La Navidad, una otra vez

Feliz Navidad

The 24th started slowly, such that you could hear a mouse
dropping a crumb of pan de bono on the third floor of the house
Before el Niño Jesus came on Christmas Eve
Laura, David and I cleaned the house spotless and asked the flies to leave.
It was quiet a task to prepare for the guests whose number exceeds a dozen
To cook the food required, we could have used another oven.
It is hard to explain the mix of exhaustion and excitement I felt
When Las Tías arrived from Mérida, laden with pasticho and dealt
A great deal of kisses and with great delay
trudged upwards where our music began to play.
The house, with red clay tile roof, rounded in fashion,
was where we put out the food of this family Italian,
and waited. Or at least I waited patiently
for this mass of people holding water and whiskey,
to feel urge to step out from the roof and into the rain
and get moving to music that I am sure would ordain
the perfect end to an evening after working so hard.
Indeed we danced and Bertha that woman, as always a card,
Threw her scarf about my shoulders and pulled my hand to her hip,
Then gyrated round, till she nearly tripped
Which time new partners danced along, I’m sure,
In such a felicitous round-about exchange so pure
The fire works blew from all the houses nearby
As we waited for midnight, December twenty five.

When the hour came the exhausted dancers to their places,
Trudged down again to the house still red in their faces.
The children opened their gifts on the floor
And I looked around at the new faces I adore
In these new people and future I've found in tabay
In the early morning of December twenty five.

Christmas itself was also divine,
A event to be certain that was not lacking wine,
Nor food nor mirth nor slides for the children
The rocks under which leave many still hurting.
The pasón from all this passionate fun,
Left many wishing it would only be done.
But the clown whose spleen had burst
Persevered to further augment our mirth,
And show that hard work makes it all crystal clear
That we had a merry Christmas and an equal new year…



¡Feliz Navidad!

Vino y Se Fue

In la Finca Gavillan there is ancient cinaro (Myrtaceae) tree that stands in an open field. The trunk splits at the base, spreading outward and running parallel to the ground before the branches rise up, covered in bird-like bromeliads, towards the sky. The branches are not round but elongate, thick but not wide and have the camouflage color of American Sycamore (Platanus occidentalis). The centuries old tree was a location for a wedding.


Early on Friday when I asked when the ceremony was to start, I was told 11:00, but it did not start until well after 1:00 p.m. The ceremony was for Laura and David who stood in front of the tree while Lea and 8 year-old Isabella, perched above and giggling throughout the event, tossed flower petals from above. While David spoke elegantly of his love for Laura, Lea and Isabella took aim, striking Laura repeatedly in the nose and eliciting a burst of laughter from the bride. David, confused, would look over momentarily and continue his devotional elucidations. When the short, "anarchistic", ceremony ended, we feasted on quiche and accouterment and the Tía Triad (Meme, Mari, Berta) sang song after song curled on a blanket with Lea and Laura.

Since the wedding my existence has been very domestic, especially with Isabella staying here. We dance in the evenings to Swing, latin and a whole slue of traditional music. The day consists of various adventures (and, of course, Cooking) around the house. The best of which may be our great search for fruit around the perimeter. Isabella, Lea, and I walked for well over an hour yesterday with a large stick swinging it wildly (depending on who held it) at Guava, Banana, Nispero Japones, and Oranges. Our fun was literally dampened by a lengthy rain that lasted through the evening. There was little else to do than curl up with hot chocolate and watch a movie, which we did, staying up til 1 a.m. to finish.

In my domestic existence, I have not talked of politics; I do not know if the U.S. has finally fallen from the fiscal cliff; I am not sure half the time what is even going on, but this morning as we prepare to head to Mérida, I can only relish these last few days and hope that this happiness can last beyond the end of holidays.

Frase Del Día: "Algo me se fue por el camino viejo". Pietro Stagno taught me this as i coughed on the second floor the the Mercado Principal in Mérida. The market is four floors of venders selling hundreds of fruits, dried and fresh, head scratchers, guns with barrels carved to look like a penis, restaurants and more. I was coughing because I had recently eaten a fig (Higo) that had moved upward into my nasal passage. Pietro told me, David confirmed that it was no lie, that when food migrates in such a fashion one would say "Algo me se fue por el camino viejo" or "Something I ate has taken the old path out."

