Thursday, February 18, 2010

bom dia brazil


The flight from Caracas to São Paulo took around six hours, but because São Paulo is two and a half hours ahead of Caracas (itself a half hour ahead of Boston) I spent most of the day in transit, and the São Paulo International Airport did everything in its power to prolong this exposure. Collecting my bags, I made a valiant effort to exit the airport, but was foiled my the cleverly-designed Duty Free shop that appeared to be guarding the exit. In reality, having failed to notice what was little more than an unmarked door leading out into the airport, I entered a maze of tax-free items from which there was no escape. It took me the better part of 20 minutes just to get to the point where I could then wait to clear customs and officially enter the country. After a bit of chaos, I was able to get a cab into town that dropped me off at my friend Walter's apartment, a little more than 15 hours since I had first left the apartment in Caracas.

Surprisingly alert, I showered, changed, and joined Walter and a collection of his friends for diner at a nice little Italian/Brazilian restaurant. The food was great, the company was excellent, and it was a good opportunity for me to meet the group of people I would be spending a good deal of time with over the next few weeks. After dinner, we drove to a rather hip and trendy night club as a way of integrating me into Paulista culture. We stayed out late enough for me to be just shy of the 24 hour-long day mark, and I was properly exhausted when we finally returned to Walter's place. I must say, he had quite the set up ready for me in his converted three-bedroom apartment, and I continued to feel spoiled by South America as I sank into my comfortable double-bed.

The next day was kicked off by a stop by a nearby shopping mall with Walter's friend Andrea. I was hoping to find some clothes to replace the ones stolen in Venezuela, but time and again Brazilian fashion/sizes didn't exactly conform to even my more eccentric standards. I returned from my shopping venture to pack for a trip out to Walter's country house out in Minas, which promised to offer a few days of rest, relaxation, and (most importantly for me) rural surroundings. Adrea was also coming along, and the two of us met Walter and walked over to his parent's apartment (half a block down the street from Walter's) for a quick lunch followed by a frenzy of loading. Soon enough we were off, the towers of São Paulo melting away into the background as we sped north.

Whizzing by the Brazilian countryside.

The drive took most of the afternoon, and when we finally pilled out of the car in the charming provincial town of Saint Sebastian of Paradise, I was more than ready to stretch my legs. made a pit stop to see Walter's grandmother - most of his family lives in SSoP. We had a light dinner, performed a rather inspired arrangement on kiddie instruments for Octavio - Walter's gigantic 16-month old cousin - and then headed off for the country house. Andrea and I were shown to our rooms, and we spent of the rest of the evening relaxing by the pool. The pool would largely become the focal point of our activities over the next few days. I have to imagine that in the few days we spent in SSoP, I swam as much in this pool as I did my own back in New Hampshire, during its all too brief life. In the morning, I would wake up before anyone else, and slip down to the water for a few laps while breakfast was set out by the maid. Walter's father was usually the first up after me, and we would sit and enjoy an embarrassingly full breakfast while everyone else slowly left their beds. Walter was always the last out of bed by far, and I grew to not expect the pleasure of his company before 13:00, though usually much later. This was in part a symptom of a developed nocturnal habit that usually kept us up passed 3:00 in the morning (on at least one occasion everyone did not sit down to dinner until a quarter to midnight), and in part a result of the excellent sleeping environment provided by the countryside.

Casa, sweet casa.

On our second full day in Minas, we took a trip out to see the family ranch, and the "villa rustica" (as apt a way of employing my Latin education to describe something as I've come across) farther out of town. Our adventure began with a tour of the villa rustica, currently in the final stages of construction. The tour was punctuated by a visit to the basement, where with a series of loud claps, Walter's father startled some bats into flying around our heads. A second round of applause accidentally frightened a pair of bats into the main area of the house where we cooridinated our efforts to herd them outdoors. Quite proud of our mastery of nature, Walter, Andrea, and I continued our tour of the grounds, where I enjoyed seeing my first wild parrots and leaf-cutter ants. There were, I am grieved to report, no monkies in the trees that day, and so the bats, birds, and bugs were the only creatures I was able to see.

