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.