El Páramo

Outside the little house in El Paramo, the trees are blanketed with spanish moss. Here spanish moss is called barba de palo (branch beard), and it is an appropriate name. One must think of Treebeard from J.R.R. Tolkien at the sight of the hairy ents that inhabit my surroundings. At the moment a cool breeze rustles the trees outside, mixing with the sound of the small stream running from the mountain overhead and all the house is silent.

The quiet is unusual and I suspect it means the house is empty. For days on end we have been tied to the kitchen, cooking and eating. The contrast with home is definite. Instead of a single night of tepid talk of Jon Stewart's latest commentaries (as I am accustomed), everyday there is a family reunion which will all culminate, I am told, with a drunken night on the 24th to celebrate La Navidad. The spouse of Laura, David, is usual doing magic tricks for seven year old Isabella and can be heard clearly in all his exuberance from the second floor. The Tías are prone to break out in song at any moment, and the daughters of Maria Herminia, such skillful dancers, gladly swing about when the right song plays through the speakers. I find myself wondering if they are simply Venezuelan or something greater and more distinct like a family brought up so tightly knit they can hardly make a distinction between who is family and who is not. I have always been told that the Americans are a squeamish people, whose superficial hospitality and affection quickly runs out. In the presence of the Stagno-Matos clan, there is a different air, one of absolute confidence and sincerity that pervades our familial oblations. I have recieved in so few days, more assurances of affection and care (from people who can hardly know my history) than I would living a whole year back home.

Escaping the City P.1
Two days ago, I rode with Pietro Stagno to his farm above the house. The ascent was steep enough that I "popped" my ears more than once. On his farm, Pietro makes wines and liquors from various fruits, especially Mora (moraceae family) that resembles a tart and spicy balckberry. While Pietro was dealing with business I ran about the fields on the slopes across from El Pico Bolivar (16,500ft). I fell often in the grass, climbed trees, poked anthills with sticks and paused a moment to watch a hummingbird (Colibrí) chase flies around a patch of flowers. In the Finca Gavillan I used the moment unchaperoned exploration to exhaust myself, running wild for a moment so that I could return, like a seemingly normal human being, to civilization.

"Would You Be So Obliged As To Point Out The Next Time You Spot an Artificial Breast"

Sitting on the plane, we approached the ciudad del Vigia. The city sat on a different (geographical) plain full of farms separated by irrigation canals (or so I believed). I traveled with Lea Stagno from Caracas. Lea sat at the front, while I was in the back next to an old woman with whom I shared my dried figs (Higos Secos). The emergency door across from us leaked cold air that forced many passengers to wear extra clothing. Since I did not have any, I pulled my backpack up from the floor and placed it on my lap, hugging it like a beloved doll.

Once we landed, Lea and I took a taxi from Jaira towards Mérida in the gorge of the River Chama. Along the road were scattered masses of soil, unbelievably tall (20 ft), where the tentative slopes (laderas) had eroded into our path. When the other side of the road fell into the Chama, the precipice was marked with tin cans (latas) with burning oil that emitted a noxious black smoke. The roads were intermittently painted and dark, smelling of unfiltered exhaust. I took much of the time to put my head dog-like out the window admiring the Andes Mountains above, picking up snippets of the conversation. I was called inside during the tunnels so that we did not pass out from the carbon monoxide. While within, I learned that a common name for the yellow reflectors illuminating tunnel walls is "Tiger eyes".

We are now in Mérida, Lea, her two sisters, Maria Herminia and I. Our days seem to flow from meal to meal in an endless cycle of pasón (a.k.a. post-parrandial depression), cooking and the re-hatching of hunger. I am constantly exhausted by the effort to speak, for every word is a leap of faith. One can hardly stand so much jumping. A month ago I would sneak outside to smoke a cigarette; today I sneak around to speak a bit of English with the same carnal satisfaction. Last night I spoke alone with Lea for 45 minutes. a veritable moment chain-smoking the English language. I could feel my heart move into my throat and, for once, it continued moving upwards, expressed without elegance but with a weight I could only describe as affected. A real moment of peace.

Frase del Día: The road to Mérida was full of more than just landslides. Every couple of miles we would hit a batch of speed-bumps. Lea turned to me in the back and asked if I had heard the name for "speed-bumps" in √enezuela. I said no. As it turns out speed bumps are called "Policias Acostados" or "Prostrate Policemen".
P.S. - I have since confirmed that this is not simply wishful thinking but the true phrase used in Venezuela and Colombia.

Mt. Avila

¿Que vaina es esa?

