La Travesía

“Do you see it? It looks like café marrón (“brown coffee”), like mud,” Señor Jesus said to me as we starred into the water of the Orinoco River. Our bus had arrived at the river’s shore minutes ago from Cumaná, where I swim at the local pool with Señor Jesus and a handful of other university professors and students. But now we were waiting for the ferry to take us across to the other side of Venezuela’s longest river. It was a Friday afternoon, and we came to compete in a 3.1 km swim across the river scheduled for Sunday. Studying the characteristics of the water, as well as the town of San Felix on the opposing shore, I began to comprehend our group’s concrete purpose after having planned this trip for months. Yet my thoughts that weekend were to encompass not only the race and the Orinoco River’s innate qualities, for the competition spurred me to also reflect on my experience during the last seven months swimming in Cumaná at the local pool.

Swimmers –over 900 in all– converge upon the small city of San Felix annually to compete in this race, and all of them can easily tell you the river’s qualities. Señor Jesus´s comment only begins to convey its essence. For instance, the competition’s route really goes through two rivers: the Orinoco and Caroní. These two rivers join upstream, yet they run parallel and do not mix despite “joining”. During the competition, the swimmers first cross the Orinoco, turbid and loaded with sediments from upstream. The water is warm, and the current is the weaker of the two. After crossing the unmistakable Orinoco side, swimmers find themselves in the path of the Caroní two-thirds into the race. They quickly feel the difference. The water is cooler, and its hue is black (not brown like the Orinoco). Appearance aside, the Caroní’s stronger current proves a greater challenge; swimmers must swim faster and face upstream to make it to the finish line. The two rivers even taste different.

Considering the conditions of the water, I could not help but think about my training at the pool in Cumaná, which I can relate to my experience in Venezuela as well as a few salient reflections.

Since November, I have been swimming four or five days a week at the polideportivo, Cumaná’s public pool that provides an invaluable respite from the stresses that occasionally irk me. First and foremost, my daily workout at 6:30 am allows me to escape the intense tropical heat of eastern Venezuela. The unceasing 90º-plus climate has afflicted me since I arrived in Cumaná, yet an hour in the pool refreshes me and alleviates the incessant strength of the equatorial sun. But the heat is not the only challenge that I have encountered. Unlike any previous job, my work at the local university is highly irregular: teachers often cancel class, students occasionally hold strike, and administrators have closed the university due to happenings in national politics. Though pleasant, my work does not provide as much stability as I would like. Regardless of the university schedule, the pool at the polideportivo stays open, adding some regularity to my schedule. Gracias a dios.

My experience at the pool highlights a few of the difficulties and virtues of life in Venezuela as well. For example, the pool closes occasionally for one sole reason: a shortage of chlorine. Then again, supply shortages occur not only at the polideportivo but in many spheres of daily life (i.e. a paucity of rice and eggs at the supermarket, limited teaching supplies at the university, power outages in residential areas). An empty stock of chlorine at the pool typifies this reality. But the pool represents one undeniable virtue: the warmth and humor of the people. Each day I swim with the most delightful and motley group of swimmers, usually Señor Jesus (a slightly crotchety, retired chemistry professor) and Charli (a twenty-five year old computer science student). A slightly machista yet caring man, Señor Jesus has taught me most of the Venezuelan obscenities that I know, while Charli happens to be an avid evangelical churchgoer. We are a ragtag band. Señor Jesus often cracks perverse jokes as we rest between swimming sets, causing Charli to cringe and the other swimmers to burst into laughter. The temperaments of my two closest swimming buddies often clash, yet that does not preclude our usual post-swim cup of coffee. Nor does it keep us from traveling together to swim across the Orinoco River; Señor Jesus, Charli, and I became de facto partners-in-crime from the start.

Thus it was no surprise that the three of us were running late before the competition on Sunday. All swimmers needed to check-in by 5:30 am inside the San Felix City Hall. We arrived at 6:00 am. The city hall was a mob scene upon our entrance, complemented with men and women of all ages and sizes in their swimsuits. Speedos under our clothes, we quickly stripped down and checked-in as one of the event volunteers marked our respective assigned numbers on our arms and back. Soon after, a priest held a short service on the town hall’s outdoor balcony. Without a single rabbi in sight, I chose to stretch inconspicuously until the priest’s spiel came to a close. With his final words, nine hundred swimmers loaded up into the fleet of municipal buses that waited for us, and we headed off to the town’s nearby port.

At the port, we boarded a navy transport ship. The atmosphere was saturated with frenetic energy on the vessel as we waited for everyone to get aboard. I felt jittery yet said almost nothing. Charli and Señor Jesus conversed. Around 8:00, the last swimmers got onto the ship, and the captain blew the horn. The passengers –especially the rambunctious, younger ones– jumped up and down, cheering uncontrollably. All the while, Señor Jesus laid sprawled out on the ship’s deck, looking into the sunlight with his eyes closed, cool as a cucumber. He told me softly, “Stay down, Jeremy. We still have a while.” Legs crossed, I sat and concentrated on my breath. The ship brought us downstream to the course of the race, and we headed towards a beach across the river from San Felix. Nearing our destination, Señor Jesus told me to take a look. The river was filled with kayaks, private motorboats, jet skis, and navy patrol boats – all present as part of the event’s security set-up. A helicopter passed overhead, prompting the swimmers´ roar to double in volume. We approached the starting point, a beach cluttered with spectators and event volunteers. The ship’s landing ramp lowered, and we rushed onto the beach. After a short warm-up period, the volunteers told us to get back onto the beach. The men were to leave first, five minutes before the women. We crowded behind a rope that represented the starting line. A judge stood on a tall post before us, his flag raised. The masses watched intrepidly.

