Between Delta and American, they only lost two of five checked bags. I suppose a 60% completion rate isn't bad ... for a mediocre high school quarterback! But to their credit, both airlines forwarded the bags to Margarita Island, where we are staying now.
Yes, there IS such a place as "Margarita Island." It is also known as Nueva Esparta, one of the 17 states of Venezuela. It is a Free Port, and a destination for Latin and Eurpoean tourists. Grea beaches on the east and north, an everglade to explore on the west, and a giant rain forest mountain in the middle. It is one of the earliest european-inhabited sites on the Old Spanish Main, with colonists dating back over 450 years.
I met my beautiful wife here, in a toy store by the supermarket where I used to treat myself to an imported 3 Musketeers bar every Monday when I was a missionary here in 1986. I saw the woman who introduced us last night, the store manager at the time. The toy store closed seven years ago when the owner died.
It's really hot here. Humid as all get out. But at night the sea breezes brush over the island and it is paradise under a half moon.
Trains, Planes, Automobiles, and Ships: How To Get To Margarita
Planes
First, planes. After our friend Julie dropped us off at Lambert Field (thanks Julie!), we did the check-in and security gauntlet. What a process. If the goal was to make air travel as unpleasant as possible, the U.S. government and the airlines have succeeded.At least at the beginning. Once you get on the plane, it is not terrible. Norka and the girls stopped once, in Atlanta, and I stopped twice, in Atlanta and Miami. Ate half of the worst Chicken Ceasar wrap in the world in the MIA airport. Should have just waited for the meal on American. not bad at all! Okay, it is small, but let us remember we are hurtling through the sky in a hollow aluminum tube five miles above the surface of the Earth at 82% of the speed of sound and watching a movie while eating, so let's not complain too bitterly about the miracle of flight, okay? (Although something better than Jim Carrey in Yes Man might have been okay).
The airport in Caracas is beautiful. Spotless, really, but the welcome is a little off-putting because our plane was met by two people in full medical scrubs, latex gloves and white surgical masks to hand out little questionnaires asking whether we had any of the following symptoms of "La Infuenza Porcina." You guessed it: The Swine Flu follows Americans around like a bad reputation. Now, I had picked this week to catch a hellacious cold - most likely from getting caught in the rain after a Memorial Day Flag Retirement ceremony - so I had every symptom on the list: fever, congestion, headache, etc. Naturally, I checked the NO box for everything (how much of my trip do I want to spend in quarantine? Anyhow, I feel completely better now).
There's a great big banner that towers over the cavernous hall where we form the lines for customs. It features a benevolent, smiling Hugo Chavez, and says "Venezuela ¡De verdad!" whch can be translated as either "The True Venezuela" or "Venezuela. Really!" I thought I'd reserve judgment on that one, but it was nice to see Chavez's arms open wide in welcome, even for us Americans.
The airport in Caracas is beautiful. Spotless, really, but the welcome is a little off-putting because our plane was met by two people in full medical scrubs, latex gloves and white surgical masks to hand out little questionnaires asking whether we had any of the following symptoms of "La Infuenza Porcina." You guessed it: The Swine Flu follows Americans around like a bad reputation. Now, I had picked this week to catch a hellacious cold - most likely from getting caught in the rain after a Memorial Day Flag Retirement ceremony - so I had every symptom on the list: fever, congestion, headache, etc. Naturally, I checked the NO box for everything (how much of my trip do I want to spend in quarantine? Anyhow, I feel completely better now).
There's a great big banner that towers over the cavernous hall where we form the lines for customs. It features a benevolent, smiling Hugo Chavez, and says "Venezuela ¡De verdad!" whch can be translated as either "The True Venezuela" or "Venezuela. Really!" I thought I'd reserve judgment on that one, but it was nice to see Chavez's arms open wide in welcome, even for us Americans.
Trains
We stayed a night with friends of in-laws in Caracas, then took and adventurous train ride in the Caracs Metro, west toward the older part of the city, to exchange money. The official exchange rate is - well, let me start at the begining. One of the Chavez government{s many changes has been a change in currency. Instead of Bolivares, the country now uses Bolivares Fuertes, or Strong Bolivares. You can still use old Bolivares, but they are 1,000 old Bolivares to each Bolivar Fuerte. To make things more confusing, the banks refer to the Fuertes using a decimal point. But as many of you may know from Latin or European countries, our comma is their decimal point and vice versa. So while the bank will tell you the exchange rate is 2.144 Bolivares Fuertes to the dollar, the people on the street will call it 2,144 (old) Bolivares to the dollar. And anyhow, that's the official rate. Everyone from the guy offering you a taxi at the airport to family friends (if ya got 'em!) will offer you between 5,000 and 6,000 to the dollar.