Today I will be spending time with a great aunt and her prodigious brood, and after lunch we will climb the mountain Avila (renamed "Warairarepano" by President Chavez in recognition of the mountain's original indian inhabitants) which is about the size of Katahdin. Atop the mountain runs a cable car that leads to the Humboldt Hotel, a formally bocsh and expensive place that has since fallen into disrepair. I can imagine coming as an oil-worker in decades past, how such a place would feel, nestled 4,000M above the ocean. Back then it was a country easily exploited. Back then, oil workers would commandeer the double-decker buses used for public transit and drive them around the city of Maracaibo (This is true). They would party from bar to bar drinking until a band of criminals would rob them blind, sending them home without money. As they walked home, I imagine they patted each other on the back in a conciliatory fashion, saying "Well, it was a pretty fucking good time, wasn't it!?"

A good time indeed.

These, however, are not the days of my Grandfather where ones exploits are not measured in venereal diseases. Instead, being from the United States gives me little advantage here. If I want to make money, I need to work as a teacher. If I want to remain in the Country I need to travel to Colombia by bus every three months. If I want to know a woman, I need to do more than flash a couple american bills across her line of vision (though dollars are in very high demand and this actually may be the case).

Frase del Día: There is a word used in venezuela that deserves some attention: Vaina. It is the most common word I have encountered here besides cola, which means "line" (especially a line of traffic). "√aina" means the "scabbard" (like medieval sword case scabbard) or pea pod, but its uses are best described as universal.

Here are some examples

What's wrong? = What in the Peapod happened?

Don't annoy me = Drop the Peapod!

What is this? = What kind of Peapod is this?

my personal favorite:

This person is doing something rather strange = What a strange Peapod this person is stuck inside!

"Please Do Not Push The Buttons With Fuel Pump Nozzle"

I slept in today, and woke to see the table set with food and drink waiting patiently for me to eat. It has been like this everyday with Luis and Eva, except today it us four hours later than normal. Today is first in which I have not left with Luis to his work. Instead of walking around Palos Grandes and the famous Parque Miranda, where four people were kidnapped (raptados) on monday, I sit on the couch with a broken computer, listening to construction taking place behind me.

I have been handed the task of dragging the children of Luis away from the television and bringing them outside to a nearby park. It is nearly 11 and I have not done so yet. Their vacation started Tuesday and I have not seen them but a few moments without electronics. I have seen Luis say countless times to his son, Victor (16), "muevete" ("get moving"), and Victor remain unmoved. Luis will say it enough so that his voice ("muevete, muevete") becomes a part the cities soundscape like a hammer at a distant work site. Victor's reaction is very different from that of his sister, who is much more like a firework (fuego articicial) that spins wildly upward emitting a high-pitched tinny whistle, requiring only the slightest spark to be set-off. Victoria, who speaks english enthusiastically, forming words and phrases with no point other than to see how they feel (like poking a pound cake (ponque) to check the texture), is thirteen. Her outbursts are an exuberant expression of a teenage girls pent up energy, and are always accompanied by funny faces and the high-pitched tinny whistle, which I believe to be words (though one cannot be sure) strung together so quickly that the sound waves, like the sentence, become one amplified, indecipherable noise.

In reality they are very pleasant, very modern children. Last night, I sat with Luis and Victoria after buying my first Venezuelan phone, and I had a fine moment of relaxation. On my left was the fuel for the machine that drove the family forward, and on the right was the Engineer that designs the machine that directs the energy into a state of coherency. I remained self-conscious, speaking when possible, reveling in the intelligence and patience of the engineer and brightness emitted from the energy as it burned.

Electronic Ozonic Concentration Indicator

In another country, one is suspended in a constant state of disbelief. A simple glance out a shuttered window can induce a shudder of its own; that which is commonplace can be absolutely tickling. For example, the smell of the city is not pleasant: exhaust, a sweet touch of decay, perhaps a nearby eatery. In Palos Grandes, I saw a women striding past an alley plug her nose and turn away with an air of disgust. I passed the same corner and leaned towards the same alley she had passed, my nose in the air, sniffing with curiosity for the smell that she found so repulsive. I was like a dog finally left off a leash, able to relish and roll in the dirtiness that the city shows only at the surface. I could not speak but through my most simple senses. I stopped to smell things, detecting tones of old meat or mummified radish. I picked up rotten fruits determining if it was Fig or Guava or Other. I was skittish, suspicious of everything passing around me. I was.... though it was very hard to say.... I was very much a tourist. The Sole american tourist, but a tourist nonetheless.

