My compliments to the abuela !

Throughout our trip, we've noticed that the best cooks are always men or grandmothers, never younger women. So we asked our Venezuelan friend Eduardo.  He says (though others dispute his claim) that here in Venezuela the young women do much less housework than in other machista Latin American countries.


Was Venezuela an anomaly in this part of the world, a bastion of feminism where household chores are equally shared between the sexes ?


- So what do the women here do ?, I foolishly ask.


- They look pretty, Eduardo responds.  And when they get old and ugly, they learn to cook !

Whale Song Contest

Now I always thought that cows and horses slept at night.  Cows sleep on the ground whereas horses sleep lying or standing, right ?


But here in Venezuela, high up in the Andes, they don't !  For two nights, we camped in the Parque Nacional de la Culata next to an old broken refuge that offered no refuge.  And those cows and horses spent the whole night next to our tent.  Any of those beasts could have easily tripped up one of the tent cords and flattened our nylon house.  Luckily, we survived both nights.


But on the second night, right there next to the refuge at 3 o'clock in the morning, those cows starting a Whale Song Contest.  Now I don't mean that they were moo-ing or lowing or even bellowing.  It was more like a cross between Heidi yodeling and Westley screaming in the Pit of Despair.  And let me tell you, I was scared !

The worst kind of wife...

Interestingly enough, the Spanish word for handcuffs, esposas, is the same word as for ''wives.''

What's your cédula ?

Since arriving in Venezuela, we’ve been on half a dozen buses, and more often than that to the supermarket.  And after almost every purchase, the bus driver / salesperson asks the same question : “What’s your cédula ?”


“What ?”


Cédulas rang a vague bell for me.  I remember in Spanish class that James Woods thought there were life-and-death important in the film Salvador.  But why would the overweight busdriver of the La Grita - La Fria line be asking me the same question as the right-wing death squads from El Salvador ?  Here's a little extract from the film :

What's going on here, man?

I think they're checking cédulas.

What's a cédula?

Birth certificates, voting papers.

If you don't have a cédula, you're in deep shit

Put your hands on your head.

"What's your cédula ?," he repeated.

I start looking for the nearest exit, ready to flee with my life.

“Identificacion, por favor.”

Ahhhh, thus I learned that, apparently, all Venezuelans have to carry national ID with them at all times and that someone keeps track of their movements and purchases.

Well, I didn't get shot or handcuffed, but I did receive a frustrated glance that he couldn't track my whereabouts and purchases.  Oh well, this story's not nearly as interesting as the movie.

Vaccination Day

The day before crossing the border, we learned that we'd need vaccinations for Influenza H1N1 and Yellow Fever to be allowed into Venezuela.  Pauline already had her vaccination for fievre jaune, but was reluctant to get her H1N1, due to its reported side-effects.  I had neither.  Well, it turns out that each shot would cost about 40 - 50.000 Colombian pesos, or roughly $25.

Though unwilling, we figured there was no way around it.  In the morning, we took our friend Julian (or rather, he took us) to the nearest medical center.  There he explained our situation to the nurse, who then took our passports.  About 20 minutes later, she came back with our passports and proof of vaccination for H1N1.  No shot, no charge !

And while I waiting to receive my vaccine for fiebre amarilla, Julian told that it, too, would be free but that I should give the nurse a thank you...a "Colombian thank you."

Anatony of a Colombian thank you :

1. Place the amount of thankfulness in your hand (Julian suggested that I be 10.000 pesos thankful) and fold the bill.  Make sure you have the exact bill, you can't ask for change back !

2. Then shake the nurse's hand, while saying "Muchas gracias" and leaving behind your thankfulness.

From there, we continued on to the border where the border guard asked to see our passports, and then he asked us to fill out a form regarding our travel plans.  Anticipating the next question, we readied our proofs of vaccination.  This is the moment where we would prove that we were mosquito-proof, where we would triumphantly and smugly cross that yellow line, where other, less vaccinated or less thankful, travelers had been turned back.

- Thank you, have a nice trip, the border guard said.

What ?!  That's all ?  Don't you care if I'm carrying yellow fever ?  Well, I just gave him my handshake-less, peso-less American "thank you," and walked into the hot Venezuelan sun.

The Day of the Frailejones

In North America or in Europe or in Asia, when you climb up to 4.000m, you generally find ice and snow.  But in the Andes, close to the equator, you find a very different biome, called the Paramo.  Most of this biome is found in Colombia, with smaller patches in Venezuela, Ecuador, and Peru. 

The Paramo looks something like this

The main features seem to be glacial lakes, marshes, and the presence of a plant called Frailejon.  A frailejon has radiating soft yellow leaves (soft enough to wipe your ass) and in the center, there are usually arm-like protrusions heading skyward.  Bright yellow flowers sometimes bloom from these nubs.


Now you're probably thinking the same thing as me : They sure look a hell of a lot like Triffids.  You'll remember that triffids are mobile space plants that can kill with a swipe of their tentacles.  They generally prey on the blind.  Well, Pauline and I had quite an adventure trying to cross the Paramo and its millions of frailejones; it's remarkable that we were able to take photos of the vicious plants, let alone survive.

Here I'm running from a Frailejon.  They can't jump.

This Trif, I mean Frailejon is trying to eat Pauline.

4th of July Veggie Burger Recipe

I missed the American 4th of July again !  Another summer not spent in the U.S. of A.  But strangely enough, there was plenty of flag-waving, fireworks-buying, and meat-eating going on here in Venezuela.  It turns out that Venezuela's birthday is just one day after the USA's (the country of Venezuela is only 35 years (and a day) younger than my own).  It wasn't just any birthday, we're talking about its 200th birthday !