When the flag lowered, all hell broke loose as a flurry of swimmers departed. There were no lanes. Order did not exist. It was every man for himself. Swimmers moved left, right, and straight forward. Most flailed their arms wildly and kicked like mad; not paying attention meant a smack or kick in the face. Having lost track of Señor Jesus and Charli, I decided to stick with another swimmer in our group, Ramón, and we headed slightly up-stream in order to avoid the masses that veered with the river’s current. Soon, Ramón and I were swimming nearly alone; most of the other swimmers had scattered.

The wild frenzy mellowed down into a brisk yet meditative journey. Participating in my first open-water competition ever, I accustomed to this earthen, unrefined arena. My hands ran through the chocolate brown water, and my brain reviewed one thought at a time: follow Ramón, watch the opposing shore, swim slightly up-stream. Two thousand yards later, the water changed from chocolate to ebony, and the pressure of the current intensified. I was in the waters of the Caroní, the race’s most taxing section. Ramón had gone farther and farther ahead by this point. As he moved out of my sight, it was time to follow my own instincts. I was clearly above stream from the finishing point, but the current was rapidly pushing me down. I picked up the pace and directed myself farther up-stream. The finishing line in San Felix came into sight. Nearing the end, other swimmers entered into my peripheral vision. No one familiar. I crossed the finish line, and my exhaustion caught up with me at that very moment.

My brain simply stopped working. As I stood, dumbfounded, an event volunteer handed me a plastic card that indicated my standing in the competition. Someone else pushed me along to the table representing my category (men, ages 19-24). I breathed heavily and expressed a few of Señor Jesus´s regular obscenities, trying to overcome my lightheadedness. The sun shone brightly, and I sauntered around the beach even though the sand burned my feet. I received my free energy drink and packet of fruit from a table and recovered my breath. The crowd of elated yet ready-to-drop participants grew and grew. I dawdled back towards the finish line and congratulated others from our group. Now meandering with Charli, I caught sight of Señor Jesus´s back. He was at the water’s edge watching the final swimmers glide through the Caroní. “Señor Jesus!” I called. He turned around and stood up. Munching on an apple, he had stuck a banana into his Speedo as if he were a gunslinger with a pistol stuck into his pants. Charli shook his head at the undeniable double meaning of the banana. Señor Jesus grabbed us to shake our hands and commenced the congratulations. We basked in the late morning sun, elated and exhausted

English and Biology Collide

With gusto, the group of ten Venezuelan marine biology researchers broke into the warm up song at the start of class. It happened to be the Beatles´ “Octopuses Garden”. As they learned the lyrics to Ringo Starr´s cephalopod-staring ditty, the researchers practiced their pronunciation, worked their listening comprehension, and simply had fun. These researchers participate in a weekly English workshop that I run at the Oceanographic Institute of Venezuela, located at the Universidad de Oriente (UDO) in Cumaná, Venezuela. The workshop is secondary to my main job at the university: I spend most of my time working with students in the Department of Modern Languages as an English Teaching Assistant (ETA). Much to my surprise, however, one of the most meaningful components of my job at the UDO has been my secondary project.

I could not have predicted this opportunity to work in the Oceanographic Institute during the days preceding my arrival in Venezuela, much less when I was finishing my university studies two years ago. As an undergraduate student, I studied ecology and environmental education. My college studies and English teaching did not have a strong relationship at face value, yet I applied for the ETA program to gain teaching experience in a university, experience the many facets of Venezuelan life, and improve my Spanish. I applied, won the grant, and serendipitously ended up at the UDO. Upon arrival, I immediately began to search for a secondary project related to ecology. This quest provided me with an early opportunity to see Venezuelans –savvy at social-networking– in action: an English teacher in the Modern Languages Department was about to get married; her fiancé had studied marine biology; the fiancé’s thesis advisor knew an ecotoxicology professor, Dr. Mairin Lemus, who was in search of an English teacher trained in the biological sciences. As this example illustrates, fortuitous social networks rule in Venezuela.

At our first meeting, Dr. Lemus described the research station that she directs, explained its pitfalls related to English, and voiced a proposition. The research station, titled El Centro de Investigaciones Ecológicas de Guayacán (CIEG), lies nestled in the small coastal town of Guayacán, a boat ride plus a one-hour car ride away. The workshop participants usually work from the CIEG and, logically, aim to publish the results of their research in academic journals. Even journals in Spanish require an English translation of the title and the abstract of each submitted article from researchers. All of the UDO biology researchers had received some level of English study. Currently, the biology department requires all students to study basic English, training them to read scientific works and arming them with fundamental biology vocabulary. Yet students are not prepared to write clear, grammatically correct scientific abstracts in English by the end of this rudimentary class. With this level of English training, the researchers translate the abstracts of their scientific papers before sending them off to academic journals. For a scientist who wants her work published, this is like a matzo ball that has fallen right into the lap; it is a mess. Dr. Lemus admitted that the grammatical errors of a poorly translated abstract are oft-cited grounds for rejecting a research paper. This is a serious problem for any researcher with a less than stellar command of written English, and thus a problem for the CIEG researchers, some of whom last studied English when they were in high school. Dr. Lemus wanted a remedy for the problem and asked me to lead a weekly English workshop for the ten researchers.

I would have been meshuga* had I said no; it has greatly enriched my experience in Cumaná.

