I attended a concert of the Netherlands Philharmonic Orchestra along with the Amsterdam Toonkunstkoor, a performance of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony, The Ode To Joy, at the famous Concertgebouw concert hall. What an incredible experience. I sat behind the orchestra in seats that are part of the “choir loft.” Those who are LDS or otherwise fans of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir would recognize this set up: the choir sits facing the audience in seats that climb stadium-like high above the stage below and in front of them. In this case, the choir, about 125 people, were all gathered on stage right (the left as you look at it from the audience), and the right side of the choir loft was sold for 41 Euros a piece.
There are some slight disadvantages to these seats, such as not being able to see the trumpet section (!). Furthermore, brass instruments being very directional, you get a full sound, but not that “chrome burn” sound of having the bells face you.
But the advantages! You feel like your part of the double bass section, you get to look out at the entirety of one of the most beautiful concert halls in the world, and, best of all, you are seeing the conductor how an orchestra member would see him.
The symphonic form is made up of four distinct movements, and The Ninth is a unique symphony. The first three movements of Beethoven’s 9th take about 45 minutes, during which the choir and four soloists take no part. The famous Fourth Movement takes a whopping 25 - in itself is as long as most symphonies of the day – and is in essence a grand cantata. It’s also a freight train at times: the ground rumbles when the full choir and orchestra are giving their all. And this choir was so powerful, so deep. It just amazes you how they change dynamics, how they respond to every nuance of the conductor. This is especially after the whispering reverence of the strings section in the first and third movements.
I almost cried in the first movement, seriously. But in the fourth, all I could do was sit there with this silly grin on my face. I wanted to jump up and cheer, as if I were at a drum corps show.
One of the great challenges of the 9th, in my humble opinion, is the very end. It has a short, fast coda that just rushes up to the very last stinger, and in the recording that I most often listen to, the ending seems to come as if it were a surprise that no one is ready for. So as we came near the end tonight, I was consciously waiting to see how the Netherlands Philharmonic would handle it. Well, how does utter perfection sound? It sounds like tonight’s ending. Everyone was there for it tonight. And the last note just rang through the Great Hall!
Then comes the very symphonic, very classical music, very European ceremony that comes at concert’s end: the applause, the departure of the maestro and soloists, the multiple returns for bows, the inviting of the choir master for a bow, the orchestra and choir members rising and sitting in response to the graceful, sweeping gestures of acknowledgement from the conductor, the bringing of flowers onto the stage for the principles.
So, a beautiful night, but how was this a life altering experience? Well, simply this. For a moment I thought of my grandfather, who had done the same thing I was doing tonight. We know so because he kept a list of concerts he attended and performances he participated in. And then it occurred to me that, having died at just 25 or 26 years old, there was a lot of music that he never got to hear, a lot of music he did not get to make. And I thought of all the time that I simply waste in my modern life, watching TV or the news, surfing the web, talk radio, in useless conversations on the trivial and banal. With all the great music out there - past and present, masterworks, or just a few of my own little pieces – it’s just immoral that I should continue to waste that time thusly and leave such great music unheard. What would Boice Carr think of so much great music time going to waste?
It further occurred to me that the use of my own time is my own decision, for the most part. Sure, there are classes to prepare and give, and research to do, and that is an essential and highly enjoyable part of my would-be career as an academic. But there is no excuse for time simply wasted. What would most greatly alter my life would be the rededication to pursuits that are, as the Apostle Paul put it, praiseworthy and of good report. Now, having learned what I did from the Rotterdam seminar, I can reflect and recognize some of the personal barriers that I have erected to my own progress on this account. There are rackets that I have run that have convinced me that my sloppy way of approaching the management of my time are a instead a useful and desirable disposal of that time. Yet all it really produces is massive frustration over hitting a dead end with regards to any sort of meaningful achievement, plus the regret that goes with wasted time, wasted energy, wasted potential.
Gone should be those times, those activities that prevent me from filling my soul with this better thing, this feeling that is, well, a feeling I suppose to be love.
So my most sincere gratitude goes to the Netherlands Phil and the Amsterdam chorus that so ably put the musical exclamation mark on the evening tonight. If I can but take just this lesson home with me from Amsterdam, I will be ahead of the game.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Getting to The Netherlands
Finally made it to The Netherlands, and have so far just loved the trip. Coming into London was really special. Were in a holding pattern for a few minutes, but we were near enough to Heathrow Airport itself that I had a good chance to orient myself. So when we were finally cleared to land I knew we were going downwind to the east over south London, turning north, then flying westward back to Heathrow. Both times, I got a wonderful view of the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club (yes, Wimbledon). Caught a glimpse of the London Eye on the banks of the Thames.
England is so neat and orderly looking from the air. Funny how much it looks in real life like it does on Google Earth.
I flew into Amsterdam’s Schipol Airport (and learned that Schipol rhymes with “ski pole” ). As we left (on KLM, hands down the best looking flight attendants on the trip), the skies above London were filled with the broken up cotton balls of spent thunderstorms, but we made it pretty easily. It’s a very short trip, perhaps an hour. Oh, but did I mention that I disconnected with my bag again? Yeah, go figure. Of course, when that happens it’s a little bit of a blessing in disguise, because it meant I could catch the train to Rotterdam without having to lug my wheelies around, and that the airline would deliver the bag later directly to my hotel. Okay!
