these for over 70 years, Juan’s mom taps them to know if they’re done. Apparently if they sound hallow, they’re cooked. To be on the safe side, I’d say bake them for about 10 minutes. Experiment with fillings and enjoy something new.
And if you are lucky enough to live in Montreal, check out La Arepera du Plateau. My friend’s brother in law opened his own family run Arepera with huge success. I can tell you first hand that the food is authentic and the arepas are fantastic. Buen provecho!
Efficiency is doing better what is already being done. ~ Peter F Drucker
Living in a country that is not your own really puts the magnifying glass on one’s character. You get to discover if you’re a Type A or B personality? I’m on the obsessive A side. What brings you joy? Nature and food. Are you an understanding or compassionate person? Yes, I am. What annoys you? The list is long. And what would truly push you over the edge? Not much. There are times when I think I should go over to a wall and bang my head, but of course, in the end, the only person I’d be hurting would be myself. What is this magnifying glass showing? It’s glaringly obvious that I’m impatient. It’s my Achilles heel. I really appreciate and need efficiency. I crave it like chocolate. Maybe I was Swedish or Japanese in another life.
People here complain about inefficiency all the time. It’s a topic of conversation, much like the weather is for Canadians.
We really got dumped on last night, didn’t we?
Yea, another 30 cm of the white stuff’s coming.
God, when will winter end?
I don’t know; yesterday was the first day of spring.
Sound familiar? You can always insert rain for snow if you’re living in Vancouver.
In Caracas the conversation goes something like this:
Aarrgghhh, an audible sigh, immediate look of despair, eye rolling commences. Turn to the guy that just came up behind you. The line up for the bank/check out/pharmacy counter is horrendous.
It’s always like this. It doesn’t matter what time of the day you come.
Yea, I know. Hey, hold my place in line. I’m going to see if the other line is moving faster.
Sure. If your line is moving faster, I’ll come over.
20 minutes later……… you’ve moved up 3 spots, but look on the bright side, you just made a new friend.
So yesterday Juan had to go to deposit 2 checks at one bank. We take our place in line and within seconds, 15 people were standing behind us. There is one teller open and every 30 seconds someone is going up to the teller to ask for a deposit slip while a client is trying to do their banking. Yes, you read that right. It’s 2013 and they’re still using deposit slips. Here is one of the problems, the bank won’t leave any on the counter because people take them. Really?! Well of course they take them!!!! They don’t want to waste their time. Your banking takes twice as long because of the constant interruptions and of course after you picked up your slip, you have to go to the back of the line to fill the damn thing out. Head banging commences.
We waited our 25 minutes, I go ahead of Juan to ask for deposit slips (you know for next time). I leave so the guy doesn’t see through our thinly disguised plan. A couple minutes later I see Juan standing in line for the bank machine. He tells me the teller will only deposit one check and not the other because it was under a certain amount. WTH? My second bout of head banging is in full swing. Our turn comes up and the machine is temporarily out of service!! Of course it is. Now I know you’re asking, why didn’t he just use the machine in the first place? People don’t trust them. If a check goes missing, the bank has a “it’s not our responsibility” attitude. It’s risky.
There was another branch on the other side of the mall so we decided to walk over. Guess what? That side of the mall was closed and wouldn’t be open for another hour and a half. This head banging session is coming to a close and the head shaking in disbelief starts.
Of course, I always having a running commentary with Juan about using bank cards instead of deposit slips, streamlining procedures at the teller, efficiency, etc. And although he concurs, I think he’s tired of me pointing out the glaringly obvious.
Here’s a perfect example of inefficiency, if you deposit a check you have to have your photo taken and you need to give your thumb print. The teller to camera ratio is about 2 to 1, and it’s required for ALL checks. So if you deposit 10 checks, that means 10 photos and 10 thumb prints are taken. All of that takes time. Can you feel the pain? Oh and talk about Big Brother! But that’s a whole other post.
Anyway, that was the first of three banks we had to go to yesterday; they went just as smoothly.
I have a very sharp tongue, I’m very impatient, and it’s a lifelong struggle. ~ Karen Armstrong
Line up, queue, cola, whatever you call it, it still equates to time wasted.
