The sound of Jackals picking apart a carcass floats in through the bedroom window. A group of dogs are tearing, with frightening proximity, into the trash outside, and I can them dragging plastic containers across the pavement with a ghoulish rattle. Their desperate, gluttonous growls remind me, not of the kind-looking, timid creatures I see in the daytime, but of a deformed, pitiful devils with sagging breasts, mange and crooked spines. I actually don't see why they're fighting. In Mérida, there is a feud between the sanitation workers and the goverment, and disposable trash (pun intended) sits waiting on most every corner. Mérida was once the cleanest city in Venezuela, but now, driving in front of the densely packed ranchos (favelas), a bags run the length of the neighborhood. Everyday in Caracas I saw people in government garb cleaning the streets, and still it was dirty. Here, hundreds of miles from the federal governments buttressed abode, there is less impetus for beautification. Old advertisements stick to the sidewalk like papier-måche. Plastic cups and cutlery are scatter at base of each metal trash can. These features, however, hardly define the city. Sure, some buildings may seem like ramparts and new is not the norm. Yet as I approach El Centro (downtown) my imagination soars as the exhausted "keh-puah" and rattle of buses fill the air. While some complain of the city's deterioration, I revel in its rawness. The stained walls of buildings are not flaws but ancient book ends that may yield a quadrillion undiscovered fictions, the bottles a testament to the happy drunkards that huddle in the street outside the licorerías.
I rode one of the city buses today after searching for work at nearby language schools where they offered me a starting pay of ~90¢ per hour (which includes the extra 10¢/hr in a food stipend from the federal government). To shake the idea of such an atrocious salary, I rode to the Mercado Principal. El Mercado is a four-floor, indoor bazaar, packed with sellers of salt-cod and tropical fruits, maracas, clothes, nuts, and anchovies . The floors are cement and the ceiling, hidden by the hanging wares, seems to hardly exist. I bought tomatoes and potatoes from a lazy-lidded man whose careless grumble left me guessing his prices, yogurt from a woman younger than I that called me "amor", and an empanada from a booth that had the milky-blue eyeballs of a cow floating in vat atop the counter.
Acting as a symbol of my time in Venezuela, the bus ride back was jolting. We, like the Knight Bus, squeezed magically into miniscule gaps in the traffic, slammed the brakes when the car in front stopped, and while the bus driver sang along with tacky love songs, I realized I was not even on the right bus to get back home. As I started my long walk towards the house, I undoubtedly loved my burdensome bags I won in a fearful struggle against the hurdles presented as a foreigner in a foreign city. I feel the same as the dogs outside that have fallen silent, whose messy struggle led to a full belly and absolute contentment.
Frase Del Día: Provocar
Everyday I could use this phrase, "Me provoca Helado", "Me provoca una cervecita" "me provoca toda la comida del mundo". That is to say "I am craving" a hundred things and always must resist, at least some of the time.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
Quizás, Quizás, Quizás
I woke to the timid voice of Marihermina, coaxing me from a dream where I was being chased by a dog. "Piero is en-route to Zea" she told me, "and he will be here in 20 minutes". I was drinking Coffee and reading Hojas de Hierba when Piero arrived with his son Pietro, and we set off, with the company of David, to the town of Zea (~2.5 hours). We were traveling to Zea to learn how to make Miche, an liquor andina with taste of ouzo and the alcohol content of aguardiente.
In the front seat, David and Piero argued the politics of a potential coup d'etat, and I happily named the dates of every Venezuelan golpe de estado I could remember (1945, 1948, 1957, 1958, 1992, 2001). David, a romantic in all ways, spoke of the heart of the revolution, and the burgeoning spirtuality of the Venezuelan youth that back the Bolivarian Revolution. Piero, who at 75 was more than twice the age of David, was less optimistic and less abstract. While David was bouncing with excitement at each thought, Piero was almost stereotypical in his miserly dismissals David's youthful optimism.
In the twenty minutes of listening to their chatter, I had passed, unnoticed, from the green hills of Mérida to the bare cliffs (barrancos) and cacti to the West. All was orange except the river banks that bloomed with a perfect single-file line of bananas and, where it widened, with sugar cane that was being piled into the back of a truck. On each side of the road sheer rock and dirt stood ominously over the road, and ever hill bore the marks of erosion.
And we returned, just as quickly, into greenery, the conversation turning to the effects of MDMT, LSD, marijuanna, and a slew of other elicit substances. We passed Cows that grazed the river banks and the mountains were covered with crops on 30 degree slopes. I stuck my head out the window and heard the dried grass rustle in the wind from our car. All was well when we arrived at the site of Miche elaboración (please see pictures for actual details, I am tired of writing and the others are waiting patiently for my return)
In the front seat, David and Piero argued the politics of a potential coup d'etat, and I happily named the dates of every Venezuelan golpe de estado I could remember (1945, 1948, 1957, 1958, 1992, 2001). David, a romantic in all ways, spoke of the heart of the revolution, and the burgeoning spirtuality of the Venezuelan youth that back the Bolivarian Revolution. Piero, who at 75 was more than twice the age of David, was less optimistic and less abstract. While David was bouncing with excitement at each thought, Piero was almost stereotypical in his miserly dismissals David's youthful optimism.