Arriving in Rotterdam
So after a very smooth hour through very flat, rural landscape, I arrived in Rotterdam in the mid afternoon. I’ve studied central Rotterdam and the path to my hotel on maps and even Google Earth, so I set out on foot straight out of the Station Centraal. Naturally, I was soon completely lost. But not to worry, the city is not that big, and I had plenty of time, so I stopped at Wok To Go, got some nice hot noodles, and continued walking from there with new directions from the Wok To Go staff.
I did discover Rotterdam’s own Red Light district, on the same street as my hotel just a few blocks from my hotel more or less. Not much to it, fortunately, with one of the most prominent features being the “Massage Salon #93.”
Fortunately, the Hotel Milano was very comfortable, and very friendly. Also, the breakfasts were incredible. Especially after hardly eating at all after traveling the entire day and night before, I was so ready to see the spread of breads and rolls, meats and cheeses, and bowls of cereal. Mmmmm: Cocoa Krispies!
Rotterdam is a nice city. Easy to get around in the Trams. It was completely flattened by the Nazis in 1940, a terrible demonstration of the efficiency of the Luftwaffe during the scant five days it took for Germany to overtake the whole of the Netherlands. This means that Central Rotterdam is completely new as of the postwar period.
The people of Rotterdam seem to be very, very friendly. Everyone is pleasantly cordial, absolutely everyone speaks English, and all are willing to help when one has questions or needs. Of course, I have had the chance now to get to know some Netherlanders in depth, thanks to the conference, and they are such truly wonderful people. Proud, intelligent, impressive. I suppose I can write more of these more personal reactions in my journal, or later when I touch on the Seminar itself. Suffice it to say that I have been so touched by their intimacy and acceptance of myself and others not completely like them.
Oh, and one observation: Dutch women are so tall! 5’10”, 5’11”. The men are tall also, but not overly so. But the women! Perhaps “going Dutch” became a phenomenon simply because the men and women look at each other eye to eye here, literally.
Bicycles
I have become enamoured of the culture of the bicycle, and hope to rent one for a day when I plan to return to Rotterdam at the end of the trip. Here, the bicyclist has his own red brick-coloured lanes, separated from car traffic by curbs virtually everywhere. Bikes have the right of way, and then pedestrians have the right of way over cars (in designated walkways, of course). It’s hard to get used to being able to simply waltz out in front of an automobile, yet still having to be very careful not to disturb a bicyclist.
Next (or soon): The Jensen Seminar in Transformational Leadership.
Then: Amsterdam
• Water
• Red Light, not so much
• Going to Church
• Extreme Bikes
• Anne Frank House
England is so neat and orderly looking from the air. Funny how much it looks in real life like it does on Google Earth.
I flew into Amsterdam’s Schipol Airport (and learned that Schipol rhymes with “ski pole” ). As we left (on KLM, hands down the best looking flight attendants on the trip), the skies above London were filled with the broken up cotton balls of spent thunderstorms, but we made it pretty easily. It’s a very short trip, perhaps an hour. Oh, but did I mention that I disconnected with my bag again? Yeah, go figure. Of course, when that happens it’s a little bit of a blessing in disguise, because it meant I could catch the train to Rotterdam without having to lug my wheelies around, and that the airline would deliver the bag later directly to my hotel. Okay!
Arriving in Rotterdam
So after a very smooth hour through very flat, rural landscape, I arrived in Rotterdam in the mid afternoon. I’ve studied central Rotterdam and the path to my hotel on maps and even Google Earth, so I set out on foot straight out of the Station Centraal. Naturally, I was soon completely lost. But not to worry, the city is not that big, and I had plenty of time, so I stopped at Wok To Go, got some nice hot noodles, and continued walking from there with new directions from the Wok To Go staff.
I did discover Rotterdam’s own Red Light district, on the same street as my hotel just a few blocks from my hotel more or less. Not much to it, fortunately, with one of the most prominent features being the “Massage Salon #93.”
Fortunately, the Hotel Milano was very comfortable, and very friendly. Also, the breakfasts were incredible. Especially after hardly eating at all after traveling the entire day and night before, I was so ready to see the spread of breads and rolls, meats and cheeses, and bowls of cereal. Mmmmm: Cocoa Krispies!
Rotterdam is a nice city. Easy to get around in the Trams. It was completely flattened by the Nazis in 1940, a terrible demonstration of the efficiency of the Luftwaffe during the scant five days it took for Germany to overtake the whole of the Netherlands. This means that Central Rotterdam is completely new as of the postwar period.
The people of Rotterdam seem to be very, very friendly. Everyone is pleasantly cordial, absolutely everyone speaks English, and all are willing to help when one has questions or needs. Of course, I have had the chance now to get to know some Netherlanders in depth, thanks to the conference, and they are such truly wonderful people. Proud, intelligent, impressive. I suppose I can write more of these more personal reactions in my journal, or later when I touch on the Seminar itself. Suffice it to say that I have been so touched by their intimacy and acceptance of myself and others not completely like them.
Oh, and one observation: Dutch women are so tall! 5’10”, 5’11”. The men are tall also, but not overly so. But the women! Perhaps “going Dutch” became a phenomenon simply because the men and women look at each other eye to eye here, literally.
Bicycles
I have become enamoured of the culture of the bicycle, and hope to rent one for a day when I plan to return to Rotterdam at the end of the trip. Here, the bicyclist has his own red brick-coloured lanes, separated from car traffic by curbs virtually everywhere. Bikes have the right of way, and then pedestrians have the right of way over cars (in designated walkways, of course). It’s hard to get used to being able to simply waltz out in front of an automobile, yet still having to be very careful not to disturb a bicyclist.
Next (or soon): The Jensen Seminar in Transformational Leadership.