So it was precisely the search for this kind of deal that took us to La Hoyada, the very subway stop that I used during my four months in downtown Caracas as a missionary. Back then, the Metro was only a few years old and still had that new subway car smell. It was also never crowded, as only the one east-west line was in use. That has all changed now! I can only compare our ride to taking the trains inTokyo: wall to wall people. And if you are not able to grag a rail or handhold, no problem. The pressure of the bodies around you will hold you up. It was during one of these full-contact moments when Norka had a laughing fit. The loudspeaker announed "Strong Delays" as stood on the motionless train, and Norka joked loudly that there is no such thing as a "strong" delay, only short ones and long ones. To which some guy on the train joked back that this is "strong love," which could also mean tough love. So they riffed on "strong" things, such as the strong exit method of getting off the train, and then a final "strong" good bye when we got off. Norka almost laughed herself silly. Gina was hoping that if running doesn't keep you trim, maybe being smashed by a ton of strangers will.
The reward was standing at a corner where I had surely stood many times before back in 1985, with no clue as to the relationship I would have with these people and their culture for the rest of my life. Or did I? From there we could see the building where we lived, worn and older, streaked black in places with age. That was the apartment with the mural of the New York skyline, on the thirteenth floor. Where we were robbed while at church one Sunday morning. This was just around the corner from the knife fight we saw one night that ended in gunfire from a nearby apartment. This was where I never had to set my alarm because the noise from the bus station below was loud enough to wake me every day at sunrise. Here was that magnificent view of the then ultra-modern Parque Central complex. This is the building where I had to carry Elder Febres in my arms, nearly passed out because of the pain in his legs after coming back from surgery, when Quiroz answered my kicking the door with a perfectly ennunciated English, "What is the password?" To which I yelled back an equally inelegant, "Just open the stupid door!"
So it was precisely the search for this kind of deal that took us to La Hoyada, the very subway stop that I used during my four months in downtown Caracas as a missionary. Back then, the Metro was only a few years old and still had that new subway car smell. It was also never crowded, as only the one east-west line was in use. That has all changed now! I can only compare our ride to taking the trains inTokyo: wall to wall people. And if you are not able to grag a rail or handhold, no problem. The pressure of the bodies around you will hold you up. It was during one of these full-contact moments when Norka had a laughing fit. The loudspeaker announed "Strong Delays" as stood on the motionless train, and Norka joked loudly that there is no such thing as a "strong" delay, only short ones and long ones. To which some guy on the train joked back that this is "strong love," which could also mean tough love. So they riffed on "strong" things, such as the strong exit method of getting off the train, and then a final "strong" good bye when we got off. Norka almost laughed herself silly. Gina was hoping that if running doesn't keep you trim, maybe being smashed by a ton of strangers will.
The reward was standing at a corner where I had surely stood many times before back in 1985, with no clue as to the relationship I would have with these people and their culture for the rest of my life. Or did I? From there we could see the building where we lived, worn and older, streaked black in places with age. That was the apartment with the mural of the New York skyline, on the thirteenth floor. Where we were robbed while at church one Sunday morning. This was just around the corner from the knife fight we saw one night that ended in gunfire from a nearby apartment. This was where I never had to set my alarm because the noise from the bus station below was loud enough to wake me every day at sunrise. Here was that magnificent view of the then ultra-modern Parque Central complex. This is the building where I had to carry Elder Febres in my arms, nearly passed out because of the pain in his legs after coming back from surgery, when Quiroz answered my kicking the door with a perfectly ennunciated English, "What is the password?" To which I yelled back an equally inelegant, "Just open the stupid door!"
Automobiles
Venezuela is very much a culture of the car, much like we United Statesians. A great part of this is due to its wealth of oil. When we visited before in the Nineties, gas was a minimal 40 cents a gallon. Now, thanks to heavy subsidies from the Chavez government, you can fill a twenty gallon tank for about a dollar. Really ... A dollar! There is an eclectic mix of models - how long since you've seen a Pugeot dealer? - and ages. There are brand new Chevy SUVs, little Kias, and every kind of Smart car (meaning, "tiny bubble" car) sharing the roads with ancient rust buckets. Naturally, the ancient rust buckets are American. My father in law drives a 1984 Ford that he repairs himself (he showed my the weld points).