In the twenty minutes of listening to their chatter, I had passed, unnoticed, from the green hills of Mérida to the bare cliffs (barrancos) and cacti to the West. All was orange except the river banks that bloomed with a perfect single-file line of bananas and, where it widened, with sugar cane that was being piled into the back of a truck. On each side of the road sheer rock and dirt stood ominously over the road, and ever hill bore the marks of erosion.
And we returned, just as quickly, into greenery, the conversation turning to the effects of MDMT, LSD, marijuanna, and a slew of other elicit substances. We passed Cows that grazed the river banks and the mountains were covered with crops on 30 degree slopes. I stuck my head out the window and heard the dried grass rustle in the wind from our car. All was well when we arrived at the site of Miche elaboración (please see pictures for actual details, I am tired of writing and the others are waiting patiently for my return)
Frase Del Día: Piel de Gallina
It may come as a surprise, but I have used it many times here in Mérida. It is as it looks... "goose-bumps"
It may come as a surprise, but I have used it many times here in Mérida. It is as it looks... "goose-bumps"
Monday, January 7, 2013
"Close your windows. This place is Lonely"
Maria Herminia Matos has lived in the same apartment
for 39 years. There are not specific features that define the place. A
coutryard in the back holds tiny garden beds built into concrete. There is a yard (patio) where I sit to read below the citrus trees and watch the ants rasp the flesh on my
arm, digging for food. There is a piano; there is an odd, pink, toilet-like
thing in the bathroom that I assume is only for woman. There are tile floors,
and every wall is plastered with her daughters’ paintings.
Mariherminia' speaks softly and twitters, high-pitched, like a song-bird. I am continually admonished by her for my lack of cleanliness. New rules have become integral parts of my daily life: wearing slippers (pantuflas); washing my hands when I touch my slippers; washing my hands when I consider touching my slippers; washing dishes in specific orders (cups, plates, silverware, pans, counters). All this to great applause when done correctly ("he's learning!") and dramatic cries of "NO!" when I forget. The daughters deride her rule ridden household, yet they too are part of the chorus which guides my conduct building a cacophonous symphony to alert me of my ill-doings.
Of course, I am now accostumed to their songs (The "Wrong Dish Towel" requiem in Bb Minor), and I find joy in the process. Their criticisms are not reserved for me but compose the fabric of a household full to bursting with intelligent, indpendent women. Critiques are given and recieved with equal joy, just as the laughter that follows is given and recieved. The result: perfect harmony in the kitchen. No dishes await doing, and nobody need wonder if the spice on their eggs is grime from the guest's pantuflas.
The only problem is that I am not yet perfectly integrated into their routine and am prone to fits of self-consciousness. The criticism that I throw back at myself, however, does not last for long and I am soon reassimilating into the mix, stirring a simmering pan of beef for arancini or pounding arepas to the perfect shape and thickness. In this house, I am recieving help, advice and affection without limits and if I for a moment feel poorly, it only a desire to give back with the same ardor with which I recieve, and my growing ponch hangs as proof of my endowment.
Of course, I am now accostumed to their songs (The "Wrong Dish Towel" requiem in Bb Minor), and I find joy in the process. Their criticisms are not reserved for me but compose the fabric of a household full to bursting with intelligent, indpendent women. Critiques are given and recieved with equal joy, just as the laughter that follows is given and recieved. The result: perfect harmony in the kitchen. No dishes await doing, and nobody need wonder if the spice on their eggs is grime from the guest's pantuflas.
The only problem is that I am not yet perfectly integrated into their routine and am prone to fits of self-consciousness. The criticism that I throw back at myself, however, does not last for long and I am soon reassimilating into the mix, stirring a simmering pan of beef for arancini or pounding arepas to the perfect shape and thickness. In this house, I am recieving help, advice and affection without limits and if I for a moment feel poorly, it only a desire to give back with the same ardor with which I recieve, and my growing ponch hangs as proof of my endowment.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
La Papa Magica
Yes, these last few days have left their
ailments: heinous hernias, bubbling burns, knocked around knees. This morning,
as my stomach tied its first knot, I knew today would be no exception. The
worst of this affliction is the source of its aggravation: Food. Food to me is
not only sustenance but inspiration; a tantalizing beacon in the distance, like
a holy grail, always seeming a lifetime away. Food to me is the pleasure I must
always put off ‘til marriage so that our coming together will be sacred and, undoubtedly,
full of unimagined pleasure. The moon to me is no more than a English muffin
that sings a graceful lullaby to quell my anxiety and tuck me in, saying
tomorrow holds innumerable possibilities (pancakes, eggs, arepas, coffee, beans,
tortillas, juices and meats, veggies and dressings, Breakfast, lunch and
dinner). For no matter what happened today, there is always breakfast tomorrow.