An admirable Land Rover advertisement if I do say so myself.

Before returning to the country house, we drove through the family coffee plantation in persuit of a rather elusive waterfall, nessled in one of the few stretches of pristine Atlantic forest left. While the womenfolk waited in the car, Walter, his father, and I set out through the mud and vines on an admittedly short, yet very satisfying expedition. The waterfall thus appriciated (from a safe distance, given my history with foreign waterfalls) we returned to our lives of near-comatose activity lounging by the pool.

Brave river explorers.

Different branches of Walter's family were constantly stopping by the house, and it was right after a rather large family lunch that one of Walter's cousins happened upon my Portuguese phrase book. It is fare to say that the selection of words and phrases complied in such a book provide insight as to the author's opinion on what forms of social interaction their readers are likely to be involved in. And so much was made of the "Dating", "Romance", and "Problems" sections of the book, which were the cause of many mock-scandalized looks cast my way.

Gazing out at SSoP from the window of my room.

We spent our last days in pool and hammock-related relaxation before finally packing things up and heading back to the city. Saint Sebastian of Paradise provided an excellent introduction to Brazilian food, culture, and napping habits, but it was time to switch things up with a proper immersion into the São Paulo nightlife. But that's a story for another time.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

vamos de venezuela


Returning to Caracas from Merida involved more Spanish than I was prepared for. When I left for Merida a few days earlier, it was from "the good bus station" which is conveniently close by my apartment. But when the bus pulled into an unfamiliar station in an unfamiliar part of town, I grew concerned. Exiting the bus I was immediately set upon by a small gaggle of taxi drivers, each more eager than the next to welcome me into their cabs. The problem was that any time I mentioned the address of the apartment, I received confused, yet hopeful expressions; as if I might give up on this foolish address and pick a more familiar destination. Finally, one enterprising driver decided to put on a confidant face at hearing the address, and gestured me to his cab. Ten minutes into the drive, and it turned out that this show of confidence was nothing more than a clever ruse. It seems my driver was relying on my mastery of the layout of Caracas - explained to him in my fluent Spanish - in order to bring me to my desired location.

Navigating through Caracas.

Things went better than I would have expected, and through a haphazard stream of "left", "right"s, I somehow managed to navigate my way through the city, and arrive at the apartment. Having achieved such unexpected success (as fifteen minutes into the ride, I had all but resigned myself to kidnap and torture) I was quite content to take inventory of my remaining possessions and crash for the rest of the day. That night I met up with Ricky's friend Ignacio, and we swung by his apartment for a relaxed house party populated largely by Ignacio's relations (it took me a while to appreciate how many people Ignacio is related to, but I can now safely assume that his relatives account for roughly two-thirds of the population of Venezuela).

The next morning, I swung by the Brazilian Consulate to pick up my passport, which contained a shiny new Brazilian visa, before joining Ricky's aunt for a day at the beach. It was a relaxed afternoon of sun, sand, and suspiciously warm ocean water, and it gave me a chance to think through my plans for South America. One of the things left on my Venezuelan itinerary was a hike up Mount Avila, the moderately-sized peak that separates Caracas from the sea, which stared down at me every morning through the sliding glass windows of the apartment.

Gratuitous greenery.

And so, early the next morning, I found myself at one of the more unusual trail heads I've ever set off on. You see, the city of Caracas, strained by its desire for growth amidst challenging topography, has built itself right up to the very slopes of its surrounding mountain ranges. Which means that this particular trail head began a vertical assent under a main highway artery. Yet climbing higher, I was surprised at how quickly the tell-tail signs of the urban metropolis vanished into a sea of green. While still on the main trail, I passed a number of joggers taking advantage of the cool forest for a morning run, but as the trail branched out, I began to see fewer people until it would seem I had the mountain to myself.

Following a stream as it trickles off the mountain.

The day grew hotter as I climbed higher, and at some point I came upon a little side trail. Offering a more adventurous route up the mountain, I was soon grasping onto tree branches and vines as I followed the twisting "path" higher. Assisted by a newly-carved bamboo walking stick, eventually I reached a high plain, not quite the top of the mountain, but evidently the end of the trail. I tried to find a way to continue my ascent, but quickly realized that I was getting myself lost, and abandoned the summit in pursuit of good sense.