Then: Amsterdam
• Water
• Red Light, not so much
• Going to Church
• Extreme Bikes
• Anne Frank House
TALKING VENEZUELAN POLITICS
(Note: this note was written last weekend as I was traveling between Venezuela and Holland. I'm just now getting time to post it. The Jensen Seminar on Transformational Leadership here in Rotterdam has been outstanding, and very busy. More on that later. )
I sit in Miami's wonderful yet freezing airport, waiting for British Airways to bring my 747 over from Ft. Lauderdale, where they landed earlier today when thunderstorms prevented it from landing in Miami. That's fine; particularly recently, thunderstorms and crossing the Atlantic do not go well together in any passenger's mind. So we'll take a two hour delay. This gives me time to reflect on my ten days "in country" and share the unmistakable conclusion that I still really dig the place.
Yes, it's older, more tired, and at present beset by that silliest of Latin American ideas, that of a socialist revolution. In fact, that should be an anachronism by now: what is revolutionary anymore about trying to impose a form of government that has failed in all of its forms and in every corner of the planet that it's been tried? Before anyone trots out China as a counterexample, let's remember that they have completely abandoned the purely communal economic model to embrace capitalism (heck, they're more capitalist than the Obama Administration so far), leaving only their strict control of thought and opposition as the legacy of traditional socialism (you know: "cultural revolution".
I know that in Cuba the people ("of the revolution") are so fearful of internal spies and informants that they check the windows before telling jokes about Castro, who they call La Barba: The Beard. So in deference to my friends who feel that Venezuela is on the same path, I will refer to conversations I've had with so many Venezuelans in composite. What they say, they say from the heart. Venezuelans have always been that way. They are proud, but not obstinent, and are usually the first to temper their pride with some reflection or self-critique. For example, I was discussing seeing the coastline from the air with a woman as we rode together in an airport van, and she followed her boast that Venezuela has some of the most beautiful coasts in the world with, "Of course, we have no idea how to take care of them."
To understand how Chavez has gained such a strong base of true believers, it helps me to recall a situation that always befuddled me as I worked in Caracas as a missionary in the mid 80s. I remember one particular day taking a Jeep taxi into one area in the western part of the city because the dirt roads would get so muddy after the rains that no other type of vehicle could serve those areas. We would plunge down into these ravines to visit people who lived in bare cinderblock, one-room homes with no glass in the windows and a corrugated tin roof. Plumbing was usually non-existent, the stove was a two burner portable unit connected to a propane tank, and water was hiked in by hand. On the way out, a woman got into the back of the Jeep, where we faced each other on benches, wearing a beautiful blue outfit, spotlessly clean and pressed. I recognized it as the typical professional office dress of the city, and it struck me. Everyone I knew, no matter how poor, always had two things: a TV and aerial, and a few very nice looking sets of clothes for work.
They would take these jarring Jeep rides, then hop on teeming buses, then elbow their way through the streets to work in offices for bosses and managers who most likely came from the far richer, east side of Caracas, nice neighborhoods with names like El Marques and Prados Del Este, with swimming pools, country clubs, and gated neighborhoods. Now, from looking at these sets of people in their offices, you couldn't really see any difference between them. In fact, that's the joy of being tasked with sharing the gospel: you realize that in truth, there ISN'T any difference between us. Still, it always amazed me that there could be so much disparity between the Haves and the Have Nots in such close proximity. I wondered how they kept it from exploding in frustration, if not rage.
Apparently, they didn't, really. I just didn't know enough to see the surging problem. Between a banking crisis fueled by greed and corruption, soaring food prices that most people could never keep up with, and a coup d'etat led by an extremely ambitious colonel, the mistrust burst between the tears in Venezuela's social fabric like water bursting through the cracks in a weakened dam. Chavez, biding his time in jail for leading the coup, peppered his commentary with scripture-like references to delivering the people of Venezuela from the corruption of the failed politicians whose evil designs had sacked the country of its wealth and resources. He promised a new new beginning, a revolution. This brought two groups together: the old, embedded poor who always felt this way, and the recently poor, who thought they had a stake in the wealthy Venezuela, but who saw it disappear to inflation and institutional collapse.
This gave Chavez what he needed: a majority vote! As soon as he was out of jail, he was on the campaign trail. And he won. Helping his cause soon thereafter was the natural disaster of 1999, barely a year into his presidency, when landslides wiped out nearly 30,000 people, cutting off entire cities from relief. He put on his army fatigues again and said in with great pomp that he would not take them off until Venezuela was whole again, and then there were reports that he had parachuted out of a plane with his troops to reach one cut off city. He promised and built housing for the displaced.
What he has done since has been reported in many ways in the media, but in essence, he went from simply criticizing homegrown, corrupt capitalists to a full blown love affair with Socialism, Fidel Castro, and the ideals of the Cuban Revolution. Internally, he has slowly but surely consolidated power. The legislature is ruled by his party. He has cowed every TV station except one to show every word he says live, and that last one is under all sorts of pressure all of a sudden. He has a weekend TV show where he rants and raves, dances and sings for up to 5 hours, live. This by the way, has led to rumors that he is a regular cocaine user. As one person put it to me, "No normal person can keep up that crap for five hours like that. He's gotta be high on something."
I listened in on this great argument between two immediate family members:
"Oh, you believe all that crap because all you watch is Globovision. It's all lies."
"Oh really? More lies than the TV stations controlled by the government? If THAT'S all true, then why do they have to control what's said?" You even KNOW it's controlled and you STILL believe it."