Each meal must be contemplated and schemed perfectly, peered at with keenly
focused intensity so that every bite might come to fruition with the same spectacular
explosion as the bite before and the bite that will follow. And when this
exhaustive process is complete, I peer at my empty plate with regret,
criticizing every moment of distraction, every crumb of gods work that went
unappreciated (also called gluttony (gula)),
for at that moment of completion, with no more to eat, I believe the next few
hours between this meal and the next will be my demise.
Such
as it is, every meal is my life and my death, my hope and the annihilation of
my hope, the reason I maintain my composure throughout the day and the reason I
lose it. Thus today, when eating should be the source of my discomfort, I am
most disposed to misery. My source for joy and inspiration has gone, and with
no food to look forward to I wander the desserts of solitude in dismay, praying
for liberation as I eat yogurt and mashed potatoes, spasmodically running to
the bathroom for relief.
The only activity for which I could drag
myself away from my pouting was to talk to the tourists that bought alcohol
from the family business. The store is attached to the house above with an
appearance reminiscent of a storeroom rather than an actual store. Piero
Stagno, the fit 70 pico, white haired
Italian father of the family, sells the dozens of liquors and wines within that
he produces in la finca gavillan.
Every day cars pass in front of our house to purchase ciocolatto, amaretto,
Limoncello, Milano, Whiskey, licor de mora, vino de mora(dulce, y seco), mermelada
de mora, vinagre de mora, siropo de mora, Grappa de mora and more. I even
considered sending a bottle of coffee liquor he made back to Maine in a showing
of solidarity.
While I was above speaking to the clients about the process of making wines, the son of Piero, Pietro, was working behind the counter. Pietro was imitating an accent from the Bask region of Spain while I struggled to speak in my thick Gringo accent. The clients thought these two crazy crackers were playing a cruel joke and asked if we had been trying the liquors. Pietro ignored the comment and looked to me, smiling knowingly and used some outlandish, Castilian phrase he learned from the internet to kvetch of our ungrateful guests, and I did not understand a word of what he was saying. I did my best to put myself in the shoes of our patrons, but gave up rather quickly. Such peculiarities were not so easily imagined, especially since I was already running, once again, towards a bathroom.
While I was above speaking to the clients about the process of making wines, the son of Piero, Pietro, was working behind the counter. Pietro was imitating an accent from the Bask region of Spain while I struggled to speak in my thick Gringo accent. The clients thought these two crazy crackers were playing a cruel joke and asked if we had been trying the liquors. Pietro ignored the comment and looked to me, smiling knowingly and used some outlandish, Castilian phrase he learned from the internet to kvetch of our ungrateful guests, and I did not understand a word of what he was saying. I did my best to put myself in the shoes of our patrons, but gave up rather quickly. Such peculiarities were not so easily imagined, especially since I was already running, once again, towards a bathroom.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Las Canciones Folklóricas
Thus my survival is maintained by nothing short of a myriad
of miracles. They are moments that last for hours on end, like the giant
bonfires (fugatas) and fireworks from
New Years Eve whose abundance gave me nightmares of a burning countryside, or
wandering the Mercado Principal,
buying fruits, sugar, flour and various other items without cringing in shame.
There is the music we played on the first day of the year on a Cuatro (traditional Venezuelan
instrument that is half guitar, half ukulele) and I was able to play violin.
The long stints of cooking that keep me occupied or reading a wonderful
translation of Leaves of Grass (Hojas de
Hierbas) by Jorge Luis Borges. The small moments too are my aliments, where
an image of the landscape is fixed in my mind as if taken from the lens of my
camera: The dead tree atop a hill with a shaggy mane of Spanish mass and the
giant epiphyte, perched atop the smallest branch that left me wondering in
which century I live (for there are no houses in sight).
No regular schedule defines my merits, and a small cauldron
of bubbling words must be drawn from carefully to string together any semblance
of effective communication. But taking store of 22 years, and nearly 8000 days
of waking everyday without exception to the same problems of expression and
defining my direction and always finding such moments, give me, as I sit on a
cushion licking my wounds, hope in perpetuity.