How could I celebrate both cultures simultaneously ? How could I bridge these two opposing cultural and political paradigms ?  Well, I decided to use the burger, the symbol of both the American plains and the Venezuelan Llanos.  It's also the poster-meal of American gluttony and neo-colonialism.  But did I create an ordinary burger ?  Did I create a burger that propetuates all that's wrong with American McCulture ?  Nay, I made a burger so de-clawed, de-feathered, de-fanged, de-boned, that it would render Venezuela's meat czar Senor Chuck Loin (that's Sir Loin, to you, bub !) speechless and mouth-watering.


I made the American Veggezuelan Burger, full of beans, avocado, onion, and carrot grown in Vene...well probably not in Venezuela since they import most of their food, but certainly grown close to Venezuela.


And here's how I did it...
In a large bowl, throw in a can of black beans and a can of kidney beans.  Mash 'em and smash 'em.
Add a giant, tropical avocado.  Give it the bean treatment.
Finely chop a large purple onion and add to the mixture.
Grate a small carrot.
Add oats until the mixture is dry and crumbly.
Stir an egg in there, too.
Add bread crumbs and/or flour until the mixture's the same consistency as meat.  Saltine crackers work great, too.
Finally spice it with salt, pepper, paprika, coriander, cumin.  Sage, rosemary, thyme, oregano, and turmeric are optional.
From here on, treat them like meat burgers, fry the patties and serve on a bun with ketchup, mustard, tomato, and lettuce.


Seriously, vegetarians and carnivorous Venezolanos alike have eaten seconds of this burger.  One such Venezolano had no idea that he was eating meat !

My chat with Dios Pescador, the Landlord

About a week ago, I was struck by some mysterious tourist flu, complete with high fevers, profuse sweating, and diarrhea smelling of dead snake and rotten papaya. During the worst of it, we were staying with Julian and his dad in their home near the Venezuelan border. For the first day, I barely left the bed. On the second day, just as I was getting my strength back (but by no means, was I better), Dad corners me at the kitchen table.


- So, you're a math teacher. Tell me the solution to this calculus problem !






- Hmmm, well it's been ten years since I've studied this...and I didn't really teach this to my underperforming 13 year-olds...and uh, my head hurts. 




But I looked at the problem anyway.  It looked familiar, and it seemed like it needed factoring before continuing any further.  But it wasn't factorable.  I must be missing something...  And after 10 minutes I gave up.


- What ?!  You can't do this ?  You have to factor !  (x^2 + 2x + 2) becomes (x + 2) (x + 1) obviously !


- Uh, but that doesn't work...you'd need '3x' in the original problem.


And this is where he taught me my lesson.  He scribbled out the 'two' and wrote 'three'.  Silly me.


Then the conversation drifted to why I take pills.  I tried to explain that there are two small organs, near the kidneys, that produce several hormones, such as adrenaline.  And that my body has, for unknown reasons, attacked these little glands.  Yes, I still have adrenaline, but no, I'm missing a couple of other ones.  Thus, the pills.


Silly me again, I don't need those pills.  What I need is God !  And then, I kid you not, he grabbed my arm and said, "Repeat after me".


I was a bit scared at this point.  I'm sending distress glances at Pauline and Julian; HELP, my eyes are screaming !




And it went something like this...


- Dear Jesus Christ, who is my landlord, and who likes to fish or maybe to eat fish, please make my organs grow back (like they were before you took them), and don't take any other organs either.  Amen.


And then Pauline said, "Do you want to watch a movie ?"  Aaaah, the voice of an angel; that was the prayer my heart was saying.


Amen.

The US Navy and Usnavy

The US Army and Navy and CIA are no strangers in Latin America, having participated in a plethora of wars and coups d'etat throught the region, from Guatemala to Panama, from Venezuela to Chile.  But assassinating democratically-elected leaders leading to years of suppression, torture, and disappearances is not their only legacy...

For more than a hundred years, the US Navy has visited Colombian beaches and ports, such as Cartagena.  Now, when a lonely sailor with US dollars in his pockets meets a poor but beautiful local girl, it's no wonder sparks are gonna fly.  Like in the Andrews Sisters' song :

Drinkin' rhum and Coca-Cola
Go down Point Koomahnah
Both mother and daughter
Workin' for the Yankee dollar

Since the Yankee come to Trinidad
They got the young girls all goin' mad
Young girls say they treat 'em nice
Make Trinidad like paradise

Later, while dad's back on the high seas or visiting a Banana Republic fomenting political change and rousing rabble, mom's giving birth to little Junior.  She wants to give the baby boy his father's name.  What was his name again ?  Oh, yeah, it was printed in bold letters on his uniform !  USNAVY !

Right now in Colombia, or along other Latin american coastlines, you just might encounter one of the US Navy's hereditary legacies : Usnavy Ramirez or Usnavy Hernandez or Usnavy Santos...

What Colombians think about Venezuela

When the Colombians we met asked about our travel plans, we told them that we’d be spending some time in Venezuela after Colombia.  At this point, we received one of two very different viewpoints.


Thr first is that Chavez is crazy and that Venezuela is run-down and dangerous.  This is the majority opinion.  The second is that Chavez is crazy and that Venezuela is a paradise, where gasoline is cheaper than water and where you can eat beef with every meal.


We’ve spent 4 days now in Venezuela, and we’ve discovered that, yes, gasoline is cheaper than water.  On the other counts though…it doesn’t seem any more run-down than Colombia, they don’t seem to eat more meat than Colombians (both peoples eat a lot).  And we haven’t yet felt that it’s a dangerous country.


But the more I hear about Chavez, the more I conclude that the Colombians are right !