Unexpectedly, the workshop participants exhibit an incredibly cogent desire to learn English, making my teaching experience enjoyable. The researchers´ reasons to learn English are urgent, concrete, and related to their respective areas of expertise that they each adore. I noted this quickly when we held the first workshop in a university classroom back in January, but it is most evident when I travel with them to hold the occasional class in Guayacán. The town faces the Caribbean ocean and is backed by arid mountains. The wind constantly sweeps through this place, where the town’s artisanal fishing-based economy lends itself to a rustic way of life. As I accompany the researchers outside, they exhibit the least of inhibitions and ask question after question: ¿Cómo se dice laboratorio de ambientes acuáticos? (How do you say aquatic environments laboratory?); ¿Comó se dice area de preparación de taxidermia? (How do you say taxidermy prep area?); ¿Cómo se dice campana? (How do you say fume hood?). Truth be told, my heart lies in the natural sciences, so I feel ecstatic at each of their questions.

Yet the “teacher” learns as much as the students – or even more. In college, my studies almost exclusively focused on terrestrial ecology. Marine biology was out of the picture. Now I find myself working with researchers whose professional lives focus on marine organisms, ranging from bivalves to sea birds to sea snails. Never having studied these topics, I learn a great deal talking to workshop participants and reading their papers. For example, one researcher’s work shows that the bivalve Emerita portoricensis is capable of accumulating heavy metals (such as mercury) from its surrounding environment without dying. Scientists can take samples of this mollusk to the laboratory and analyze the levels of contaminants in its somatic and reproductive tissues. In this case, E. portoricensis becomes an invaluable bio-indicator of industrial pollution in the marine environment. Forgive my digression, but it never hurts to learn new things, albeit in unanticipated ways. And on a personal level, my unexpected project with the Guayacán researchers elucidates this.


*meshugah: mad or idiotic (Yiddish)

Dionysus Meets Calypso

The calypso-throbbing car ride was a prelude to the imminent madness as I traveled from Cumaná to Güiria – the hometown of my friend Chichi. In this large town, I planned to celebrate my first Carnaval. Not far from the island of Trinidad, Güiria lies to the east of Cumaná and boasts a prominent Afro-Caribbean culture. Every year, Güiria’s celebration includes three days of parades through its streets, and groups compete with themed floats and costumes to win cash prizes. This year, Chichi’s family chose the theme Reino Maya (“Mayan Kingdom”). Upon their invitation, I decided to partake in the family’s efforts and merrymaking and was ready to help with the preparations upon arrival in Güiria. I was in the car with Chichi’s cousin, Kathi, for Chichi had gone to his town a few days earlier to prepare for the festivities. As the music thumped from the car’s oversized speakers, Kathi warned me: “Carnaval will be pure calypso.”

I arrived at Chichi’s house to witness a mess of cardboard, foam, glue, colored paper, sequins, and glitter, representing the whole gamut of arts and crafts supplies. It was Friday evening, and precious little time remained. We had less than forty-eight hours to re-construct the Mayan kingdom. Sunday was to mark the beginning of the parades, serving as a short, introductory stroll around the town. The parades were to become progressively longer and more elaborate on Monday and Tuesday. As I arrived, most of the people at Chichi’s house had finished their costume making for the day, so the evening strictly involved introductions as I met family members and friends.

The next day’s work party was light-hearted yet focused. After early morning coffee, Saturday went by as a frenzy of supply shopping and costume making. We took unusually short breaks to eat between long intervals of work. Surprisingly, this operation was well managed and determined in order to maximize productivity; Venezuelans do not mess around when it comes to their celebrations. After calling it quits for the day, we had a quick dinner and then went to the central plaza to dance to Trinidadian calypso bands until 3:30 in the morning. Everyone considered this a well rounded day for the Carnaval season.

On Sunday morning, we continued to prepare for the first parade.

The majority of the twenty-five young women in our group had their costumes ready and began dusting their bodies with glitter by 3:00, yet most of the men had not finished their costumes. Those who were ready joined the parade as part of the gradual warm-up to welcome Carnaval. In this spirit, I attempted to get some pointers on calypso from the dancers in the group, braving many chuckles and befuddled stares. Nonetheless, the tutorial felt beneficial; I slowly felt more comfortable gyrating to the music.

After the introductory procession finished, late night dancing in the plaza followed again until 2:30 am.

The dozen or so men finished their costumes by the Monday afternoon, ready to complement the female dancers. We arrived at the starting-point of the parade on time around 4:00, and the parade began a short while after Chichi and his parents directed us into our formation. Lubricated with Venezuelan-made Cacique rum, our mini-Mayan kingdom shimmied, trotted, gyrated and boogied through the whole town, following a truck decked out with six large speakers that blasted the same three Calypso songs over and over again. Despite the constant dancing, the body pays no attention to fatigue under these conditions. The revelry ended five hours later, and my exhaustion hit me hard. We came home to change out of our costumes, and, though Chichi and his friends went back to the plaza to continue, I plopped my pseudo, Mayan-clad body onto my bed. I became a corpse that was not about to move anytime soon.

That evening’s solid nine hours of sleep helped me recover, and we all needed sufficient energy for the final parade. The festival’s judges were to evaluate the different groups, so this day counted the most as far as the competition was concerned. Yet so much work remained because we had not finished our group’s most elaborate costumes. Moreover, the glitter, sequins, and shiny paper had begun to fall off my costume’s cardboard skeleton, requiring ample treatment with the hot glue gun. The fervent day progressed from governable madness to frenetic insanity as dozens of people ran around the house shouting for help, fishing for stray supplies, and dousing costumes with the final reserves of glitter. Yet by mid-afternoon, the fiasco had barely begun.

