We reached El Caney by bus. We stepped out into the rain and immediately took cover under the awning of the nearest eatery. Our host was Roger Gonzalez, but we had failed to reach him by phone to tell of our impending arrival. Pauline asked first : do you know Rozhay Gonzalez ? Blank stares. Roger Gonzalez, she tried again with an American accent. And then finally, desperately, “Rogger.” The two young men eating empanadas in the eatery had no idea.
Next I asked, using the improbable Spanish pronunciation : Ro-hair Gonzalez. Their eyes lit up, bingo. The thinner one exclaimed, “Ohhhhh, El Ippppppy !” and proceeded to walk five meters to the blue house next to the eatery. He thrusted his hand through the hole in the screen door and let himself in. He came out two minutes later to tell us, “He’s not home.”
Well, we bought a few empanadas ourselves, then started to play some card games under Ro-hair’s window. 15 minutes later, a wrinkled face popped out of the window and muttered something that sounded like a mix between Spanish and Klingon. We asked about Roger, in Spanish, and it seemed as if she understood us...but the only words we could make out were ‘Si’ and ‘No’.
- "Will Roger be back soon ?"
- “Wra fh lo mae hlu no.” Hmmm, did she say my face looked like an exploded star...or that he’s not coming home?
- "Uh,...will he be back in the morning ?"
- "Si pre fnu sre wari le." Whether that was a 'yes' or a 'be gone lest I find my saber' I'm not sure, but I answered, "we’ll come back tomorrow."
And we started to look for a spot to camp along the banks of the river. In El Caney, there is a river that flows into a reservoir. Along one bank of the river is a row of 30 houses. On the other side of these houses is the only road in town, a heavily trafficked road leading from the mountains to the nearest provincial capitals of Merida, Barinas, and Trujillo. And finally, there are another 30 houses or so opposite the road. That’s it.
Anyway, just as we crossed the bouncy bridge over the rapid-y river, we saw someone running towards us who looks nothing like the others in the village. Venezuela’s a consumer culture, a la Estados Unidos. Most people strive to own an expensive Blackberry phone and wear European and American name brands such as Lacoste or Aeropostale...you know, keeping up with the Gomez'. So we saw a tall figure wearing a long-sleeved colorful shirt with a patterned vest and on his head was a hat that could have been worn by none other than Hippy Smurf. Roger !
He then introduced us to Angelina, the Klingon-speaking and -looking woman in the Casa Azul. She wasn’t his grandmother. She was his grandmother’s friend. And when the abuela died, Angelina stayed in the house ever since, serving coffee and arepas (cornflour pancakes) to any villager passing through. We stayed in La Casa Azul for over a week, and the first time I understood Angelina was on the 4th or 5th day. To come to think of it, I never saw if she had teeth…
Then Roger took us on a tour of the village, which at 600m in length you’d think would be quick, but it took a few hours ! We stopped at every single house, where Roger introduced us, up and down “the street.” Between houses, he showed us all the plants and flowers and trees that he’s planted as part of his beautification del Caney plan. In addition, he’s turned old shoes and tires and random containers into pots for standing and hanging plants. With his pick-axe, some plants from the forest, and a few minutes per day, he’s really made the village stand out among the other villages in the valley.
The next day, we walked up and down the street asking everyone for leftover paint. And with all that we collected, we started painting two walls in the middle of town. The following day, a man who owned a little tienda asked us if we could paint an image of Simon Bolivar in front of his store… Uh, sorry, we’re only good at flowers and concentric circles.
Mid-week, we started our business of selling pies and negerbollar (Swedish dulces with cacao, oats, and coco) to help finance our trip. Roger took charge and knocked on every door asking if they’d like a slice of pie . When no one answered, he just walked in to wake up whomever was sleeping...there's a lot of unemployment in El Caney, so it's rare that people aren't home. But everyone was very supportive and bought almost all of our tasty goods.
Every evening, Roger hosted a documentary movie night. Our first night, we showed a slideshow of some of our travels, adventures, and shenanigans. After that we saw travel and history documentaries about Egypt, Angkor Wat, the Incas, etc. And every time we'd visit the town, to ask for paint or to sell pies, he'd remind them : "Coming to see the film tonight ? Seven thirty." Each evening, between two and zero people showed up, but he kept trying.