He also has this nasty habit of "nationalizing" companies, a long Latin American tradition in which the interests of foreign companies are simply taken over by the local government to keep the profits in-country. Pretty cool idea, except that it usually ends up that the local government has no idea how to run it, then it fails, then you have to bring in the foreigners to put it back together again. So you can nationalize again later, I guess.
Hugo has one company that is easily under his political control and do this for him: PDVSA, the oil company, which now runs the steel industry and soon natural gas. Oh, and I forgot: food. PDVAL is a government food distributor, run by the oil company. There are plenty of private sector competitors, but PDVAL keeps the big open market on Margarita at Los Conejeros in Empanada and arepa flour. This came about because, after Chavez controlled food prices, he found Venezuelan company exporting all their food because if they sold it within, at the controlled prices, they'd lose money. So they sold it abroad at a fair market price (oooh, I'm getting business-professor-y here!). Chavez called this illegal and so put it under government control. Okay, actually he threatened to have the army hijack food trucks at the boarder and throw open the rear doors for the people, but someone came along later and came up with this cleaner plan.
He has also found a valuable straw man in the Great Satan to the north. When all else fails, he claim that the CIA is out to assassinate him. To vex that Great Satan, Chavez has befriended tyrants in the Middle East, Africa, and Asia. With oil prices over $100, he had plenty of money to throw at their causes. Seeing international banks as simply tentacles of U.S. control of the hemisphere, he has put up his own money from Venezuela's rich oil revenues to take on his own neighbors' debt. He meddled in elections in Bolivia, Nicaragua, and Peru. Venezuela, even if in annoying way, was suddenly a world player.
(I have to board now. I've just rambled on. Sorry. I think I had a more clear idea of what to say when I started. I think. )
So now what? Ironically, the U.S. economic crisis has hit Venezuela hard in that the slacking world price for oil has reeled Chavez in some (they also call it "La Crisis" here). What little he did spend on infrastructure here and subsidies is all but dried up. Many resent the amount of money he has spent abroad, which has committed him to debt that he can no longer pay. And he is no longer universally loved. His pictures are omnipresent in the Metro stations and trains, usually hugging small children or old people, ALWAYS smiling kindly. But some of these posters have been vandalized by someone with a sharp object, X-ing out the President's face. Also, remember the pro-Chavez images in airport international arrivals? Well, none of that is to be seen on the domestic terminal. Not even a snapshot.
Also, of the 17 states of Venezuela, four are now governed by politicians from outside his ruling party, the United Socialist Party. They are the state of the capital, caracas, the oil producing state in the southern jungles, a border state with Colombia. and the free port state that includes Margarita Island. That is to say, all the states that have seen up close and personal the negative effects of his policies.
Whether this will lead to a loss of power, counter revolution or coup, I certainly can't say. I can say that it seems like no one outside of of Chavez's own chattering class really buys into the hatred for America stuff. Truly, there are no anti-American demonstrations, no flag burning, none of that silly stuff. Just a guy who liked to call President Bush silly names. And we have plenty of those in our own country.
The Venezuelan people are no enemy of the United States, and have no desire to be an enemy of the United States. Most of them love their country, and can recall happier days in the relationship with the US.
Remember, the real Bolivarian Dream was that Bolivar would be able to unite all of the nations of South America into a "Great Columbia" similar to the alliance of states that made up the United Sates. Bolivar was an admirer of the early US, probably in part because of his love for a woman from Philadelphia. He gave his life to freeing the upper and western parts of the continent (note some time the similarities in the flags of Venezuela, Colombia, Ecuador, and Bolivia; Peru also owes a debt for their liberty from Spain to Bolivar). For a brief time. Venezuela even printed coinage emblazoned with "Los Estados Unidos De Venezuela": the United States of Venezuela.
Sadly, Bolivar's death came in sorrow as he saw others betray this dream of unity, and never again was Latin America able to dream of such unity.
So will this new character, with his own talk of a Bolivarian Dream - albeit a socialist one - be able to unite Venezuelans behind a cause, even an angry, misdirected one? Only the future will tell. But from what I saw in Venezuela, the strongman wants to go one way, but many, many more conscientious citizens want to go another.
My one worry is this: seemed to notice a change in the people I was in the street, in the places of work, in the stores. Venezuela's people were always a rambunctious lot: lots of loud music on the buses, people singing along; lots of yelling and joking and cajoling and being boisterous. I didn't see that this time. There seemed to be a, oh, I don't know, a quieter aspect to them. Almost an American calm, a seriousness, a quietness in public that I don't remember being part of their nature before. There is only one other time I can recall feeling this sort of resigned public quiet, among a people who were warm and open when in private. That was in the Soviet Union in 1990, less than a year before its disintegration.
It made me wonder. And worry a little.
I sit in Miami's wonderful yet freezing airport, waiting for British Airways to bring my 747 over from Ft. Lauderdale, where they landed earlier today when thunderstorms prevented it from landing in Miami. That's fine; particularly recently, thunderstorms and crossing the Atlantic do not go well together in any passenger's mind. So we'll take a two hour delay. This gives me time to reflect on my ten days "in country" and share the unmistakable conclusion that I still really dig the place.
Yes, it's older, more tired, and at present beset by that silliest of Latin American ideas, that of a socialist revolution. In fact, that should be an anachronism by now: what is revolutionary anymore about trying to impose a form of government that has failed in all of its forms and in every corner of the planet that it's been tried? Before anyone trots out China as a counterexample, let's remember that they have completely abandoned the purely communal economic model to embrace capitalism (heck, they're more capitalist than the Obama Administration so far), leaving only their strict control of thought and opposition as the legacy of traditional socialism (you know: "cultural revolution".