Frase Del Día: Salud,
Amor, y Dinero
Every New Years, as El
Muñeco del Año Nuevo burns sadly alone on the ground, emitting the bursts of firecrackers, three paper balloons propelled by a
kerosene soaked rags are released into the air. The first represents salud or good health and ours rose happily towards Tabay. The second amor, was not so promisig and fell on the roof some few feet away. The third, Dinero (cash-money), fell very like love before. Thus we watched the silhouettes of our hopes for love and
money descend through the night sky. I will assume that the health we can
expect in the year to come from the first balloons success pertains only to
physical health and willnegate mental
health altogether.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Praprá
David, Laura, Lea, Francesca and I dressed up to go out. David sported a brown leather jacket, all the women looked elegant, and I wore my Grandfather’s moleskin jacket tailored in 1964. The occasion was the celebration of the Christmas holiday where all the people from Mérida return from music schools in Boston and New York, the high rises of Miami and the metropolis of Tokyo to their mountain city. The restaurant we attended was sparkling, each minutiae of the design a testament to pop art: paintings of Technicolored house pets (think Cheshire cat) with human mouth and eyes painted on their chests; a wall with 3-D arrows; chairs that, though interesting, were ultimately impractical. The food was expensive (Salmon in orange sauce for 180 BS. ($13) was the cheapest item), their menu included something called mesclun and the live music was provided by a jazz trio trained at University College NY and Berkley. I sat across from David who bemoaned, as he rocked to the music, his unfulfilled desire for beer (the restaurant sold only wine). People came and went with explosive greetings as David and I conspired to find another source of beer, which we did at a pizzeria four blocks away. As I walked and drank in the street with David at 10 p.m., we talked of politics. I jokingly assured David that only after deciding that writing poetry was a tough business did Barack Obama become a politician and in reality he would like nothing more than to sneak beer into a fancy Whitehouse dinner. To the disapprobation of the woman in the group, we returned with more in our pockets and found our tepid food on the table, having arrived ten minutes before.
The following night we went out again, this time to the colonial homes in a different section of the city. The walls of clay and gravel of the remodeled houses span a meter wide while great beams of wood converged and crossed to a courtyard square that left the full moon in view. Outside the restaurant where the same jazz band was playing, we waited for innumerable friends of Laura whose occupations of classical pianists, translators, filmmakers and clothing designers left my tongue somewhat twisted. They and we left the restaurant to a home of a famous filmmaker whose hair and nose and occupation screamed Jewish but in reality just gets a regular perm and has an unusually large nose. I spoke for a time with a professor of art history about Simon Bolivar, saying occasionally, “interesting… the evening is quite beautiful…. I am from Maine… Do you know Maine?” or mentioning, since it always guarantees a gasp of interest, that “the temperature back home is -15*C”.
The city of Mérida is bustling with young people, containing Venezuela’s largest and greatest university. The art scene here is alive and vibrant and laughs in the face of the dangers that restrict so many to the confines of their guarded homes. They are radiating from this small Venezuelan city to all points in the world, and trust my luck to find the people in the middle of it, reassuring me of my location and renewing my resolution.
Frase Del Día: Muñeco Del Año Viejo
Every few hundred feet on the street, several children come begging for coins. Behind each is a dummy with clothes stuffed with straw. The children ask for money so that they might replace the straw (pasto) with fireworks and on this day, the 31st of December, destroy the last year to make room for the new. When I said that sound dangerous, the others in the car said, “Of Course” and continued searching the radio. The drunkards in the town like to dress up like the Muñecos, guilting passersby into giving money for the next round.
The following night we went out again, this time to the colonial homes in a different section of the city. The walls of clay and gravel of the remodeled houses span a meter wide while great beams of wood converged and crossed to a courtyard square that left the full moon in view. Outside the restaurant where the same jazz band was playing, we waited for innumerable friends of Laura whose occupations of classical pianists, translators, filmmakers and clothing designers left my tongue somewhat twisted. They and we left the restaurant to a home of a famous filmmaker whose hair and nose and occupation screamed Jewish but in reality just gets a regular perm and has an unusually large nose. I spoke for a time with a professor of art history about Simon Bolivar, saying occasionally, “interesting… the evening is quite beautiful…. I am from Maine… Do you know Maine?” or mentioning, since it always guarantees a gasp of interest, that “the temperature back home is -15*C”.
The city of Mérida is bustling with young people, containing Venezuela’s largest and greatest university. The art scene here is alive and vibrant and laughs in the face of the dangers that restrict so many to the confines of their guarded homes. They are radiating from this small Venezuelan city to all points in the world, and trust my luck to find the people in the middle of it, reassuring me of my location and renewing my resolution.
Frase Del Día: Muñeco Del Año Viejo
Every few hundred feet on the street, several children come begging for coins. Behind each is a dummy with clothes stuffed with straw. The children ask for money so that they might replace the straw (pasto) with fireworks and on this day, the 31st of December, destroy the last year to make room for the new. When I said that sound dangerous, the others in the car said, “Of Course” and continued searching the radio. The drunkards in the town like to dress up like the Muñecos, guilting passersby into giving money for the next round.
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