Crawling through the thicket on my way up the mountain.

Tracing my path back down, I was left with some rather spectacular views of the city, which welcomed me back from my all-too-brief escape from its clutches. I spent my afternoon finalizing air arrangements that would take me down to Brazil early the next day, before meeting up with Ricky's cousin Caro for a tour of her university. Exploring the campus, I was then invited into her public speaking class, which I found rather fascinating. There is, of course, so much more to public speaking than the words that you use, and this becomes very evident when you cannot understand the language that a speaker is using. So I watched as various students gave their speeches, focusing my attention on their cadence, inflection, and facial expressions in order to interpret what they were trying to convey. It was a very education experience that was capped by the professor requesting that I give a two minute speech (mercifully in English) about myself.

Gazing down on Caracas

I met Ricky's parents for dinner, and went through the easiest packing experience of my travels in preparation for the morning's flight, but it would seem that my last day in Caracas was not quite over. Ignacio stopped by, wanted to make sure I had a proper send off, and so we retired to a nearby bar for some late night revelry before I finally returned to the apartment and collapsed into bed around 2:30 in the morning. What seemed like minutes later, my 5:00 alarm went off, and I showered, dressed, and said my goodbyes to Ricky's parents before meeting my cab at the front door. I tried to get some sleep during the 45 minute drive to the airport, but I was largely unsuccessful, and so I was still in a bit of a daze when I arrived... which might have explained my suspicious activity. Unsure of where to check in (in my defense, they literally hid the TAM booth behind the area most airports employ for checking in) I began wandering up and down the International Departures area, until a security official literally asked me to come with them for questioning. They rifled through my bag, checked my papers, and thumb printed me before finally revealing to me the location of the TAM booth. And thus, I finally was able to leave Venezuela, bound for more wacky airport adventures in Brazil, but that's a story for another time.


Monday, February 8, 2010

meridan missapropriations


Good afternoon, for those of you who had been following my blog, you will have noticed that for the past few weeks I have not posted. The reason for this will be revealed in this, the first of a series of posts that will hopefully get the story of my South American adventures back on track.

After a good deal of research and planning, I recently found myself on a bus leaving Caracas for Merida - a small mountain city in western Venezuela. Merida is Venezuela's jumping off point to the Andes, and I looked forward to some trekking through the area. So with well-practiced lines of Spanish, I negotiated my way to the bus station, bought a ticket, and found my bus. The 14 hour journey began at 20:00 with a pointless American B action movie: (terrorists take over an area, everyone - including recently introduced disproportionately attractive female character - is taken hostage... except one lone guy, lone guy systematically takes out a series of individual terrorists sent to "check for survivors" while simultaneously trying to convince impatient authorities to "give him more time", lone guy saves disproportionately attractive female character, kills head terrorist in an especially protracted and grizzly sequence, and gives a big pointing thumbs up to the camera. Roll credits). The movie's only redeeming virtue was that it was in English, and so I stayed up to watch it before settling into my fully reclined chair and falling asleep.

Driving through the Andes.

While my sleep suffered through occasional pit stops, twisting roads, and a preference for air conditioning settings that would make penguins uncomfortably cold, I reminded myself that I had been spoiled for sleep over the last weeks. The sun had been up for several hours when we finally arrived in Merida, and I disembarked, collected my luggage, and hailed a cab. Ten minutes and twenty Bolivars later I was standing outside the Posada Guamanchi, which my Lonely Planet guidebook had recommended as a good place to coordinate expeditions into the Andes. I checked into a small, lackluster room, called home on my netbook, and took a short nap before checking out the town. I left my room at 13:00 intent on sampling the cuisine, though the first recommended restaurant I came to was a Venezuelan interpretation of McDonalds. Reviews suggested that the burgers were well worth a stop, and so I did my best to wolf down their famous "Double Quarter Kilo Burger with Cheese" (more than a pound of meat). Having conquered the mountain of meat, I was curious to check out the country's most famous ice cream, located just a few blocks away.