I know that in Cuba the people ("of the revolution") are so fearful of internal spies and informants that they check the windows before telling jokes about Castro, who they call La Barba: The Beard. So in deference to my friends who feel that Venezuela is on the same path, I will refer to conversations I've had with so many Venezuelans in composite. What they say, they say from the heart. Venezuelans have always been that way. They are proud, but not obstinent, and are usually the first to temper their pride with some reflection or self-critique. For example, I was discussing seeing the coastline from the air with a woman as we rode together in an airport van, and she followed her boast that Venezuela has some of the most beautiful coasts in the world with, "Of course, we have no idea how to take care of them."
To understand how Chavez has gained such a strong base of true believers, it helps me to recall a situation that always befuddled me as I worked in Caracas as a missionary in the mid 80s. I remember one particular day taking a Jeep taxi into one area in the western part of the city because the dirt roads would get so muddy after the rains that no other type of vehicle could serve those areas. We would plunge down into these ravines to visit people who lived in bare cinderblock, one-room homes with no glass in the windows and a corrugated tin roof. Plumbing was usually non-existent, the stove was a two burner portable unit connected to a propane tank, and water was hiked in by hand. On the way out, a woman got into the back of the Jeep, where we faced each other on benches, wearing a beautiful blue outfit, spotlessly clean and pressed. I recognized it as the typical professional office dress of the city, and it struck me. Everyone I knew, no matter how poor, always had two things: a TV and aerial, and a few very nice looking sets of clothes for work.
They would take these jarring Jeep rides, then hop on teeming buses, then elbow their way through the streets to work in offices for bosses and managers who most likely came from the far richer, east side of Caracas, nice neighborhoods with names like El Marques and Prados Del Este, with swimming pools, country clubs, and gated neighborhoods. Now, from looking at these sets of people in their offices, you couldn't really see any difference between them. In fact, that's the joy of being tasked with sharing the gospel: you realize that in truth, there ISN'T any difference between us. Still, it always amazed me that there could be so much disparity between the Haves and the Have Nots in such close proximity. I wondered how they kept it from exploding in frustration, if not rage.
Apparently, they didn't, really. I just didn't know enough to see the surging problem. Between a banking crisis fueled by greed and corruption, soaring food prices that most people could never keep up with, and a coup d'etat led by an extremely ambitious colonel, the mistrust burst between the tears in Venezuela's social fabric like water bursting through the cracks in a weakened dam. Chavez, biding his time in jail for leading the coup, peppered his commentary with scripture-like references to delivering the people of Venezuela from the corruption of the failed politicians whose evil designs had sacked the country of its wealth and resources. He promised a new new beginning, a revolution. This brought two groups together: the old, embedded poor who always felt this way, and the recently poor, who thought they had a stake in the wealthy Venezuela, but who saw it disappear to inflation and institutional collapse.
This gave Chavez what he needed: a majority vote! As soon as he was out of jail, he was on the campaign trail. And he won. Helping his cause soon thereafter was the natural disaster of 1999, barely a year into his presidency, when landslides wiped out nearly 30,000 people, cutting off entire cities from relief. He put on his army fatigues again and said in with great pomp that he would not take them off until Venezuela was whole again, and then there were reports that he had parachuted out of a plane with his troops to reach one cut off city. He promised and built housing for the displaced.
What he has done since has been reported in many ways in the media, but in essence, he went from simply criticizing homegrown, corrupt capitalists to a full blown love affair with Socialism, Fidel Castro, and the ideals of the Cuban Revolution. Internally, he has slowly but surely consolidated power. The legislature is ruled by his party. He has cowed every TV station except one to show every word he says live, and that last one is under all sorts of pressure all of a sudden. He has a weekend TV show where he rants and raves, dances and sings for up to 5 hours, live. This by the way, has led to rumors that he is a regular cocaine user. As one person put it to me, "No normal person can keep up that crap for five hours like that. He's gotta be high on something."
I listened in on this great argument between two immediate family members:
"Oh, you believe all that crap because all you watch is Globovision. It's all lies."
"Oh really? More lies than the TV stations controlled by the government? If THAT'S all true, then why do they have to control what's said?" You even KNOW it's controlled and you STILL believe it."
He also has this nasty habit of "nationalizing" companies, a long Latin American tradition in which the interests of foreign companies are simply taken over by the local government to keep the profits in-country. Pretty cool idea, except that it usually ends up that the local government has no idea how to run it, then it fails, then you have to bring in the foreigners to put it back together again. So you can nationalize again later, I guess.
Hugo has one company that is easily under his political control and do this for him: PDVSA, the oil company, which now runs the steel industry and soon natural gas. Oh, and I forgot: food. PDVAL is a government food distributor, run by the oil company. There are plenty of private sector competitors, but PDVAL keeps the big open market on Margarita at Los Conejeros in Empanada and arepa flour. This came about because, after Chavez controlled food prices, he found Venezuelan company exporting all their food because if they sold it within, at the controlled prices, they'd lose money. So they sold it abroad at a fair market price (oooh, I'm getting business-professor-y here!). Chavez called this illegal and so put it under government control. Okay, actually he threatened to have the army hijack food trucks at the boarder and throw open the rear doors for the people, but someone came along later and came up with this cleaner plan.
