We practically had the beach to ourselves this time, as it was mid-afternoon on a weekday, and kids are still in school. I got in the water with the girls. It was beautifully cool. The few fishing boats just a bit further north of us were anchored maybe only 40 feet out. The beach is a sweeping crescent at the farthest inland edge of the bay. The palm trees that sit back from the surf grow by sweeping outward toward the water, then upward toward the sun. Most of the little cafes, closed for the day, are built right around the tree trunks. One, where we ate last visit all those years ago, built its thatched awning over the dining area with strategic holes to allow the plams to grow through it. You dine with the beach sand beween your toes.
The town of Pampatar hides behind its ancient stone fortress, just a bit south of the beach, where once upon a time Spanish soldiers watched for pirate ships, and later Venezuelan patriots watched for Spanish war ships. It's a small fortress, but its turrets are lovingly restored, and the battlement walls still give you a sweeping view of the green and blue sea to the east.
The hills above the beach and the pier we took the picture on are now lined with six and seven story resort hotels, but looking up from the beach, it doesn't look so bad. They are fairy new and nicely colored to blend with nature.
DOGS
We had the company of three stray dogs along the beach. Not that they were very keen to join us, and rather looked pleased just to have some space to be left alone. Strays down here are all too common, usually mid sized dogs who at some point probably got slightly too be to be cute and slightly too big for the food budget, and were let loose somewhere. The girls are dog lovers, so they noticed the presence of the strays right away, in the ferry terinal in Puerto La Cruz. A stray had taken to following one of the luggage carts back and forth, and was promptly booted out of a doorway from another man with a swift kick. Now, I don't know if one gets used to stray dogs, but I've certainly become accostumed to them in traveling South America - I still remember the bizarre street scene in Perú when men threw buckets of water on two strays who had "amorously connected" and could not unconnect. But at this rough dispatchment of the stray from the ferry terminal door, Sofi recoiled.
"Why did he DO that?!" she pleaded, to which I answered with one of those politically correct, babble-speak answers that make me cringe when I hear them coming out of my own mouth: "Well, in some parts of the world, people don't respect animals the way they do in other countires such as ours ..."
What does that mean to a nine year old?
Fortunately, she remembered the question for when she met up with her grandfather in Porlamar. His answer was more direct: some irresponsible people get dogs when they're cute and cheap and then they get tired of them. So they dump them somewhere and they become strays. Now they are dirty and sick and nobody wants them. End of story.
Our neighborhood is filled with dogs, but not strays, save for the 15 rescued strays that belong to the woman who lives next door. The rest are guard dogs whose deep, gravely barks can be heard late at night, and small pets like Mara's miniature poodle, whose yappings can be heard from all points of the street at all hours. Actually, I exaggerate. Most of the pets are cute and sweet, and not all that noisy. The guard dogs are hidden in the back of most houses, and they scare me, frankly, so I don't know much about them!
THE SUPER MARKET
There was a stray dog in front of the supermarket we visited last night, too, a very tired one because he curled up right in the main exit and nothing woke him for quite a while. This was at one of the island's large chain supermarkets, of which there are two in Venezueala, such as Schnuck's and Dierberg's in St. Louis, or Safeway and Albertsons elsewhere. This particular location is huge, with an enormous cheese counter right in the middle and an equally large meat counter at the back. The girls pointed out some of the interesting differences between this market and the Schnuck's back home, such as there being no Parrot food at Schnuck's. They also didn't have the huge piles of raw meat, whole sections of cow, in the meat department at home. Nor were the cheeses as fragrant. Warm air doesn't seep into the store and create condensation on every glass-fronted cooling cabinet. Also, there is no such thing as "long duration milk" at home, (but it's delicious here, if you can forgive a slightly yellow tinge to it).
We did manage to find Heinz Ketchup, however, and bought four bottles (yes, glass bottles) because Mara said they don't see it that often. Whatsmore, Sofi uses ketchup like I used Tobasco sauce in Japan: any food you're unsure of can be made palatable with an overgenerous dousing ofthe condiment of your choice. I'm glad that Heinz ketchup is so precious to we Americans that we have designated a senator to protect it specifically.
As I sat outside with the girls sipping soda while we waited for Norka and Mara to finish, a few hard questions came, and I'm still not exactly sure how to answer them, politically correct or not. Why is the supermarket so dirty? What about hygiene? Why does it look so disorganized? Why were all the milk and cheese products left out and not refrigerated? Why so many security guards at the door?