Walking around the city yields no coherent story. One moment I walked behind a man whose head would closely follow each female bottom as is passed in the opposite direction; I wandered into the subway station to see how modern was the underground (Quite, though too full according to Luis). During my last moments in Palos Grandes (sticks of unusual size or S.O.U.S.'s) I walked through Miranda Park. It was gargantuan, in the shadow of Mt. Avila, and full of Agave cacti whose leaves hold in callous tissue the marks and signatures of hundreds of passersby.

I am now in the Apartment of my 2nd cousin Luis de Capriles, his wife Eva and their children Victoria and Victor. I and he have very much in common as we sit in the living room, each on their respective computers, listening to opera. The apartment here is small such that I was doing yoga at the elbow of luis as he finished his work. My work remains unfinished. Surrounded by new smells and people, caught in the awkward place between dropping an old language and adding a new, my work is still unidentified. I must wake up everyday with the same approach I do to speaking spanish. I must start before I know if I can finish, whether I will find the right word or fail and fall into silence, only to try again another time. Mine is not a life supported in idleness, but when in motion, searching for the perfect word, it remains unbelievably satisfying.

Pedos Venezolanos: A People With The World's Highest Per Capita Consumption Of Scotch Whiskey

We drove outside of Caracas towards Maracay, a city that was once the capitol of Venezuela under Juan Vicente Gomez, ruler of the country for a quarter century. The man driving , talking knowingly of the countryside, was Juan Vicente Zerpa, general manager of the most popular professional baseball team in Venezuela, Los Leones de Caracas, and husband of my second cousin, Sabina. I spent much of the day before with his children, Juan-chi and Juan-V, teaching them of Biomes, life cycles, pollution and oil (they had a test fast approaching). We passed through mountains where fires were set and left, seemingly unmaned, to burn a perfect bed for Sugar Cane. Besides the mountains, only one thing stood out: The factories. We, in the United States, have the impression (or no impression at all) that Venezuela is a place where poor men and women sell chiclet on the roadside and  ride a rickety bus blasting spanish rap to buy tortillas for their meager dinner of Frijoles Negros. Venezuela is full of industry, roads and traffic lights (They even have round-abouts!). It is so industrialized that one barely notices the favelas that spill like a horrendous hawaiian shirt over the outskirts of the cities.
We arrived in Maracay where unlike Caracas, whose climate is tempered by the mountains, the temperature soared to 35*C. I entered an apartment on the ~8th floor of a nicely decorated building (very modern) of a family of family. Slowly, The Uncles of my Cousin, Sabina, trickled in... or should I say exploded. I stood with caution, unsure of the customs until a glass of champagne was forced in my hand. In that moment I sensed what was happening, and I relaxed. "Drink" they said and I quickly obliged.
I took a couple moments to watch the group carrying glasses of Scotch Whisky (12-18 years old), each with a single paper napkin wrapped around the glass. A cousin of my cousin, a dentist, approached me to misdiagnos a problem with my tooth asking me how to say "necrosis" in english. I said "si necrosis" and promptly held my hand to my mouth, hiding a tooth that, too my knoweldge, is alive and well. I was asked by Arkangel, a man who studied forestry in Meria, to speak of the insect order Coleoptera, which he mistated as being moths (Lepidoptera). Finally, I sat next to another of the troublesome brothers. He said to be very careful in Merida because there are many beautiful women there. He proceeded to tap the top of his head indicating what would mean "wear a hat" in any other conversation. "Entiendes" he asked. "Pienso" I replied. I had no idea what he meant, for it is a big jump to assume that tapping one's head means "where a condom." But that is what I took from the conversation, and I am glad to say that it is advice I hope to follow some day.

Un Poquito Mas De La Familia Venezolana

La Posibilidad de una Eleccion Presidencial

The taxi we took from the airport to Caracas quickly stopped for gas. Sitting next to the pump I watched the meter tick up from 10 liters to 20 to 30 until stopping at 40 liters. The cost: 8 bolivares. If one were to exchange American dollars on the black market, as many people do to avoid the foreign currency controls imposed by the government, they might recieve ~16 BS./ Dol. This adds up to gasoline that costs about 7 cents/ gallon or less. The driver said "es la unica beneficio de ser un venezolano".