Life is funny. It seems like I’m constantly challenged to work on one of my worst qualities, impatience. It rears its ugly head at certain things like waiting for summer to arrive, being super excited to go somewhere (I’m not the road trip kind of gal), or waiting for Juan to find his keys and put on his shoes when we have someplace to be and I’ve been ready for 10 minutes. So isn’t it a bit ironic that I move to a place where I think they invented line ups?
I understand that I’m living in South America and they have different ways of doing things; and I get that Caracas is a very large, somewhat disorganized city, but people here dislike line ups just as much as I do. Some days are filled with dread because you have more than one thing to do. You constantly have to consider how much time will be spent waiting.
It goes something like this: I have to go to the doctor’s office. Um it’ll take me 45 minutes to an hour to drive there, try to find parking (always a challenge) wait a minimum of 3 hours for a 10 minute appointment, go to the bank, but try to find parking again, which can be around 20 minutes depending on where the bank is located, wait up to an hour in the bank. There is no swiping of the debit card here. Everything is still pretty much paper driven; you know, how it was 20 years ago when you had to fill out the withdrawal or deposit slip, plus your photo is taken and you have to ink your thumb print if you’re cashing cheques. People are very weary of bank machines and won’t really use them if they’re situated outside of the bank. No matter, there are line ups for those too. Next, get some gas and pick up groceries on the way home. Four seemingly small errands can take up to 6 hours, not very efficient and incredibly frustrating. Of course the time will vary slightly depending on the order and the time of day you do your errands.
Can see my problem? There are even line ups for line ups! You think I’m joking, but it’s very common for government offices to employ this. You stand in line for 45 minutes to an hour (seems like the magical number) to get the information of where you’re supposed to go, only to find the right place and wait another hour for less than five minutes with the person you need to speak with. Ah, bureaucracy, you got to love it. Not!
Of course all of my Latino students laugh at me. They employ the “Silly Kim, you should know better” conversation. I’m glad to know that my frustrations are their amusements. They give me tips like bring a book or magazine; pack some water and something to snack on. These are good, but wouldn’t it be easier if things were just a tiny bit more efficient?
I know complaining doesn’t solve anything, but some days it sure helps to vent a little. I’m learning to deal with it, but trust me when I say it’s challenging.
Earth and sky, woods and fields, lakes and rivers, the mountain and the sea, are excellent schoolmasters, and teach some of us more than we can ever learn from books. ~ John Lubbock
This past Sunday I did something I’ve never done before in my life. I hiked a mountain from bottom to top! No, not the Canaima like in the animation UP, but the Avila. It’s a beautifully lush mountain range that divides the city from the sea.
I’m not sure why we accepted the invitation except to say that it was something to do on a Sunday. We went with Juan’s sister and a few of her friends. At the beginning of the hike we were told that it had some steep parts, but the overall hike was smooth. Note to self, consider the source. The women who told us this are quite experienced hikers. Having hiked all over the world, this would seem like nothing but a stroll. One thing I learned is this, what one person considers a smooth easy hike, another person considers a small private hell. Now not all of it was challenging, but man, there were some parts that I didn’t think I could climb.
We started our journey at around 8 am, and although the start of the hike was laborious I was excited to be surrounded by the trees and the cool damp air. I love being in the woods, smelling the earth, listening to the quietude, and admiring the various colors of brown and green. It shouldn’t have surprised me that there were a lot of people on the trail, but there were. Young and old alike took to the sky.
There were viewpoints, such as the one above, that made me stop and gape with my mouth wide open at the size of Caracas. This is just a small part of this immense city. It’s quite pretty from above, wouldn’t you agree?
One hour quickly turned into two. I wasn’t really complaining at this point. I still had a lot of energy and my childlike curiosity kept me well occupied. A couple of things that I saw, but was unable to get pictures of, were butterflies and parrots. It seemed like every time I took my phone out to snap a picture, they flitted or flew away. Sigh
At one point we came across a hill so steep I thought it would have been more effective if I crawled up it. The hiker beside me was just as discouraged. Somehow that made me feel better. At least I wasn’t the only one in pain.
