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!