But on the whole, Venezuelan drive rather well. They are neither overly uncourteous, nor do they drive too fast. OUr taxi to the bus terminal, in fact, was a newer Chevy Blazer, and the driver was very smooth, very professional. This is new: it seems like a lot of taxi drivers have either joined taxi companies, or the companies have gone to clean, pressed uniforms lately. I don't remember so much
decorum in the 80s. But it is a professional look.
In fact, the bus that we took from Caracas to Puerto La Cruz - about a third of the way across the country in six hours - was clean, curtained and air conditioned, and was a comfortable ride across the mostly two-laned Pan American highway. Oh, and it was a Volvo. The only drawback is that the driver{s movies selection wasn't very good: "7 Pounds" and "Anacoda 5: Trail of Blood". We made one stop, at an estandia with a restaurant, bathroom, a parrilla, and a guy who washed the bus windows with a bucket of suds and a mop. Norka chose this place to get a little sick She's been nervous with excitement all this time, and went Thursday without eating, probably without realizing it. So now, with the motion of the busride and the sudden smell of food, here came the migraine. She almost threw up just as we were leaving, but a pill and a nap on my shoulder had her feeling better by the time we got to Pto. La Cruz. A new experience for Sofi was seeing an oil refinery. Especially at night, with the flames shooting brightly into the black sky, it's pretty impressive.
Venezuela is very much a culture of the car, much like we United Statesians. A great part of this is due to its wealth of oil. When we visited before in the Nineties, gas was a minimal 40 cents a gallon. Now, thanks to heavy subsidies from the Chavez government, you can fill a twenty gallon tank for about a dollar. Really ... A dollar! There is an eclectic mix of models - how long since you've seen a Pugeot dealer? - and ages. There are brand new Chevy SUVs, little Kias, and every kind of Smart car (meaning, "tiny bubble" car) sharing the roads with ancient rust buckets. Naturally, the ancient rust buckets are American. My father in law drives a 1984 Ford that he repairs himself (he showed my the weld points).
But on the whole, Venezuelan drive rather well. They are neither overly uncourteous, nor do they drive too fast. OUr taxi to the bus terminal, in fact, was a newer Chevy Blazer, and the driver was very smooth, very professional. This is new: it seems like a lot of taxi drivers have either joined taxi companies, or the companies have gone to clean, pressed uniforms lately. I don't remember so much
decorum in the 80s. But it is a professional look.
In fact, the bus that we took from Caracas to Puerto La Cruz - about a third of the way across the country in six hours - was clean, curtained and air conditioned, and was a comfortable ride across the mostly two-laned Pan American highway. Oh, and it was a Volvo. The only drawback is that the driver{s movies selection wasn't very good: "7 Pounds" and "Anacoda 5: Trail of Blood". We made one stop, at an estandia with a restaurant, bathroom, a parrilla, and a guy who washed the bus windows with a bucket of suds and a mop. Norka chose this place to get a little sick She's been nervous with excitement all this time, and went Thursday without eating, probably without realizing it. So now, with the motion of the busride and the sudden smell of food, here came the migraine. She almost threw up just as we were leaving, but a pill and a nap on my shoulder had her feeling better by the time we got to Pto. La Cruz. A new experience for Sofi was seeing an oil refinery. Especially at night, with the flames shooting brightly into the black sky, it's pretty impressive.
Ships
Puerto La Cruz is a coastal city somewhat east of Caracas and still west of the island. It's where the ferry leaves for Margarita. Conveniently, the bus terminal shares a building with the Conferry S.A. office and terminal. So you just walk from one side to the other to buy tickets for the ride on the car ferry to Margarita. Our bus arried at midnight, the ferry left at 2am. Norka bought is First Class Tickets, which meant we sat amidships in leather reclined seats. Coach tickets, further aft, meant wooden benches. I once bought a Coach ticket when I had to ferry from a mission zone conference in Barcelona back to the island. Ironically, I was pretty sick that trip to begin with, so I sat outside nearly the entire trip on a cabinet full of life vests. I still remember the sea spray hitting me in the face and how that actually made me feel better.
As we loaded, I noticed off the port side of the ferry I could see the entire stretch of beach along Pto. La Cruz. Pto. has a beautiful main drag that goes along the beach like the highway along Miami Beach, with a hotels and shops and very light waves. It was on this central stretch of beach that I baptized my first person into the church of my mission. He was a young fellow who the sister missionaries had taught, and we were supposed to do the baptism in the chapel's small cement font. But the water went out that day, so after scrambling to find a place wwith water without sucess, we opted for the ocean. By now it was dark, and the beach was deserted except for a few strolling couples. So we waded out to waist depth and did the baptism there. It was romantically beautiful, really, with the lights of the city on one side, and a the running lights of fishing boats and yachts anchored off shore on the other. I{ll never forget it. (A note: When my father was a missionary in Peru in the 60s, he, too, baptized people in the ocean, but the colder, rougher, Pacific Ocean.)