He has also found a valuable straw man in the Great Satan to the north. When all else fails, he claim that the CIA is out to assassinate him. To vex that Great Satan, Chavez has befriended tyrants in the Middle East, Africa, and Asia. With oil prices over $100, he had plenty of money to throw at their causes. Seeing international banks as simply tentacles of U.S. control of the hemisphere, he has put up his own money from Venezuela's rich oil revenues to take on his own neighbors' debt. He meddled in elections in Bolivia, Nicaragua, and Peru. Venezuela, even if in annoying way, was suddenly a world player.
(I have to board now. I've just rambled on. Sorry. I think I had a more clear idea of what to say when I started. I think. )
So now what? Ironically, the U.S. economic crisis has hit Venezuela hard in that the slacking world price for oil has reeled Chavez in some (they also call it "La Crisis" here). What little he did spend on infrastructure here and subsidies is all but dried up. Many resent the amount of money he has spent abroad, which has committed him to debt that he can no longer pay. And he is no longer universally loved. His pictures are omnipresent in the Metro stations and trains, usually hugging small children or old people, ALWAYS smiling kindly. But some of these posters have been vandalized by someone with a sharp object, X-ing out the President's face. Also, remember the pro-Chavez images in airport international arrivals? Well, none of that is to be seen on the domestic terminal. Not even a snapshot.
Also, of the 17 states of Venezuela, four are now governed by politicians from outside his ruling party, the United Socialist Party. They are the state of the capital, caracas, the oil producing state in the southern jungles, a border state with Colombia. and the free port state that includes Margarita Island. That is to say, all the states that have seen up close and personal the negative effects of his policies.
Whether this will lead to a loss of power, counter revolution or coup, I certainly can't say. I can say that it seems like no one outside of of Chavez's own chattering class really buys into the hatred for America stuff. Truly, there are no anti-American demonstrations, no flag burning, none of that silly stuff. Just a guy who liked to call President Bush silly names. And we have plenty of those in our own country.
The Venezuelan people are no enemy of the United States, and have no desire to be an enemy of the United States. Most of them love their country, and can recall happier days in the relationship with the US.
Remember, the real Bolivarian Dream was that Bolivar would be able to unite all of the nations of South America into a "Great Columbia" similar to the alliance of states that made up the United Sates. Bolivar was an admirer of the early US, probably in part because of his love for a woman from Philadelphia. He gave his life to freeing the upper and western parts of the continent (note some time the similarities in the flags of Venezuela, Colombia, Ecuador, and Bolivia; Peru also owes a debt for their liberty from Spain to Bolivar). For a brief time. Venezuela even printed coinage emblazoned with "Los Estados Unidos De Venezuela": the United States of Venezuela.
Sadly, Bolivar's death came in sorrow as he saw others betray this dream of unity, and never again was Latin America able to dream of such unity.
So will this new character, with his own talk of a Bolivarian Dream - albeit a socialist one - be able to unite Venezuelans behind a cause, even an angry, misdirected one? Only the future will tell. But from what I saw in Venezuela, the strongman wants to go one way, but many, many more conscientious citizens want to go another.
My one worry is this: seemed to notice a change in the people I was in the street, in the places of work, in the stores. Venezuela's people were always a rambunctious lot: lots of loud music on the buses, people singing along; lots of yelling and joking and cajoling and being boisterous. I didn't see that this time. There seemed to be a, oh, I don't know, a quieter aspect to them. Almost an American calm, a seriousness, a quietness in public that I don't remember being part of their nature before. There is only one other time I can recall feeling this sort of resigned public quiet, among a people who were warm and open when in private. That was in the Soviet Union in 1990, less than a year before its disintegration.
It made me wonder. And worry a little.
Third Note From Venezuela: Beaches, Dogs, Tough Questions At The Super Market
Went back to the beach at Pampatar today. Took a picture at the same pier wall where Norka and I first took a picture together in 1987, five years before getting married. There is another version of the picture from 1994, then in 2000 with Gina and Sofi as babies on our laps. This time, Norka and I are separated by two very grown up, beautiful girls.
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 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.
Second Note from Venezuela: Church, Beach, Food, and Music
I can't say I forgot how hot it gets here on the island, but it's hard to conjure up what it feels like when you're eight years removed from the dripping wet humidity, the energy sapping sun, and the just plain oppressive caribbean atmosphere. It makes you appreciate one thing, for sure: the breeze!
It's 7pm on a Sunday night. Now, I don't want to sound like I'm complaining, just making the observation: I AM BEAT! The excitement and non-stop motion of getting here has gotten me feeling like I need a rest from this "vacation" so far. But it's been a great visit so far, so I can't complain.
CHURCH
Today I saw the little chapel where I served as a missionary in 1986. There were only two branches then, one here in Prolamar, the Island's largest city, and one in La Asuncion, the state capitol, but a much smaller inland community under the cooler canopy of tropical palms. (For non-LDS readers, a branch is the smallest type of Mormon congregation, and can be quite small. My father opened a branch in Peru in the 1960s of only two members. Porlamar in my time probably had twenty adults, and La Asuncion, 15.) Our chapel then was a small "sacrament hall," where all members meet together to take the sacrament every Sunday, and a few small classrooms, a kitchen, and a baptismal font that was just at the back of the small sacrament hall. When we had baptisms, we simply opened a sliding partition, turned the folding chairs around to face the other way, and there it was. This was the chapel that my wife was baptized in, and the entire structure would have fit very neatly in just the sacrament hall of a typical American chapel. I have two - make that three - very positive recollections of that little chapel: firstly, it was the constantly moving oscilating fans that blew from the tops of the walls. As they blew toward you, you could hear anyone speaking fine. As they blew away, the breeze would take with it the speaker's voice as well. Secondly, it was the sound of the Tio Rico Ice Cream vendor who would pedal by every Sunday. Hia little music would fill the sacrament hall with the temptation to run and buy some relieving cool ice cream right in the middle of the meeting. I never did it, though. And thirdly, the Yamaha piano, miraculously, was always in tune. Maybe it's because it got very little use; in my time, I was the only one around who new how to play. I was always careful to replace the red felt running cloth that covered the keys to protect them from the closing lid after I played.