After three hours, I was at the point where I dearly wanted to sleep. Fortunately for me, we came upon a resting point with a shack. Thank god!! I would have walked right past this shack because the window was tightly closed and the door slightly ajar. Had there not been anyone milling about I would have lost the opportunity to try something delicious. On the menu (a piece of paper with three things written on it) was jugo de tomate y mora (tomato and blackberry juice). I confirmed this with a fellow hiker (Juan was further behind me so I couldn’t question him). Really? Tomato and blackberry? I needed to try it! To say it was refreshingly divine is an understatement!! Man, oh man, that was surprisingly good. Nope, no picture. I was too tired to take my phone out of my bag. But trust me, it’s worth experimenting with. I think you need to remove the seeds and skin of the tomato and then puree it with the blackberries and some ice. Super simple!
The other thing I had there was frozen passion fruit juice (one of my favs)! It was kind of like a freezy in a cup. I wanted to lay there and eat this all day. The promise of the upcoming view was hardly tempting. I was already in my own little heaven.
Although my rest was well deserved, I knew better than to stop for a long period of time. I was actually afraid that my bones and muscles would seize and I wouldn’t make it up or down. I was promised just one more hour and then I would be rewarded with the most spectacular view. This last hour was killer. There were parts on this path that were so narrow that there was yellow “Peligroso” (danger) tape stretched across two thin bamboo trees. One little misstep and I was going down, way down. I grabbed a few gnarled roots and push myself ahead. The last leg of the hike was a bit cruel. It was tough and I was tired. There were no more resting places. If I stopped, I line of people behind me had to stop because no one would have been able to pass. Ah, the pressure!
Finally, I made it to the summit. I wanted to collapse. My legs were like jelly. I had such a sense of pride and the feeling of accomplishment. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to turn back at certain points. And as cliché as it is, I kept seeing the hike as a metaphor for life. You know, the ups and downs, the struggles and the triumphs.
The irony of all of this was that I had seen the spectacular view three years earlier when Juan and I were here last. The joke was on me! Ha ha. We took the cable car up. But this time around it was more special, somehow I felt like I was more deserving.
There was a woman who came up right after our group. To say she was inspiring is an understatement. Her name is Teresa and she’s 81 years old. YES, 81!!! Apparently she’s a regular. Every weekend she does the hike in under 3 hours. She put me to shame.
After lunch we all decided it was time to head down. We took the cable car. Good thing because I would have had to have been carried. Heights kind of freak me out. I’m not sure when I developed this, but it’s a bit unnerving when I’m swinging around in a little car high above the ground. I had to look way ahead to take the picture.
When I look at the picture above I really can gauge how far I came. It was a fantastic day. As much as I struggled, I know I want to go back and do it again.
I am sure that the turtle can teach you a better way than the hare.
This quote is awesome! What a simple reminder to slow down and enjoy the journey. I love the beach. I love that I can be lazy. I love that I don’t have to think about anything. This weekend we had an opportunity to slip out of this craziness called Caracas and head to the sandy shores. Like a horse with a carrot dangling in front of its nose, I stayed focused. I planned and I checked things off of my list: beer, check, sunscreen, check, plantain chips, check, towels, check, cooler, check. We were set.
We needed to leave early Saturday morning to beat traffic. How early you ask? 6:30 early. I know, good thing we’re morning people, right? Now in reality, the beach isn’t far, but the traffic plays such a crucial role here that a 45 minute drive can take well over 3 hours. For the most part we were lucky. There weren’t any accidents and we made record time, just under an hour and a half.
After stopping off to get some empanadas and some well needed coffee, we dropped our stuff off at our friend’s condo and were on the beach just before 9. I understand how people love sunsets on the beach, but I prefer the mornings when the sun isn’t too strong, the beach isn’t crowded and the birds are searching for their breakfast.
Now I’ve been to enough beaches to know to apply sunscreen, but for some stupid reason I almost always forget to put it on one part of my body and at the end of the day I’m left scolding myself. I carefully applied the cream over my body, paying specific attention to my ankles (the former victims of my negligence). After waking up from a little snooze. Yeah, I had a nap…tee hee. Life is cruel, isn’t it? Don’t envy me yet. I discovered that unfortunately, this time was no different. I burnt my knees! Seriously, how did I miss them? They’re round, bony little things. Sigh. I think I need to make a check list for future applications.