Merida: city of steel and stucco.

The Heladeria Coromoto sits in an unassuming building near the center of town, and has been selling ice cream every Tuesday to Sunday for three generations. And while "chocolate" and "vanilla" are available, more eccentric flavors such as "black bean" and "trout" have helped to make the ice cream shop famous. In fact, for the last seven years, the Heladeria Coromoto has held a page in The Guiness Book of Records for having the largest number of ice cream flavors available. With somewhere between 850 and 950 flavors to choose from (depending on the season and availability of some of the more exotic ingredients) Herladeria has something for everyone. I split my selection between the exotic and the bizarre, getting one scoop of Blue Curaco and one scoop of Polar Beer. The curaco was sweet and delicious, the beer was, well... surprisingly true to flavor. And so I happily finished my frosty treat and made my way back back to my hotel.

A small section of the west-facing wall of the Heladeria Coromoto, also known as the flavor list.

Stepping into my room at 15:00, I did not allow myself to become immediately concerned by the sight that met me. There, on my bed, was something that had not been there when I left: and ID card. But more curious than this addition was the absence of both of my bags. Walking down to reception, ID card in hand, I esquired as to the location of my luggage, and it wasn't until I read the look of panic on the receptionist's face that I knew for certain that I had been robbed.

I spent the next few hours in a bit of a daze, trying to come to grips with the implications of what had happened. Aside from the clothes on my back, I had been left with only my netbook, which after calling home with, I hid (for reasons unknown but fortuitous) in the top shelf of a bureau, and must have been overlooked in the break-in. My camera, passport, wallet, and Tilley Hat were also on my person at the time of the break-in, and for this I was grateful, but as I complied a list for the police of what had been taken, the items kept adding up. The UV water filter I had first used in Iceland, the Camelpack that shadowed me up mountains on three continents, the leather-bound journal I crafted to chronicle my adventure, my iPod, my trusty waterproof jacket, a whole trove of adventure-wear, and my backpack itself, which had been with me though not only my world travels but my European wanderings as well. It was a lot to take in, and most of my regret came from losing the items that had such happy memories attached to them. The cable to my netbook was also amongst the requisitioned items; and after draining the battery to call home and alert my parents as to what had happened, I had been unable to boot it up to blog until just recently.

A mural, showing the liberation of Venezuela from the corrupting influence of the west... the bombs that form the crown of the Statue of Liberty are but some of the many interesting little tidbits you'll notice if you look closely.

Once I got over the shock however, I knew I would have to plan my next moves to make the most of what had just happened. In addition to all the aforementioned material possessions, I had also lost around $900 in cash, part of which I had planned to use to finance my time in Merida and the surrounding region. The hotel was doing everything they could to be accommodating, so I accepted their offer to stay the night (free of charge of course) while I planned my next move. I wanted to get back to Caracas to regroup as soon as possible, but I also didn't want my trip to Merida to be a total wash, so I headed out the next day to take a look around town.

The church in the center of town: one of the few attractive pieces of architecture.

Merida is a small city, benefiting from a large student population and an gorgeous placement high in the Andes. The town itself in not all that nice to look at, as I soon discovered, but after taking the advise of the hotel's receptionist, I found my way to a local bus stop (well-marked, not by signs or a waiting area, but rather the curious collection of impatient locals gathered around a random intersection) and was soon speeding off higher into the mountains. My destination was a a nearby National Park, and the end of the line for the overcrowded minibus. I spend a relaxed afternoon climbing through the foothills of the Andes in a part of the country that could almost be confused as being Alpine. The fresh air and beautiful vistas were a welcome relief from the congestion of Caracas and (to a lesser extent) Merida, and it was with regrets that I eventually found my way back to the minibus stop.

Passing by a ranch house on my way into the mountains.