Well, the little chapel still stands, but right next to it, the church built a gorgeous new building about seven years ago. The new sacrament hall is now full size, with padded pews, two aisles, and a real dias for church leaders and a choir. The sacrament table is purpose-built, not just a nice little table that fits in the corner, and there is a board with changeable numbers for the hymns, not just a chalk board. And - get ready for this all you missionaries who served here in the 70s, 80s, and 90s: IT'S AIR CONDITIONED.
The old building is still in use - the kitchen, Relief Society Room, and some classrooms. And the basketball court has been moved from the side of the walled-in property to the back. By the way, I was there to help raise the first backboards to be put up there in 1986.This was much to the joy of my companion, Elder Palmer, who was an all-state Arizona athelete who loved to go down to the Plaza Bolivar and challenge guys to 2 on 2 games on the courts behind the Catholic cathedral. The Venezuelans would take one look at the two of us (Dan was 6'2") and say, no way. Then he would say, I'll give you my friend, and point to me. Then they would accept. Little did the Venezuelans know, though, that I STUNK at basketball, so it guaranteed Palmer a win every time. Once, and only once, I was able to stuff one of his turn-around jump shots, and he burst out laughing right there on the court.
Oh, and that little Yamaha piano? It's the same one. And it's still in tune! Looks as good as new. The little red felt runner, stained and with holes worn through it, was still lovingly spread over the keys by whoever played it last this morning!
BEACH.
In this case, Pampatar, a small, crescent-shaped beach in a nearby town. Gina is blown away by the fact that, even at four feet deep, you can see right through the water, and the only stuff floating in it are little clumps of sea weed. No garbage, no junk. Norka took me there when I went to visit her after the mission, and we took apicture there sitting along the pier. We took another one in the same spot after we were married, and yet another with Gina and Sofia as babies in 2000. We'll take another one this trip. In the 1987 picture, there was only one building on the hill in the background. Now, that same hill looks like one in the Cote d'Azure, or St. Moritz. Some spots have progressed.
I also bought the most DE-licious cachito de jamón at the Pandería Del Castillo today, which brings me to
FOOD
MUSIC
It's 7pm on a Sunday night. Now, I don't want to sound like I'm complaining, just making the observation: I AM BEAT! The excitement and non-stop motion of getting here has gotten me feeling like I need a rest from this "vacation" so far. But it's been a great visit so far, so I can't complain.
CHURCH
Today I saw the little chapel where I served as a missionary in 1986. There were only two branches then, one here in Prolamar, the Island's largest city, and one in La Asuncion, the state capitol, but a much smaller inland community under the cooler canopy of tropical palms. (For non-LDS readers, a branch is the smallest type of Mormon congregation, and can be quite small. My father opened a branch in Peru in the 1960s of only two members. Porlamar in my time probably had twenty adults, and La Asuncion, 15.) Our chapel then was a small "sacrament hall," where all members meet together to take the sacrament every Sunday, and a few small classrooms, a kitchen, and a baptismal font that was just at the back of the small sacrament hall. When we had baptisms, we simply opened a sliding partition, turned the folding chairs around to face the other way, and there it was. This was the chapel that my wife was baptized in, and the entire structure would have fit very neatly in just the sacrament hall of a typical American chapel. I have two - make that three - very positive recollections of that little chapel: firstly, it was the constantly moving oscilating fans that blew from the tops of the walls. As they blew toward you, you could hear anyone speaking fine. As they blew away, the breeze would take with it the speaker's voice as well. Secondly, it was the sound of the Tio Rico Ice Cream vendor who would pedal by every Sunday. Hia little music would fill the sacrament hall with the temptation to run and buy some relieving cool ice cream right in the middle of the meeting. I never did it, though. And thirdly, the Yamaha piano, miraculously, was always in tune. Maybe it's because it got very little use; in my time, I was the only one around who new how to play. I was always careful to replace the red felt running cloth that covered the keys to protect them from the closing lid after I played.
Well, the little chapel still stands, but right next to it, the church built a gorgeous new building about seven years ago. The new sacrament hall is now full size, with padded pews, two aisles, and a real dias for church leaders and a choir. The sacrament table is purpose-built, not just a nice little table that fits in the corner, and there is a board with changeable numbers for the hymns, not just a chalk board. And - get ready for this all you missionaries who served here in the 70s, 80s, and 90s: IT'S AIR CONDITIONED.
The old building is still in use - the kitchen, Relief Society Room, and some classrooms. And the basketball court has been moved from the side of the walled-in property to the back. By the way, I was there to help raise the first backboards to be put up there in 1986.This was much to the joy of my companion, Elder Palmer, who was an all-state Arizona athelete who loved to go down to the Plaza Bolivar and challenge guys to 2 on 2 games on the courts behind the Catholic cathedral. The Venezuelans would take one look at the two of us (Dan was 6'2") and say, no way. Then he would say, I'll give you my friend, and point to me. Then they would accept. Little did the Venezuelans know, though, that I STUNK at basketball, so it guaranteed Palmer a win every time. Once, and only once, I was able to stuff one of his turn-around jump shots, and he burst out laughing right there on the court.