Like a child, I was quickly distracted from my pain when I saw a vendor passing by selling jewelry. Normally I don’t ask them to come over because I feel bad if I don’t buy anything, but something blue caught my eye and I needed to see what it was. It was a pretty bracelet. I asked the guy to see it and he was obliging. Out of the corner of my eye I saw one with shells and some colored things that looked like little buttons(they turned out to be dyed coconut shell).
Anything natural with texture and color and I’m in. I think the most precious of art comes from nature or is at least inspired by it. I disregarded the first and focused all of my attention on the smooth shell creation. I tried it on and wasn’t at all surprised to find out that it was huge. I have child sized wrists. The guy said he could adjust it and sure enough he pulled out some scissors and a lighter. I put it on a second time, but for some reason I couldn’t figure how to remove it. He took it off of my wrist and told me that he’d make it better, prettier.
After settling in the sand to redesign my bracelet, we offered him something to drink while I keenly watched. He deftly thread the pieces on the string and tied knots at an amazing speed. His final design was simpler and indeed prettier than his last. I get so much joy when I look at it. I know it sounds weird. How can something that cost around $5 bring a smile to my lips? It’s difficult to explain. I get the same feeling when I’m in the woods staring at the leaves of a tree. One thing I know for sure is when I wear it I’ll remember him, the beach, the sun, but more importantly, it’ll act as reminder that the the simplest pleasures can be found almost anywhere.
All great things are simple, and many can be expressed in a single word: Freedom, Justice, Honor, Duty, Mercy, Hope, Smoothies.
Juan’s mom and I made a quick trip to the fruit and veggie market the other day and while we were meandering around we came up a fruit I didn’t recognize. This is pretty common for me. There are lots of tropical fruit that I have no idea what they are. It wasn’t the pear shape that interested me, nor the yellow color, it was the aroma. Now when I say aroma what I really mean is the drug like effect it had on my senses. No word of a lie, this fruit has an euphoric effect.
The new focus of my desire is called guayaba, or in English guava. I’ve tried it before in a jelly fruit candy. The smell isn’t the same, but I had a general idea of the taste. Anyway, for the rest of that morning we drove around with them in the car and all I kept thinking was, this could be bottled and sold as a natural anti-depressant. Well I guess eating them is easier than bottling and the nutritional value is outstanding!
I decided to make a batido (or a smoothie). I cut the fruit length wise and cut them into cubes, like I do with mangoes. This by the way, is the wrong way. Juan’s mom came into the kitchen and told me that I needed to peel the skin like a potato and then cut it into smaller pieces. I was just going to throw everything into the blender willy nilly, but this is also incorrect. After cutting the guava and placing it in the blender, you need to add a lot of water and blend on high.
The next step is to put the juice through a sieve and mash all the pulp out. This process also removes the seeds, which by the way are as hard as little pebbles.
I also decided to add some papaya. This is something I wish I liked more, but I can’t get over the smell. The color, on the other hand is something that I love! I put it in smoothies because it’s supposed to be SO good for you.
The last thing I put was an apple. I had no idea if this combination would work, but I thought, What the hell? It won’t be that bad.
And it wasn’t! Actually, it kind of tasted like a mild bubble gum. I think next time I’m going to add passion fruit to my guava juice. You know, there are a million different possibilities here!
Even the ant has his bite. ~ Turkish Proverb
Two fantastic things have happened this week. One, we finally bought a car (this is the miracle) and two, we finally made it to the Chacao food market before closing time. It normally closes before 2 on weekdays, but we went on a Saturday before noon. This was both good and bad.
I’ve written before (A Lesson in Patience) about the incredible difficulties of finding a car here in Caracas, so it was with great fortune that a friend of a friend of Juan’s sister was selling one. Did you get that? That’s the most trusted way of doing business here. If you know the person, or they come recommended, the chances of a smooth transaction are high.
I’ve also mentioned that gas here is, for all intents and purposes, free. Let me put it this way, a can of coke is more expensive than a TANK of gas. The subsidization of gas here is, for lack of a better word, strange. I know every country has their issues, but for a country that has millions upon millions of people living below the poverty line the best it can do is give away gasoline? Ahhhh, my brain goes in circles considering this here. I struggle to understand the why’s and how’s of it. I think I’ll leave it for another day.