I spent one more night in Merida after an unsuccessful attempt to buy a ticket back to Carcass at the bus station, and spent my third and final day shopping for essentials, having grown more than a little tired of wearing the same clothes for the last three days. While I could just manage to carry the entirety of my belongings in my hands, I happily accepted the hotel's offer of a small backpack. The WUB (World's Ugliest Bag), as I have come to call it, is almost certainly a product (read: catastrophe) of the 1980's, though I can only imagine it must have seen better days. What started its life as a regrettably purple and teal camping bag has not devolved into a mass of tattered straps, and claps missing sockets. By tying a series of straps together, it is possible to secure the bag around one shoulder, while still conserving the one remaining clasp to close the main flap. Either food, fungus, or feces has become a permanent addition to one part of the "bag" which really helps to bring together the whole theme of the bag. It is a piece of luggage I elected to carry out of Merida with me for only two reasons: It was all that I had; and even the criminally desperate would not steal this bag.

Up in the foothills, wearing the clothes I left Caracas in.

Thus ended my trip to Merida, I will be doing my best to get out daily updates of the next series of my travels until I am back up to date, but for now I have to run.

Friday, January 15, 2010

a tropical socialist paradise


Caracas is a city beset by crime, struggling with poverty, and administered by a corrupt and wildly unpredictable government. It is a city of contrasts, where the majority of the population lives in slums, yet the cost of living for the middle and upper classes is higher than that of New York. A city of necessity rather than design, Caracas has been carved into the mountains as, in search of work, the displaced multitudes from the countryside erect ramshackle dwellings on perilously steep terrain. But there is beauty and serenity here, and thanks to my near-total insulation from the woes of this capital city, I have had a privileged view of Caracas at her best.

Looking out at the streets from behind windows tinted to the point of reflection.

One of my first experiences upon returning to Caracas from Margarita was a stop by a nearby country club. I joined Ricky's family for lunch at the club, which was everything of the classic Latin American image so stereotypically overrun in films about socialist revolution. Lunch was great, if muy picante, and I had the opportunity to try tres leches (a regional dessert made from, you guessed it, three different milks: evaporated, condensed, and heavy cream) unspoiled by resort interpretation. After lunch I accompanied Ricky and his cousin for a drive around town in search of beer memorabilia, in a quest that would ultimately prove unsuccessful. The drive did cement my impression of the buildings of Caracas as the most heavily-fortified I have ever seen. Bars on windows, doors, and even whole patios kept out those who managed to make it over fences secured with barbwire, spikes, shards of broken glass, and electrical wiring. There are few, if any security cameras, because there's no chance of tracking down thieves after the fact, so the emphasis has been overwhelming placed on keeping intruders out.

In addition to fences and barbwire, the denizens of Caracas really love satellite dishes.

After the failure of our mission to procure products related to beer, we commiserated by drinking actual beer at the Boo Cafe. This popular haunt offers an alternative to the Reggaeton-saturated bars are form the staple of Caracas' night life. The brewing industry is dominated by the Polar Corporation, and the varies Polar Beers are light, though reasonably good. The next day was Ricky's last in the country before heading back up to Boston, so we all went out to lunch in the mountains. The drive up with Ricky, his parents, his sister Federica, and her friend, necessitated the use of the 4x4 SUV, both for space and hill-climbing ability. The climb up the twisting mountain road was the steepest I have ever experienced, and it's no wonder that two-wheel drive vehicles are prohibited from following it. When we reached the restaurant, high about the city, everyone piled out of the SUV, and walked out to the patio to enjoy the view.

Clouds, rolling off the mountain.

We were just under 7,000 feet, and staring down at the ocean below helped to reinforce the altitude. Even partially obscured, the view was fantastic, and soon found our way to our table, continuing to take it in. Everyone ordered the three course fondue, the restaurant's specialty, and we were soon enjoying successive cheese, meat, and chocolate offerings. Venezuelan cocoa is the only cocoa in the world that is aromatic, and is therefore prized in chocolate making. While the Belgians have mastered the art of refining this wondrous bean, it was a real treat to enjoy the chocolate in its fresh, raw, and native form. During the meal, the clouds cleared and we were offered a rare glimpse of the coastline below.

Looking down nearly 7,000 feet to the sea.