Unlike the bus service, there was no checking in of luggage. You carried your own stuff. Now, Norka said, thank heavens the airline lost two of the bags. We had barely enough energy to get them out to the fery, walking down the same road the cars use to board, then hike them up the ladders ourselves onto the first class deck. No wonder it was easy to sleep after that.
The ride was smooth, and with large portals open on both sides of the first class cabin, the sea breeze and the sound of the hull cutting softly through the ink black ocean made for a peaceful, peacful night. The girls slept on top of the suitcases, laid out like mattresses. In a near first, I was the first one to wake to realize that we had slept all the way through sunrise, and land was visible out the port windows. La Isla Margarita!
As we loaded, I noticed off the port side of the ferry I could see the entire stretch of beach along Pto. La Cruz. Pto. has a beautiful main drag that goes along the beach like the highway along Miami Beach, with a hotels and shops and very light waves. It was on this central stretch of beach that I baptized my first person into the church of my mission. He was a young fellow who the sister missionaries had taught, and we were supposed to do the baptism in the chapel's small cement font. But the water went out that day, so after scrambling to find a place wwith water without sucess, we opted for the ocean. By now it was dark, and the beach was deserted except for a few strolling couples. So we waded out to waist depth and did the baptism there. It was romantically beautiful, really, with the lights of the city on one side, and a the running lights of fishing boats and yachts anchored off shore on the other. I{ll never forget it. (A note: When my father was a missionary in Peru in the 60s, he, too, baptized people in the ocean, but the colder, rougher, Pacific Ocean.)
Unlike the bus service, there was no checking in of luggage. You carried your own stuff. Now, Norka said, thank heavens the airline lost two of the bags. We had barely enough energy to get them out to the fery, walking down the same road the cars use to board, then hike them up the ladders ourselves onto the first class deck. No wonder it was easy to sleep after that.
The ride was smooth, and with large portals open on both sides of the first class cabin, the sea breeze and the sound of the hull cutting softly through the ink black ocean made for a peaceful, peacful night. The girls slept on top of the suitcases, laid out like mattresses. In a near first, I was the first one to wake to realize that we had slept all the way through sunrise, and land was visible out the port windows. La Isla Margarita!
A Note on Caracas and Her People
Well, I hate to admit it, but I was actually expecting worse of Caracas. I've heard so many stories about how it has decayed, become a criminal's playground, how a socialist regime has surely let it go to pot. To my pleasant surprise, my pessimistic expectations were not met. Yes, the city is older now, dustier and dirtier. I know that more brazen crimes such as kidnaping of the rich and powerful are a new level of criminal scourge that was unknown to Venezuela in my time. But, like New York, Detroit, Pittsburgh, or even St. Louis, crime has always been part of the landscape, and does not make the whole city unlivable. And I still love it. The weather, how the breeze dissipates the heat almost instantly. The mountains to the north tower majestically over the city, and the view of the long valley that is Caracas always inspires me. Maybe it's the coolly combined colors of the lush green mountains, the blue of the sky, and the white of the clouds.
As for the People, they are as beautiful as ever. There are many in the United States who must view Venezuela as an enemy of sorts these days because the prevailing political winds here blow from the left, but let this be known: the people of Venezuela are no kind of enemy. They are in so many ways, so much like us. The men put on slacks and pressed white shirts for work. They wear ID cards that hang around their necks on a lanyard. They work for a living and hope for the best for their country in the face of crises that seem so much bigger than any one individual, even a confident, eloquent president.
They take subway delays in stride and tend to use their sense of humor as survival tool.
And the women of Venezuela! Someone asked me recently for something that is special and unique to Venezuela, and I forgot about women. It seems that every few years the winner of the Miss Universe or Miss World pageants are Venezuelans. They are blessed with raven-black hair, sun'drenched skin, and long thin noses. Their hips are the hips of the classic age of Hollywood beauties. Surely it was the Venezuelan woman who inspired both the literary descriptions of "full" and "pouting" breasts. (Another note, here: while my wife was born in Colombia, she was born in Barranquilla, the same town as Shakira, and so shares la costeña's full-blown sensual appearance.)
More to Come: talking commerce and leadership with a large chain store manager. Talking politics with a taxi driver and a father in-law. Pictures if a President. Potholes. Dogs.
Thank you for the "piropo".
ReplyDeleteYour wife :)