Having a car is another piece of the puzzle falling into place. It’s funny, Juan and I have always tried to live in cities where we wouldn’t be car dependent. You know, live in a place where we could easily commute using great public transportation. Montreal, by the way, was the best to date offering city dwellers and tourists alike the metro (a subway), buses, and the Bixi (a bike rental service where you can rent by the hour or the season). Bixi = bike + taxi. It’s genius. Fortunately, and unfortunately, a car here means freedom!! We no longer have to borrow Juan’s mom’s car (I’m pretty sure she loves her renewed freedom) and there is no need to plan; we can just get up and go. The unfortunate part is that we’re adding to the already overly polluted city. I guess I feel somewhat better knowing that the car is only a few years old. The emissions are low, so it assuages my guilt.
We bought the car sight unseen (crazy prospect, isn’t it?), so once it was in our possession Juan wanted to test it on the highway. This was relatively easy seeing how there was a mass exodus out of the city for those wanting to celebrate carnival. I tested it as a passenger, checking the windows, air conditioner, the seats etc. I remarked that we will never, ever have to use the heater!! I giggle at this. Tee hee. Juan will be the principal driver here for two reasons: one, I’ll never drive in the city (it’d be suicide for me or manslaughter for someone else) and two, it’s a stick shift. I never learned to drive one. I’m kind of kicking myself for that, but I learned to drive on my first cross country Canada trip. The huge camper van we had was automatic. I’ll learn to drive it once we get to the island. It’ll be good fodder for a post.
Anyway, once we finally made it to Chacao (a neighborhood) we needed to find parking. Parking on the street in Chacao is safe, but Juan wanted to park in the market’s parking lot. Parking lots here could also be another blog post, needless to say, one needs patience. Seeing how I don’t have a lot of that, I left Juan to find his way while I went in search of some goodies.
Upon entering the market I made a mental note, not to ever go there on a Saturday again or at least come earlier in the morning. We had planned on the latter, but Juan’s test drive took us a bit further than we had anticipated and into a shady neighborhood, one I was anxious to get out of. No pictures were taken there. I digress. The market was loud and lively. This was due in part to a mini carnival parade (percussion section included) making it’s way through the stalls. I love markets. I could spend hours looking at every fruit, vegetable, herb, and knick-knack. Juan, not so much. So I used this opportunity (of not having him around for 10 minutes) to discover things he’d walk past.
Not having him around also allows me to practice my Spanish. I found a store that was just up my alley. It had teas, and natural products, and really kind people. I could tell immediately that they would be patient with me, so I asked a lot of questions, even about things I knew the answers to. I ended up buying some jasmine rice (which is hard to find here), some dried lavender and some pomegranate suckers. The best find/deal for me were the wooden spoons. I’m a tactile person. I love the way things feel. I have to touch things in order to know them better. These spoons are so smooth and the colors are so rich. I just stood there and rubbed all of them. You know, to feel which ones were the best. The prices were shamelessly low, so of course I had to buy them.
After wandering around for a bit, it was time for a little coffee. Again, the people were super friendly. While waiting for our order, Juan had me try a little bit of hot sauce that was sitting on the counter. I love hot sauce. So much so, that I think I must have been Mexican in another life. This hot sauce was nothing like I have ever tasted!! It was not just hot and spicy, the flavor was really complex. I mean layers of complexity. It was phenomenal. My mouth was so happy! Juan turns to me and says, so do you want to know what’s in the sauce? I look up to where the bottles were sitting and I could see an ant on the label. Strangely, I wasn’t disturbed my this. It was more fascination. I mean how could something like an ant taste so damn good?!
The formic acid, the same acid that stings you when it bites, is what gives it flavor. Of course there is also garlic, pepper and salt added, but it’s the acid that makes this salsa spectacular. I have a feeling the kind of ant has something to do with it as well. This particular salsa is made from ants from the Amazon. I’ve seen them and they’re huge! Once home, I told a friend about my new culinary discovery and she couldn’t wrap her head around eating bugs. I understand her squeamishness, but it has opened a new world for me. I can’t wait to use this as a marinade.