Ricky and Federica had to be off early the next morning to catch their flight to Boston, so I woke to see them off, before slinking back into bed. I had caught my first address from Presidente de le Republica Hugo Chavez the day before, and his unscheduled announcement had rocked the financial workings of the country. After years of maintaining an official 2.15:1 lock of the Bolivar to the Dollar (2150:1 before three zeros were dropped for the new currency last year) Chavez had gone forward with a devaluation of the Bolivar to peg it at 4.3 Bolivars to the Dollar, effectively cutting personal wealth in half. A rate of 2.3 Bolivars to the Dollar is still in place for goods deemed essential, such as food, medicine, and industrial machinery, though I have no idea how this is being managed. While this development is bad news for the people of Venezuela, tourists in the country with US Dollars (wink wink) now find their official buying power doubled, so you may think that I was pretty excited about all this. Well, you'd be wrong.

I have been trading all of my Dollars on the Black Market, which offers a 6:1 exchange, and has yet to be affected by the devaluation. A Black Market for US Dollars is possible because the government restricts its citizens from exchanging Bolivars into Dollars (or any other currency). So if you are not granted official permission to exchange Bolivars at the official rate, you have to do so on the Black Market. And before you start making all kinds of assumptions about unscrupulous, well-connected individuals with permission to trade Bolivars to Dollars who make truck loads of money by cycling back and forth between the official and black market exchange rates, let me assure you that yes, this obviously happens. Welcome to South America.

The Man himself.

Ricky's parents were nice enough to put me up while I attempted to secure a Brazilian visa, and so early the next day I headed down to the consulate to take advantage of Ricky's mom's connections there. I met with a gentleman by the name of Manual Becerra, who was nice enough to get me pointed in the right direction, and soon I found myself filling out a visa application with some of the ridiculous questions ever asked of me in an official capacity:
  • Have you ever traded controlled substances (drugs), practiced prostitution, or been a pimp?
  • Do you intend to enter Brazil to violate exportation laws or to practice subversive or terrorist acts, or for any other illegal purposes?
  • Have you ever ordered, incited, helped, or taken part in persecutions to any person because of race, nationality, or political beliefs under the direct of indirect command of German's Nazi Party or any of its allied or occupied countries or regions?
I must admit, I was contemplating subversive acts, but realizing that if I was to declare them, they would no longer be very subversive (quite the Catch-22), I answered every question "no", and turned in my paperwork. I was handed a slip of paper and told to deposit Bs.335.40 in a nearby bank. To help direct me to the bank, the only pseudo-English speaking official available drew me one of the simplest, and least accurate maps I have ever followed to my eventual doom. Admittedly, I didn't actually find myself doomed, though I was rather lost for the better part of 45 minutes. I eventually become desperate enough to walk into a random bank to try to make my deposit, but though I could sense that the girl behind the counter wanted to help me, my Anglophonic explanation, "I need to give money to the Brazilian Consulate so that they will allow me to go to their country", just made her giggle. Eventually making the seemingly illogical assumption that halfway through the map, everything's relation had been mirrored, and with more than a little luck, I managed to find the right bank. After making the deposit and returning to the consulate, everything else went smoothly, up until I found that they would be holding my passport for a week. But there wasn't much that I could do about it at the time, so I left the consulate, and hailed a cab back to the apartment.

I had the chance to go back to the nearby country club the next morning with Macri, Ricky's cousin, to check out the riding corrals. After helping to get the horse ready, Macri rode while I strolled around the grounds enjoying the atmosphere. The set up of the corrals reminded me of corrals I had been to in California, right down to the fact that none of the stable hands spoke English, and the grounds were kept immaculately. Having my fill of WASPy activity, I spent the rest of the day organizing my future travels through Venezuela.
One of the riding circuits at the Country Club.

I began my next morning by accompanying Ricky's mom to a local pseudo-orphanage where she volunteers every Wednesday. When we arrived, it quickly became apparent that I was the only one there that couldn't speak Spanish (a point reinforced when five year-olds started asking me questions). After Ricky's mom provided me with a grand tour of the facilities, which included bedrooms, bathrooms, a kitchen, living rooms, a preschool, a nurse's office, and a play area, I was introduced to one of the children who I would be looking after. The mostly-mute toddler was affectionately nicknamed ChooChoo for his predilection to chug along in a straight line, his arms in locomotion, until he encounters some obstacle that forces him to change direction. ChooChoo had survived a brain tumor, as well as numerous other injuries, so I was to look after him as he indulged his ambulatory ambitions outside.