Oh, and that little Yamaha piano? It's the same one. And it's still in tune! Looks as good as new. The little red felt runner, stained and with holes worn through it, was still lovingly spread over the keys by whoever played it last this morning!
BEACH.
In this case, Pampatar, a small, crescent-shaped beach in a nearby town. Gina is blown away by the fact that, even at four feet deep, you can see right through the water, and the only stuff floating in it are little clumps of sea weed. No garbage, no junk. Norka took me there when I went to visit her after the mission, and we took apicture there sitting along the pier. We took another one in the same spot after we were married, and yet another with Gina and Sofia as babies in 2000. We'll take another one this trip. In the 1987 picture, there was only one building on the hill in the background. Now, that same hill looks like one in the Cote d'Azure, or St. Moritz. Some spots have progressed.
I also bought the most DE-licious cachito de jamón at the Pandería Del Castillo today, which brings me to
FOOD
I tend to eat less when I am traveling, I suppose for a number of reasons, including cost, schedule, and just plain excitemen. But today, about four in the afternoon, I realized that all I had eaten was a patacón pisado and an egg about ten this morning. I was starting to feel faint. So I suggested at our table under the thatched shade roof on the beach that I go get something to eat, and suddenly everyone decided it was time to go find a restaurant. Ugh. So up the stairs I went to the boulevard that runs along the beach, and into a very typical panadería, where I found the cachito and a Diet Coke (Coca Cola Light, as it's called here). There is no more heaven-on-earth experience than standing with a panoramic view of a caribbean beach, biting into a warmed Ham cachito, and slurping a Coke so cold the can burns your hand!!!
And then cam dinner at La Conga, a road-stop restaurant with heavy wooden tables and chairs under a a churuata. It's basically a large, pointed wooden roof with no walls such as the natives would have made. We ordered large platters of various meats for all of us, all barbequed "a la parilla" on the outdoors pits. The steak was incredible! And the water cold! Although, the cap on my bottled water was loose, making me wonder if they hadn't just refilled it with the tap out back! how would the Gringo know?
And then cam dinner at La Conga, a road-stop restaurant with heavy wooden tables and chairs under a a churuata. It's basically a large, pointed wooden roof with no walls such as the natives would have made. We ordered large platters of various meats for all of us, all barbequed "a la parilla" on the outdoors pits. The steak was incredible! And the water cold! Although, the cap on my bottled water was loose, making me wonder if they hadn't just refilled it with the tap out back! how would the Gringo know?
MUSIC
And at La Conga, we were treated to some live música criolla! Venezuela's native music is called joropo, and it features the harp. Now, before you go thinking of angels in heaven or uptight classical spinstresses, go listen to "Alma Llanera" athttp://www.movingon1.com/bill/perez prado - alma llanera (1).mp3. Joropo is written in 3-4 time, or "waltz time." But it's also built on a paso doble, which means it's like there are two distinct speeds going on at once. This might be hard to explain in words, but in essance you have the quick three-four waltz going on:
ONE-two-three, ONE-two-three, ONE-two-three, ONE-two-three, ...
And at the same time a second. slower rhthym in three on top:
ONE-two-THREE, one-TWO-three, ONE-two-THREE, one-TWO-three, ...
It's a great effect, and fun to hear live. The harpist was great. I couldn't help but notice that it seems like it's tough to find a good bass player ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD; right, Ben, Garrett and Katie? And what the main singer lacked in tuning he more than made up for in energy. It takes a lot of guts to walk around a half empty venue during the first set and sing to the tables and still make it look like you're not phoning it in! Been there, done that. Fortunately, we restaurant patrons really enjoyed the spirit of it. I mean, I'm in an outdoor restaurant on a tropical island, eating parilla and listening to legit joropo. Who am I to complain? For my purposes, they sang their hearts out.
Anyhow, we found the camera charger tonight, so hopefully we'll add some photos soon.
I'll save the political discussion for tomorrow.
ONE-two-three, ONE-two-three, ONE-two-three, ONE-two-three, ...
And at the same time a second. slower rhthym in three on top:
ONE-two-THREE, one-TWO-three, ONE-two-THREE, one-TWO-three, ...
It's a great effect, and fun to hear live. The harpist was great. I couldn't help but notice that it seems like it's tough to find a good bass player ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD; right, Ben, Garrett and Katie? And what the main singer lacked in tuning he more than made up for in energy. It takes a lot of guts to walk around a half empty venue during the first set and sing to the tables and still make it look like you're not phoning it in! Been there, done that. Fortunately, we restaurant patrons really enjoyed the spirit of it. I mean, I'm in an outdoor restaurant on a tropical island, eating parilla and listening to legit joropo. Who am I to complain? For my purposes, they sang their hearts out.
Anyhow, we found the camera charger tonight, so hopefully we'll add some photos soon.
I'll save the political discussion for tomorrow.
Travels, Summer of 09: Venzuela, Holland, UK
5-27-09: Adventure begins.
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
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.
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.
Traveling the Summer of 2009
This summer is proving to be an exciting one in terms of getting to see the world. Not gigging or touring, but a combination of family vacations and an academic seminar. Nonetheless, it has turned out to be a surprisingly musical adventure so far.
I left for Venezuela on May 27th (Margarita Island, to be specific), and then to Rotterdam Holland for the seminar at Erasmus University. I stayed an extra week in Holland with my Dad. We visited Amsterdam, Haarlem, Delft, and the environs.
I wrote some reflections along the way, so here they are.
Enjoy!
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