The following is an abridged chronology of the final day’s nine-hour debacle:
3:00 – Parade groups must arrive at parade origin; Reino Mayan is still at its headquarters (a.k.a. Chichi’s house).
3:30 – Half of the Reino Maya is ready while the other half completes “finishing touches.”
4:30 – Individuals of the Reino Maya who are ready – approximately 70% of the group – depart and find a spot in the parade near the center of town.
4:45 – Chichi´s parents decide that we must wait for the rest of the group, so we leave the parade.
5:30 – The rest of the group arrives, including our group’s drag queen (see adjacent photograph), and we find a new spot in the parade.
6:30 – The Reino Maya passes by the judges, eking out smiles despite our collective exhaustion. Loop number one around the town is completed near the plaza.
7:30 – Our group gets mid-way through loop number two. Despite the continual calypso music, my hips cease to gyrate.
8:30 – Completing loop number two, we arrive at the plaza, and I am near the point of physical collapse.
8:45 – The judges announce the top five groups. The Reino Maya goes unmentioned.
9:15 – Defeated, we disrobe our regalia and kvetch. My feet are numb.
10:00 – Chichi and his friends decide that they want to continue the rumba (“party”), which brings us back to the hoards of calypso dancers in the plaza.
12:00 – Carnaval officially ends, prompting the calypso music to stop. Finally.



Having experienced four and a half days of preparation and celebration, and I can now comprehend a few of Carnival’s major attributes with greater clarity. Attribute number 1: the inescapability of glitter. We used glitter abundantly to decorate our costumes because dullness has no place in Carnaval. Yet the omnipresence of glitter was absurd. Despite bathing twice a day since arriving at Chichi’s house, glitter adhered to my hair and skin. I found it in my bed. I found it on the bathroom floor. All of my clothes were speckled with glitter. Attribute number 2: the mesmerizing and sensual singularity of calypso. Calypso music and the accompanying dance support the Venezuelan saying, “Carnaval is carnal.” See the video clip below to better understand this phenomenon (click here). Attribute number 3: progressive exhaustion. Besides a lack of sleep, my body experienced soreness from the pelvis down: hips, thighs, hamstring and feet. Upon moving my body in ways I had never attempted, I utilized new muscles that began to ache. Most of this fatigue undoubtedly resulted from the three, four or five hour periods of straight dancing during the afternoon parade and the nighttime concerts in the plaza. It appeared as though the town of Güiria tried to kill me with so much dancing, and I thought to myself by the end, “At least I’ll be lightly dusted in glitter if I die.” Yet out of all parties that I have ever attended, this was the most fun, absorbing, and Dionysian of them all. It would be a shame to never spend another Carnaval in Güiria ever again.

From the Sidelines

“So what do you think of Chávez?” I cease to count the number of Venezuelans who ask me this question, one that provokes most Venezuelans to either venerate or curse their controversial president. Neither sheepish nor self-censored in his conduct, Hugo Chávez and his United Socialist Party of Venezuela (PSUV) run a political machine that has decimated the power of the fractured opposition, allowing Chávez to garner power. His efforts continue as he calls the country to vote on a constitutional amendment that, if passed, would end presidential term limits. Political views are extremely polarized in this country, manifested by an omnipresent politicized culture that is electrified and sometimes volatile. This culture, which I see every day in one form or another, gets closer and closer to the breaking point in light of the upcoming vote.

Campaigners set up posts throughout every neighborhood of Cumaná. At these sites, groups of red-clad PSUV party members promote the president’s constitutional amendment in preparation for the vote on February 15th. The amendment would allow President Chávez – as well as governors, mayors and senators – to run for the same elected office without term limits. The current two term limit requires Chávez to end his presidency in 2012, though this amendment would allow him to run for a third presidential term. His campaign’s force upon the senses cannot be overstated. The masses of his supporters wear red shirts that state: “Chávez Sí,” “¡Uh! ¡Ah! Chávez con el Pueblo Sí Va,” to name a few. One also encounters shirts bearing the images of Chávez, Che Guevara, and the ubiquitous star of the PSUV. And behind every large group of supporters lies a pickup truck with large speakers. At full volumen, campaigners play salsa, joropo and samba music commissioned by the president. This bizarrely political tropical music extols the virtues of “el comandante Chávez” and socialism, arguing that the president must stay.

Of course, no political campaign would be complete without sufficient literature, and one can find plenty. For example, a member of the local port workers´ union handed me a pamphlet to promote the amendment. It posits that the amendment would “strengthen and consolidate the internal unity of the Bolivarian forces for the leader of the Revolution, being a forceful message against the enemies of the patria inside and outside of Venezuela." In the case that the amendment were to fail, the pamphlet continues, “Varied forms of political retaliation and vengeance against the people would be committed by the oligarchs. Their truly fascist essences remain withdrawn as they wait their moment,” The rhetorical tone of chavista (pro-Chávez) supporters is noteworthy; they take advantage of the polarized political scenario and impart a pressing sense of urgency.

While the campaigners don their red shirts, disperse their pamphlets and play music encoded with subliminal socialistic messages, a less coordinated and more subtle manifestation of discontent pops up in many places.

At the university’s Department of Modern Languages, most English professors with whom I work readily denounce Chávez, blaming nearly all of Venezuela´s domestic problems (e.g., rising delinquency, inflation, unemployment, etc.) on their president. For example, one co-worker sends her friends text messages that joke about the president. Others lament that it is difficult to find a job unless one has PSUV membership. Suffice it to say, red is a color rarely found within the offices of the Department of Modern Languages.

While waiting for the bus last Tuesday, I overheard an elderly man as he harangued his wife about the government: “Este país está arrecho,” essentially meaning fouled up beyond all recognition. He continued to argue that the country cannot function with so many days off, referring to the previous Monday and Tuesday that Chávez declared a national holiday. The president intended to commemorate the ten-year anniversary of his “revolutionary” government but declared the holiday less than forty-eight hours before on Saturday evening. The gentleman added that Venezuela will probably shut down for a whole week if Chavéz wins his constitutional amendment.