ChooChoo.

So between the short excerpt of his story, and that reasonably adorable picture, you should be at least slightly enamored of ChooChoo, which is why you will share in my horror when, as I was helping him up a piece of play equipment, he fell back and tumbled down the stairs. The poor guy hit his head on the ground, and blood drained from a nasty gash. I rushed down, scooped him up, and ran him back to the nurse, my hand covering in blood as I applied pressure to the wound. It looked really bad, though I should mentioned that (having some experience with them) facial wounds usually look a lot worse then they really are. At least that's what I was telling myself as the nurse washed the blood off ChooChoo's face. He ended up needing three stitches, and it should go without saying that I felt pretty crummy about the whole thing, though Ricky's mom and the staff members did their best to convey how often things like this tend to happen to poor accident-prone ChooChoo. By the end of the day, he was smiling back at me from the seat of his high chair. After ChooChoo had been taken care of, I spent the rest of my time at the orphanage hanging out with the toddlers (the bigger kids were at school), doing my best not to wound any of them too badly.

Babies in a box.

After pulling some strings, I returned from the orphanage to find that my Brazilian visa would be ready first thing the next morning at the consulate. So that's where I found myself, forking over another Bs.77 at the nearby bank for the expedited charge. But no matter, I have a visa, which means that after all the hassle I went through with the Brazilian Consulates on two continents, I could finally visit this largest South American country. After leaving the consulate, passport in hand, I went with Ricky's aunt to spend the afternoon at the beach. It was a relaxing day, complete with some of the warmest sea water I've experienced since Greece.

Today I'm getting everything ready that I might leave Caracas to head up into the Venezuelan Andes to a city called Mérida. Overnight buses leave from Caracas until 21:00, so I'm hoping to catch the last bus out, that I might wake up the next morning rolling through the mountains. Admittedly, this is where my lack of regional language skills may prove to complicate the voyage, but optimistic, and armed with my Latin American Spanish Phrasebook, I'm going get back into the swing of international travel.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

a belated dedication


As per the unanswered request of my mother, and before I carry on with my tales form South America, I present this introduction to this leg of my travels, written in the physical journal I have been keeping. The following is the word for spell-checked word entry I made on December 31st, New Year's Eve, the night before flying down to Caracas...


A decade ago, citizens of the civilized world trembled in fear at the approach of Y2K. Bank failures, electrical disruptions, the end of the the Western World, all these things and more were predicted to befall our computer-dependent society. And so, the huddled masses hunkered down to await the certain doom of the new year. And of course, nothing all that perilous happened. The doom avoided, the fears unjustified. And so, it is with this learned cynicism in the pessimistic predictions of others that I approach the events to meet me in the new year. In exactly 15 hours, 53 minutes, I will be departing my home country for exotic lands afar. And in planning this trip to South America, I encountered my fair share of dire predictions of impending doom. From guerrilla wars to drug trafficking, insects of disproportionate size to diseases of surprising mortality (not to mention an abundances of sinister waterfalls) South America is indeed rife with things that can kill you. However, along with my 98.9% DEET bug spray, I am applying a protective layer of optimism to my journey. I look upon the friendly spider-infested nations of the Great Southern Continent as a spirited challenge in determination and positive thinking against malaria and a total lack of regional language skills. To this end, I dedicate this log, that it might serve as memoirs to my travels, or at the very least, clues to my disappearance... off now, to adventure!

Friday, January 8, 2010

where hugo's boss


I've made it to Venezuela having successfully navigated the international airports of Aruba and Bogotá. Things were a little tricky in Aruba (with no international transfers desk, I had to get a visa, recheck my luggage, and convince customs officials to let me back into the airport) but I managed easily enough, and was soon jetting toward Columbia. Mind you, this transfer was a bit ridiculous, as Caracas is at most a 20 minute flight from Aruba, and I was instead flying 2 hours out of the way to then turn around and come back, but this way I got to see the inside of another airport.

