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.
xoxoxoxomama
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