However, those who oppose the current government fail to muster any cohesive voice against the petroleum-dollar spending political machine of Chávez. In downtown Cumaná, the only opposition slogan found painted on the walls is “No is No.” I noticed this painted on a few walls compared to the thousands of murals and posters that promote the amendment.

The abundant posters, chants, songs, reproachful comments, graffiti and t-shirts make me dizzy at times. I felt this effect last Tuesday having heard the man at the bus stop and then passing by hoards of chavistas on the street during the bus ride. After hoping off the bus in the historic downtown, I strolled past the remains of the old capital building (see picture above), once the office of the Sucre State governor. A group of students firebombed the building years ago during protests. Ironically, the remaining façade and the vegetation within the ruins present a numbing yet eloquent image; it is a stark local symbol of political clashes at their worst. I recalled the question: “So what do you think of Chávez?” “Neutral,” I tell myself. It is best to stand on the sidelines when confronted by Venezuelan politics.

Venezuela on a Plate

I say gracias a Dios every time that Richard, my Venezuelan housemate, invites me to try the food that he prepares. Reticent yet good humored, Richard studies math at the university where I work in Cumaná, but he was born and raised in a small rural town a three hours away called Río Caribe. The best word to describe him in Yiddish would be a male baleboosteh: an excellent and praiseworthy homemaker.* Though Richard has yet to make cholent or kasha and varnishkes,** his culinary interpretations of traditional Venezuelan fare are never less than superb. Richard told me a few weeks ago that he would teach me to make arroz con pollo (chicken and rice) under the condition that I buy the chicken. Who would ever kvetch‡ at the proposition of a cooking class that were to cost only a chicken? Giving up a golden opportunity such as this would be a real shandeh†; I accepted.

Common logic, for better or worse, dictated that we would have to go to a market in order to buy a chicken. Accordingly, off we went to the Express Mall supermarket the previous evening. Before we checked out at the cash register, I decided to go on an extended tour of the supermarket in order to browse and ascertain the scarce food items of the week. There is never an extreme shortage of food at the supermarket, yet there are always a few food items in scarcity. I do not yet fully understand the specific economic mechanisms that influence this occurrence – further investigation is required. For example, a few basic items like sugar fail to appear on store shelves for weeks at a time; stocks of some luxuries like ice cream are often nearly depleted; and, most paradoxically, ground coffee recently disappeared from supermarkets after its price doubled, which is most surprising given the flourishing presence of local coffee production within hours of Cumaná. Regardless, most items in stores are regularly available, including the necessary staples to make arroz con pollo. Richard and I came home that evening with every ingredient.

Richard and I began to cook around noon the next day. As we went through the different steps, I jotted down the recipe, which can be found at the end of this entry. No major mishaps occurred fortunately. The pot of chicken and rice did not explode nor fall down on the ground. Neither of us burned anything.

Our two friends Mery and Albelk stopped by to join our feast, and we began to eat shortly after Albelk prepared fresh squeezed orange and parchita fruit juice. We served the arroz con pollo onto each individual plate, completing each with a garnish of fried plantain. The table was set. Appreciative of the rich plates of food in front of us, we duly exchanged the Spanish phrase buen provecho, meaning “bon appetite,” and the lull in the conversation thereafter indicated the success of the food. I noticed that I was consuming my meal slower than my friends while I struggled to separate the chicken from the bone. Mery soon caught onto my difficulties and stated directly that Venezuelans eat chicken with their hands. Constructive criticism during a meal never hurts when it eases the eating process and harmonizes the etiquette of all at the table. Nervous yet determined, I picked up the chicken with my bare hands and truly joined in on the feast. Not a single morsel was left on my plate soon after.

Click to see the rest of my photos from the cooking lesson.

Recipe: Richard´s Arroz con Pollo

Ingredients:

3 cups of rice
4.5 cups of water
1 chicken breast or 5 thighs
Adobo spice (powder mix)
10 cloves of garlic, mashed
Rum, preferably Venezuelan (optional)
Hot sauce
3 medium-sized tomatoes
1 large onion
1/2 green pepper
Vegetable oil
Salt
One large ripe plantain

1. Remove the skin and fat from the chicken with a sturdy knife, breaking it into small chunks. Leave the meat on the bones, and place into a large pot.
2. Sprinkle the adobo spice liberally onto all the pieces of chicken.
3. Place mashed garlic into the pot along with a few splashes of hot sauce. Add a few splashes of rum.
4. Dice the tomatoes, onion, and pepper into very small chunks. In a frying pan, heat the vegetable oil and sauté the vegetables until well cooked and slightly browned. This is called aliño.
5. Place the pot of chicken pieces onto the stove, turn onto high heat, and add the aliño to the chicken. Cover the pot and cook 15-20 minutes or until the chicken is cooked.
6. Add the rice and water to the pot of chicken. Add salt to the water to taste. Bring water to boil, cover pot, and reduce stove to low heat. Cook for 20 minutes.
7. As the rice cooks, prepare the fried plantains separately. Slice plantains into 1/4-inch thick slabs. In a pan, fry the plantains in hot vegetable oil until tender and medium browned. Remove from the pan and allow to cool.
8. Serve the rice and chicken in a large plate. Garnish with fried plantains on top.