It was when we left the village, to get groceries, to check email, to visit mountain lakes, that Roger taught how to hitchhike, Venezuelan-style. The trick is to wait for small delivery trucks with a flat bed; they almost always stop for hitchhikers. Then you jump on back and hang on for dear life while the driver speeds along mountain roads. If you try to hitch cars, it'll work, eventually...but it's not France or Ireland.
But it had to end someday, and after ten days when the inhabitants found out that we were leaving, they all asked us when we were coming back. Angelina started sobbing. Klingons cry, too.
Next I asked, using the improbable Spanish pronunciation : Ro-hair Gonzalez. Their eyes lit up, bingo. The thinner one exclaimed, “Ohhhhh, El Ippppppy !” and proceeded to walk five meters to the blue house next to the eatery. He thrusted his hand through the hole in the screen door and let himself in. He came out two minutes later to tell us, “He’s not home.”
Well, we bought a few empanadas ourselves, then started to play some card games under Ro-hair’s window. 15 minutes later, a wrinkled face popped out of the window and muttered something that sounded like a mix between Spanish and Klingon. We asked about Roger, in Spanish, and it seemed as if she understood us...but the only words we could make out were ‘Si’ and ‘No’.
- "Will Roger be back soon ?"
- “Wra fh lo mae hlu no.” Hmmm, did she say my face looked like an exploded star...or that he’s not coming home?
- "Uh,...will he be back in the morning ?"
- "Si pre fnu sre wari le." Whether that was a 'yes' or a 'be gone lest I find my saber' I'm not sure, but I answered, "we’ll come back tomorrow."
And we started to look for a spot to camp along the banks of the river. In El Caney, there is a river that flows into a reservoir. Along one bank of the river is a row of 30 houses. On the other side of these houses is the only road in town, a heavily trafficked road leading from the mountains to the nearest provincial capitals of Merida, Barinas, and Trujillo. And finally, there are another 30 houses or so opposite the road. That’s it.
Anyway, just as we crossed the bouncy bridge over the rapid-y river, we saw someone running towards us who looks nothing like the others in the village. Venezuela’s a consumer culture, a la Estados Unidos. Most people strive to own an expensive Blackberry phone and wear European and American name brands such as Lacoste or Aeropostale...you know, keeping up with the Gomez'. So we saw a tall figure wearing a long-sleeved colorful shirt with a patterned vest and on his head was a hat that could have been worn by none other than Hippy Smurf. Roger ! |
| Angelina, Klingon Warrior |
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| Shoe-Pot |
The next day, we walked up and down the street asking everyone for leftover paint. And with all that we collected, we started painting two walls in the middle of town. The following day, a man who owned a little tienda asked us if we could paint an image of Simon Bolivar in front of his store… Uh, sorry, we’re only good at flowers and concentric circles.
Mid-week, we started our business of selling pies and negerbollar (Swedish dulces with cacao, oats, and coco) to help finance our trip. Roger took charge and knocked on every door asking if they’d like a slice of pie . When no one answered, he just walked in to wake up whomever was sleeping...there's a lot of unemployment in El Caney, so it's rare that people aren't home. But everyone was very supportive and bought almost all of our tasty goods. |
| El Ippy |
Every evening, Roger hosted a documentary movie night. Our first night, we showed a slideshow of some of our travels, adventures, and shenanigans. After that we saw travel and history documentaries about Egypt, Angkor Wat, the Incas, etc. And every time we'd visit the town, to ask for paint or to sell pies, he'd remind them : "Coming to see the film tonight ? Seven thirty." Each evening, between two and zero people showed up, but he kept trying.
 |
| Hitchhiking is so much more fun in Venezuela |
But it had to end someday, and after ten days when the inhabitants found out that we were leaving, they all asked us when we were coming back. Angelina started sobbing. Klingons cry, too.
keeping up with the Gomez??? omg andrei you kill me. What a nice story though - I can just see you two on the back of a flatbed.
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