We talked a lot about coastal and desert climes, petty crime, a smattering of reasons and causes. I think my parents will remember me asking the same questions when I was the age of Gina and Sofi and traveling in Perú. Not only did it seem unfair in the universal sense (why do people suffer at all? Why do we let them? Why do we let ourselves?), but in another way it seemed personally insulting, really. I mean, we can do better than THAT, can't we, hermanos? If I'm going to call myself Peruvian or Colombian or Venezuelan, then I'm going to have some expectations of my cultural fellows, you know?
The disparities between the haves and have-nots display themselves in sharp relief in Latin America, and even a young traveler (or any traveler with a heart) raised in our Land of Plenty to the North will notice them quickly. Gina and Sofi have both been very accepting of the existence of these differences, have noted them, and have brought them up in sincere conversation. I am eternally surprised by their curiosity and insight.
The answers - the real answers - will come only as the girls grow to understand both their cultures and how these cultures have developed over a long time. Then they will come to their own conclusions.
So seven days into the trip, Margarita is striking me just as Caracas did: older, dustier, a little more tired in places, but still showing flashes of paradise when viewed through the right lense.
"Why did he DO that?!" she pleaded, to which I answered with one of those politically correct, babble-speak answers that make me cringe when I hear them coming out of my own mouth: "Well, in some parts of the world, people don't respect animals the way they do in other countires such as ours ..."
What does that mean to a nine year old?
Fortunately, she remembered the question for when she met up with her grandfather in Porlamar. His answer was more direct: some irresponsible people get dogs when they're cute and cheap and then they get tired of them. So they dump them somewhere and they become strays. Now they are dirty and sick and nobody wants them. End of story.
Our neighborhood is filled with dogs, but not strays, save for the 15 rescued strays that belong to the woman who lives next door. The rest are guard dogs whose deep, gravely barks can be heard late at night, and small pets like Mara's miniature poodle, whose yappings can be heard from all points of the street at all hours. Actually, I exaggerate. Most of the pets are cute and sweet, and not all that noisy. The guard dogs are hidden in the back of most houses, and they scare me, frankly, so I don't know much about them!
THE SUPER MARKET
There was a stray dog in front of the supermarket we visited last night, too, a very tired one because he curled up right in the main exit and nothing woke him for quite a while. This was at one of the island's large chain supermarkets, of which there are two in Venezueala, such as Schnuck's and Dierberg's in St. Louis, or Safeway and Albertsons elsewhere. This particular location is huge, with an enormous cheese counter right in the middle and an equally large meat counter at the back. The girls pointed out some of the interesting differences between this market and the Schnuck's back home, such as there being no Parrot food at Schnuck's. They also didn't have the huge piles of raw meat, whole sections of cow, in the meat department at home. Nor were the cheeses as fragrant. Warm air doesn't seep into the store and create condensation on every glass-fronted cooling cabinet. Also, there is no such thing as "long duration milk" at home, (but it's delicious here, if you can forgive a slightly yellow tinge to it).
We did manage to find Heinz Ketchup, however, and bought four bottles (yes, glass bottles) because Mara said they don't see it that often. Whatsmore, Sofi uses ketchup like I used Tobasco sauce in Japan: any food you're unsure of can be made palatable with an overgenerous dousing ofthe condiment of your choice. I'm glad that Heinz ketchup is so precious to we Americans that we have designated a senator to protect it specifically.
As I sat outside with the girls sipping soda while we waited for Norka and Mara to finish, a few hard questions came, and I'm still not exactly sure how to answer them, politically correct or not. Why is the supermarket so dirty? What about hygiene? Why does it look so disorganized? Why were all the milk and cheese products left out and not refrigerated? Why so many security guards at the door?
We talked a lot about coastal and desert climes, petty crime, a smattering of reasons and causes. I think my parents will remember me asking the same questions when I was the age of Gina and Sofi and traveling in Perú. Not only did it seem unfair in the universal sense (why do people suffer at all? Why do we let them? Why do we let ourselves?), but in another way it seemed personally insulting, really. I mean, we can do better than THAT, can't we, hermanos? If I'm going to call myself Peruvian or Colombian or Venezuelan, then I'm going to have some expectations of my cultural fellows, you know?
The disparities between the haves and have-nots display themselves in sharp relief in Latin America, and even a young traveler (or any traveler with a heart) raised in our Land of Plenty to the North will notice them quickly. Gina and Sofi have both been very accepting of the existence of these differences, have noted them, and have brought them up in sincere conversation. I am eternally surprised by their curiosity and insight.
The answers - the real answers - will come only as the girls grow to understand both their cultures and how these cultures have developed over a long time. Then they will come to their own conclusions.
So seven days into the trip, Margarita is striking me just as Caracas did: older, dustier, a little more tired in places, but still showing flashes of paradise when viewed through the right lense.
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