*Note: according to Leo Rosten´s The Joys of Yiddish, the male equivalent of baleboosteh would be baleboss, meaning “the head of the household; the man of the house.” Yet in practice, the latter of the two fails to encapsulate the ability to cook phenomenally, so I choose baleboosteh at the risk of violating the Yiddish gender dichotomy
** Two delicacies that every ashkenazic Jewish grandmother should know how to prepare (Yiddish)
‡ Complain (Yiddish)
† Shame (Yiddish)

Two Beaches Side by Side

My plane arrived in Santiago from Caracas at about 11:00 pm. Finally, I had returned to Chile since my studies in Concepcion and Santiago three years ago. My year studying abroad in Chile had a big impact on me, yet many other experiences had occurred since then: graduation from college, a few short jobs and internships, a seven month period living in Mexico, among others. Most recently, I have adjusted to the culture and, to a lesser extent, the tropical climate of Venezuela. Though they are both South American countries, the difference between Venezuela and Chile is like night and day. And though Chile always occupied a special place in my heart, I felt nervous before my arrival as many questions simmered in my head: Were my memories and love for Chile embellished and dated? Would Chile sweep me off my feet the way that it did once upon a time? How do Chile and Venezuela compare with one another side by side?

To answer these questions, I have to take you to two beaches: Mochima in Venezuela, and Llico in Chile. The first might be confused for a steamy version of paradise upon first glance. If you look at your feet, which are probably bare, you see fine white granules of sand, free of garbage, seaweed, and other types of detritus. Looking down further, a soft breeze tosses the crystalline water into gentle waves; a handful of ostentatious yachts rest not far from the hot sand. Mochima is a protected national park near my current residence in Cumaná, Venezuela. On occasions such as this, life feels good, and I cannot kvetch. I am lucky to have the company of my Venezuelan friends Eliana, Roamir, Pablo, and Rachel, another North American English teacher. Of course, we are not alone: other beach-going Venezuelans pack the shore too. Given the hot weather, everyone tends to minimize the amount of clothing worn. For better or worse, the women with bikinis have their speedo-sporting male counterparts as well. "To each his own," I think. The beach in Venezuela typically is no place for modesty.

One can observe this effusive air by the anthropogenic sounds too. In addition to the soft breeze, the Latin beats of salsa, merengue, and reggaeton are as loud and inescapable at the beach as they are in the streets of downtown Cumaná. Moreover, my friends (mainly the male ones) constantly joke in a raucous manner without a concern for the volume of their voices. And why should anyone worry? There is no reason to hush one’s voice when children and adults alike scream as they play in the warm Caribbean water.

The second beach has a very different feel as I look down at my feet, closed toed shoes still on, and see that the sand is darker and less fine. Though it is on the same continent of South America as Mochima, one sees, feels and hears stark differences in the fishermen’s cove of Llico in southern Chile where I stand with my two good friends Lucho and Cristian Díaz*. Upon looking at the expanse of beach, I see a mosaic composed of seaweed, broken shells, black speckled sand and wind-swept bluffs. Wind is the operative word in this land because it is strong and inescapable, complemented by the crash of the waves. The large trees brave the wind’s force, yet there is certainly no Caribbean palm tree in sight, nor do the locals slurp down piña coladas to wash down their empanadas. Regardless, plenty of Chilean families enjoy the beach’s rugged beauty, though it is not as packed as its aforementioned Venezuelan counterpart. Locals test their nerves in the frigid water of the Pacific Ocean, yet taking a dip is less tempting for me, especially as I think about the tropical waters of Mochima. I am more than content admiring the scenery.

And certain acoustic qualities of the beach in Llico are apparent in every corner of the country. True to its Latin American identity, the streets in the Chile have the ongoing serenade of reggaeton and other Latin American pop music. However, the music is rarely heard at ear-drum bursting volumes that assault all who trot the streets of Venezuela. I have also noticed that people tend to speak at a slightly hushed volume in Chile, and the jokes told by Chileans come off as more tame and lack the double meaning that is characteristic of the Venezuelan sense of humor. Regardless, I have a wonderful time with Lucho and Cristian, who –like my Venezuelan friends Eliana, Roamir and Pablo – provide great company, local knowledge and their own well-rounded sense of humor. Based on such observations, Chile begins to feel as sincere as much as it is conservative, measured, and subtle in its style.

The juxtaposition of this tamed temperament and the coastal landscape creates a timeless allure in this country. In other words, one encounters warm and inviting people who are willing to share everything in the face of impressive yet less-than-paradisal landscapes. Neither better nor worse than the offerings of Venezuela, it is simply different. Llico absorbs me completely before long, tempting me to stare along the whole coastline as the wind jostles my hair. I cannot get enough of it.

*Lucho and Cristian are both from the fishing town Lebu, which is about an hour and a half from Llico. The pictures from Chile in this post were taken in Lebu.

Chutzpa and a Venezuelan Bakery

In Leo Rosten´s lexicographic classic The Joys of Yiddish, the reader can find ample synonyms for the word chutzpa: “gall, brazen nerve, effrontery, incredible ‘guts’,” all of which come from the ancestral Hebrew word for audacity (92-93). I find myself encountering a special type of chutzpa on a frequent basis in Venezuela, and it exists in the form of blunt honesty blended with an affinity to joke about people playfully and constantly. In Spanish, Venezuelans refer to this ubiquitous practice as echar broma, often involving a healthy dose of double entendre. I take you to the local bakery near my apartment in Cumaná to illustrate this.

One day late in the afternoon, I walked into the local bakery. The clerks at the display case were busy as usual while they served the steady flow of customers. “Here comes Harry Potter” I heard one clerk whisper to the other as I approached; nearly everyone in the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela has told me that I look like Harry Potter. Fighting my way towards the front, as is the standard, I gave my usual “hola, buenas tardes” to the young female clerk who was about to take my order. The clerks had already begun to make fun of me regularly, having been a customer for about a month and a half. This usually had involved exaggerated impersonations of my thick foreign accent. Yet today the practice of echar broma strayed from the limited realm of pronunciation, and the young woman took a different approach.