Lea and I drove for 3 hours through the traffic of Caracas, where the roads were better than those in Maine, speaking to our fair-haired chauffeur about this and that. Suddenly, while passing the airport that is reserved for the president and other diplomats, she spoke with indignation of Chavez's flight to Cuba the night before. "Wasterful Liar!" she said in Spanish. "He says this and that, but he does nothing, just fills his pockets." I thought nothing of the news, afterall, what is wrong with a follow-up with your doctor after repeated surgeries for cancer.

Skip ahead to this evening. Tia Berta y yo, after a dinner of Mero (Grouper) and watery beer in Hotillo (un pueblo adentro de Caracas), spoke as she washed the dishes. I leaned, suave, over the dish rack and listened as she explained her, let us say, "opposition" to Chavez. Twenty minutes later she scampered from her room, her robe barely intact, shouting, "He rezado y, dios, me contaste". She turned on the television and I saw quickly the headline that Chavez once again has cancer, and he is preparing, if his health does not improve, to step down from power. If he were to do so there would be an election 30 days after his retirement and, if such an event were to occur, his vice president, Nicolas Maduro, would run on the Bolivarian Party ticket. As it happens, Nicolas Maduro was a conductor of a Caracas Metro train before he became vice president. At this moment, I am sure he is looking down at his hands wondering when this dream will end. He pinches himself and thinks "this is still real?"

My heart is racing from the news. I have done nothing, yet the feeling I have as my great aunt jumps up and down clutching the front of her robe is of revolution. Yet of what kind? A revolution where the capitalism and conservatism displaces socialism and progress? I don't think so. It is that I feel, in so short a time, being Venezuelan is no longer a matter of history (of my mother and some distant immigration to the west) but of the present. The revolution is not political, but internal. More quickly than I could have ever have imagined, I am becoming Venezuelan, and I have family to prove it. I have been welcome around every corner. Offered food, love and time both left and right. There are names that have been stored deep in memory that are appearing, once again, in droves. Yes, I will see a presidencial election in Venezuela, but I wonder when it comes whether I too will have some choices of my own.


Frase del dia: "Huevos sin sal" - This is a phrase particular to Tia Berta. It was used to describe someone with a bland personality. There is also the conotation of huevos (balls) with no flavor, a man with masculinitym, a man without salty.......you know...... balls.....

Un Poquito de la familia Venezolana

Juanchi

Tia Berta

Juan-V

Yo

Miami: A Turd Next to a Phone booth.... a $3 Coffee

Miami, as the obviously-gay man on the bus to boston described it, is a "sexy" city. One would never know that Boston is of similar size when Miami is so full of towering, glass-filled, balcony-burdened buildings. Miami has an Urban populace of ~5 million (8th largest in the U.S.... Boston is 10th), and when I first arrived here, it took two hours to hear my first word of English.
Lea Stagno (pronounced "staño" like "estaño", the spanish word for "tin", an exploited resource of Brasil), picked me up from the airport. She and her husband, Agustin, live on the 26th (the top floor) near or in midtown Miami (see below for photos). Lea is small and welcoming and very pretty. Her husband makes me laugh. Agustin always scolds me for being concerned with trivial matters. When I woke today, he was standing nearby, packing for our trip in the morning. I said "Qué hora es?" and his reply was that I should not worry of such things, and that I should only concern myself with the cycles of the Sun and the Moon.
They have also served to excite me immensely. They're love of Venezuela is palpable. They talk of the food as though it were a child, embellishing it's merits. The landscape of venezuela they described as "god's canvass" where he decided to put the entirety of his favorite things within the confines of a single country. Best of all, they both seem to feel that Mérida is the greatest city in Venezuela, though the people of Caracas consider it, as they apparently do with all "gente del interior", a town of simple people. A small town of 300,000 people (Portland, Me = 66,000 people). Finally, I went out with Lea for a drink near an art gallery where we tried and failed to enter without a V.I.P pass. I met a small group of Venezuelans she considers friends. One each from Maracaibo, Valencia, and Caracas. I somehow managed to dance in a room full of idle folk for most of the evening; a trait, I learned, that is typical of my cousin. Somehow these things stick ever so tightly to our DNA.

Pun of the Day: "I really do prefer the open air markets. Compared to the grocer, they can really seem Bazaar."

La Frase del Día: -"No Entiendo un Carajo".....gracias LuLu.

Dos Ciudades, Una Semana y Una Más Para Ver