“Do you like to drink tomato juice,” the clerk asked me.
I responded sheepishly, “No, I do not like tomato juice.” I was a little surprised too.
“You don’t like tomato juice!?”
“No I don’t. Why do you ask?”
“Are you telling me that you never drink tomato juice!?!” she continued.
“He doesn’t like tomato juice,” chimed in a nearby clerk.
I began to feel more nervous, and everyone in line seemed to notice the banter taking place. My body temperature began to rise; someone had turned up the thermostat in eastern Venezuela. “Why do you want to know whether or not I like to drink tomato juice?” I asked vexingly.
“Because you look like a tomato!” she cried out, referring to my rosy complexion aggravated by the tropical climate and embarrassment. The other clerks and a few customers let out a series giggles as I stood at the front of the line speechless.

This chutzpa characterizes the art of echar broma, and I learn everyday that it is something to be embraced and reciprocated.

For this reason, Venezuelans fearlessly make their jokes in a back and forth fashion, pushing the stakes higher and higher. I would call many of their jokes border line harsh by the standards of the United States. In a similar fashion, most nicknames clearly point out a person’s physical imperfections. However, these jokes always end in reassuring and reciprocating grins no matter the degree of audacity employed in the joke.

So, the next day I figured that the clerks working the counter would have no problem with a photo shoot for my blog. I showed up at the bakery around closing time when customer traffic was minimal and explained to the clerks my reasons for taking a few pictures. They did not understand the concept of a blog during my spiel, yet they quickly revealed excitement after I asked permission to take some pictures. Suffice it to say, the photo shoot was successful.

Sometimes the Venezuelan style of echar broma can come off too boldly, especially since we tend to take jokes on physical appearance quite personally in the United States. Yet as I become more accustomed to these tendencies of Venezuelan culture, I realize that it is a two-way street requiring a proper exchange of quips. Accordingly, I try my best to joke back and with success; my grin seems to be wider and wider each time I leave the bakery.


Work Cited
Rosten, Leo. The Joys of Yiddish. New York: Pocket Books, 1973.

La Rumba de Una Boda Venezolana

My good friends Eliana and Roamir invited me to their wedding last weekend, giving me a genuine and incredible taste of a gigantic fiesta venezolana. Venezuelans commonly refer to a party as una rumba, and a wedding is probably one of the best examples. Think Jewish Bar Mitzva party meets Caribbean wedding, and Johnny Walker Whiskey substitutes the Manischewitz wine. After the church ceremony, the highlight of the evening was the infamous "hora loca" (crazy hour). This occurrence resembles carnaval more than anything else as masks, whistles and colorful hats were dispersed to the tunes of merengue, salsa, samba and tambor music. The rumba began to settle down by 3:30 am having begun around 10:00 pm. Take a look for yourself to get an idea of what it was like. You can see my album here. Though not a single champagne glass was broken during the evening, I offer a hearty mazel tov to Eliana and Roamir.

Election Special

Anything Can Happen in Venezuela
Many Venezuelans have asked me questions about the U.S. elections since my arrival. Those interested wanted to know more about the two candidates and always asked me who I prefer between Obama and McCain. In light of the marked differences between the two candidates that will influence U.S. and Venezuela relations, one professor requested that I present an overview of the election to her class last Wednesday.

I prepared a PowerPoint presentation ahead of time, describing the backgrounds of the candidates and elucidating an abridged version of the Republican and Democratic Party platforms. During my preparation, the thought of self-proclaimed objectivity struck me as hollow at best, yet I strove to present the two candidates in the most balanced way possible. My self-imposed guidelines included: no irate denigrations of either candidate; no condescending remarks; and, no explicitly partisan references in my bibliography (i.e., MoveOn.org, The Family Research Council). More often than not, I cited the New York Times website for reference. I tried my best.

Before beginning the presentation on Wednesday, I asked the class first if they already preferred one candidate over another: thirteen decided, 2 undecided. Thirteen percent of the class electorate still had to choose, compared to four percent of Americans. After the presentation, the professor and I held two classroom wide votes. The first "vote" resembled a publicly held opinion poll, yet it was bound for error due to its primitive design. I asked those in favor of McCain to raise their hands – not a single hand when up. All students raised their hands when I asked who preferred Obama. Suffice it to say, third parties seemed inconsequential, yet a student had told me earlier that anything can happen in Venezuela (e.g., a socialist president rises to power, a businessmen boards a plane with over $100,000 in his briefcase, etc). Therefore, the professor and I decided to cast a secret ballot vote lest the Bradley Effect muddle the true will of the class electorate. We handed out sticky notes as improvised ballots to the students. The result: Obama fourteen, McCain zero, Chavez 1. "Chavez!" I exclaimed as the professor told me the outcome. Chavez – who does not claim much popularity among the English language students at the university – beat McCain in our class election. It later became apparent that the vote for Chavez in our class election turned out to be a joke, which explains why the whole class erupted into laughter. The student who claimed that anything can happen in Venezuela beamed.


Policy Changes to Come
For those interested, I offer some impressions from my U.S.–Venezuela policy grab bag. Take the differences between candidates with a grain of salt. Between Obama and McCain, the former hints a greater willingness to sit down and negotiate with world leaders that resist or besmirch U.S. foreign policy (i.e., President Hugo Chavez). I’m also told that Chavez tends to berate McCain more often than Obama, so Chavez may be less likely to curse the U.S. executive should the democrats take the country’s highest political office. Yet beyond the Chavez rants, U.S. energy policy of the next administration can shift significantly American and Venezuelan positions on the geopolitical map. Currently petroleum accounts for 80% of Venezuelan export revenues. The country exports much of its hydrocarbons to the United States, and the profits fund a large proportion of the Venezuelan government’s operations. The next U.S. president could change this. If the next commander chief decreases demand for oil imports, then the U.S. will depend less on Venezuela to sate its thirst for oil. And, Hugo Chavez will need another buyer to whom he can sell Venezuelan oil, though the specifics are still beyond my knowledge. Regardless, the next president will shape U.S. energy policy and demand for imported oil, which will shape the course of Venezuela´s economy and government without a doubt.

Stress or Lack Thereof?

My work in Cumaná entails an English Teaching Assistantship at the Universidad del Oriente, known by locals as La Udo. Two weeks have passed since my arrival, and I have spent my time getting acquainted with the teachers in the Department of Modern Languages, observing different classes and tutoring students. I have witnessed a sampling of inefficiencies that hamper the smooth function of the university — a hoo-ha here, a hullabaloo there. Yet people at the university maintain a low- or no-stress attitude and a care-free air. This is a counterintuitive curiosity to me.


In this last week alone, I have encountered a plethora of schedule blips and logistic snags that extend beyond the occasional tardy teacher or broken light bulb. For example, three classes that I was to observe – including one scheduled to commence at 7:00 am – never happened. No one showed up. Then there is the issue of electricity, which is something that is especially easy to take for granted. On Thursday, the school’s power went out on and off for about three hours. Lights go out, teachers´ technology dependent lessons are foiled, and air conditioning ceases to exist in the midst of 90˚ F heat. A professor told me that President Chavez claims the nation’s rolling blackouts to be the result of conspiracy from the political opposition; many see the blackouts simply as a symptom of overwhelming inefficiency and shoddy maintenance. All the while teachers and students shrug there shoulders and go outside to wait.

People continue to exude an unflappable and tranquil attitude, and that is exactly what most calls my attention.

Generally, most institutions in the United States run smoothly. Business obligations and classes tend to move along in a timely fashion, and public utilities deliver water, electricity and other resources expectedly and efficiently. And who would kvetch about the more temperate weather? Nonetheless, many people are excessively stressed-out in the United States. True, not everyone is on the brink of mental collapse at the exact same time, nor can I express quantitatively the degree to which people stress themselves out in the U.S. However, the relative absence of anxiety and tension here in the Caribbean city of Cumaná is so obvious, qualitatively speaking. Though the U.S. might be a haven for mental health professionals that specialize in stress disorders, Americans can still learn something in this area: a cultural norm to decrease stress.

Thus the age-old chicken-and-egg hypothesis comes into play: which came first, the logistical inefficiency or the low stress attitudes? In other words, do the inefficiencies in the country contribute to a decreased urgency, or does a relaxed lifestyle cause inefficiency? At the same time, I do not wish to glorify and romanticize the infrastructure problems that contribute to electricity failures and other public utility shortcomings. The black outs raise other pressing questions too. For example: to what extent do power failures have an impact on the quality of education in Venezuela? Moreover, must efficiency and a lifestyle characterized by low-stress be mutually exclusive?

Readers, please let me know if you think of any other questions worth asking Venezuelans. If you happen to be a Venezuelan reading this, then please do not hesitate to criticize my points. Perhaps only time, some casual investigation and a few more black outs will allow me to craft a more informed speculation.

My plane hit the tarmac at approximately 5:15 am in Maiquetía Airport, and I had only slept about two or three hours since leaving San Francisco. Fortunately, the frigid yet smooth encounters with Venezuelan immigration and customs officials never fully registered because of my drowsy state. Bumper to bumper traffic and one and a half hours later (“¡At 5:45 in the morning!”), I arrive at the hotel. Not much exploring happened despite the fact that nothing was scheduled. Tropical urban jungle would be the first words that come to mind when describing Caracas. Yet adventures dodging maniacal drivers and standing out seemed like the agenda item for another day; sleep and down time had more appeal.

Thus I do not have any colorful vignettes to tell, nor much scenery to describe besides the concrete gray skyscrapers that I can see from my sixth floor hotel room. However, as I study the Caracas Yellow Pages and listen to salsa music on the radio station, I offer a few motley observations from the phone book that begin to affect my impression of Venezuela:

• Che Guevara has his special place in the Paginas Amarillas. The very first page of the yellow pages advertises “7 inaugurated companies of social property.” At the bottom of the advertisement, the Bolivarian Government of Venezuela asserts “¡Fatherland, socialism or death! … ¡We will triumph!”


• What do yoga studios, beauty salons and aesthetic medicine have in common? You can find them all in the fourteen-page section of yellow pages that bears the title “Aesthetic and Beauty Guide.” Venezuela is world renowned for its winning track record at beauty pageants, and its beauty-related industry is big business.


• How much do you know about Caracas? One advertisement in the phone book highlights the virtues of the plant for which the Venezuelan capital city was named. According to this extremely informative text, the Caracas plant can treat cases of diarrhea, fever, sore throat, dysentery, intestinal hemorrhages, excessive menstruation and parasites. Its leaves contain more vitamin A and Vitamin C than an orange, and provide various beneficial minerals. Fortunate for Venezuelans, the national production of flour, tea, pasta and crackers features this illustrious plant.

Language aside, could this plethora of information ever exist in a North American yellow pages guide? If the phone book is any indication, I have a hunch that my next ten months here will be pretty exciting and educational.