A brief stop by Aruba.

Flying out to Bogotá.

Landing in Caracas, I was met by Ricky and his father for a short cruise through the city. This gave me a chance to see Caracas at its best (that is: its least visible). Still, I found the drive through urban poverty from the backseat of a bulletproof SUV (with Ricky pointing out the sites of major revolt) to be very memorable. As open sewers and decaying tenements gave way to trees and golf courses, we pulled into the apartment, and I stepped out into the warm Venezuelan night. Greeting Ricky's mom and sister, I offloaded my bags and settled in to catch up with the family. Before long, it was time for bed, and I retired to my quarters.

Waking up in Caracas.

Waking up late the next morning, I joined Ricky for a traditional South American breakfast prepared by their Colombian maid. The rest of the morning was dedicated to set up for a barbecue, planned for the afternoon. I helped bring down meats and Polar beer (some of the only available in the city, due to a wildcat strike/total breakdown of Polar's distribution capacity) and before long we were cooking away. As I learned how to play Dominions, a serious business in South America, I was treated to an array of tasty local delicacies (mmm... blood sausage). Also available was a selection of local libations, including the famously potent "caiprinha."

Caiprinha, a traditional drink made with rum, lime, and sugar.

We were joined by a number of Ricky's friends, many of whom would be making the journey to the island of Margarita with us the following day. Thus began my immersion en Espanol. While bilingualism is a common enough feature of Ricky's friends, I'm doing my best to embrace this language, and I'm learning all kinds of fantastically useful phrases to supplement my Ritchie Valens-based education (yo no soy marinero, soy capitan!) All in all, lots of laughs, lots of dominoes, lots of meat.

The following morning, after far too little sleep, I joined Ricky, Andres, Lucho, Ignacio, Luisja, Andrea, and Daniela at the airport. After a few hours, we boarded a flight that would last roughly 30 minutes before touching down on the Caribbean island of Margarita. Venezuela's most popular island destination, Margarita was sunny, warm, and totally absent of the snow currently inundating my home state. Our cab ride from the airport to the resort took longer than the flight from Caracas, but we arrived just soon enough to be told we would have to wait another four hours for our rooms to be ready. So we passed the time playing dominoes and getting the first of our less-than-stellar all-inclusive meals.

Checking into the resort.

After checking in, we wasted no time in changing, and were soon enjoying the warm, sandy beach. Dominoes continued to be a feature of our social interaction, and it was on this afternoon that I would begin my reign of terror over the game. I also experienced my first empanada, a deep-fried dough pocket containing, in my case, plantain and cheese, and the single greatest cause for premature heart failure on the southern continent. But like everything that's bad for your health, the empinadas were delicious, and became a staple of our diet over the next few days. The eight of us spent a relaxing afternoon doing pretty much nothing, and after a while we made our way to the resort for a buffet dinner with all the culinary excellence of airplane food.

The sweet ride that brought us to the beach every morning.

After dinner, the eight of us called a pair of cabs to take us to into the city to check out a local club called Latitude. Arriving at the club at 22:30, we found that it had not opened yet, and so everyone milled around for a while while we waited for the doors to open. Inside, the club was reasonably posh, and I settled in with our group to continue my Spanish education. It wouldn't be until later that I would finally embrace the latin beats being pumped out of the sound system, but it was all in all a reasonably good evening.

The next day was once again spent at the beach, with lounging interspersed with fiercely combative dominoes. I would be on this day that I began my reign of terror over the domino table, carrying a unbeaten streak through two days of play. We sat around the table sipping Regional Light, a beer that's only redeeming value is that it was complimentary, and creating intricate patters in domino. Before long, everyone was ready to head back to the resort, where we entertained ourselves with 'Los Simpsons' while getting ready for the evenings activities. After yet another abysmal dinner (seriously, stray animals refused this food when we offered it to them) Ricky, Andres, Lucho, Ignacio, and myself packed ourselves into a single cab bound for a local casino. The only way that we could fit all five of us into the cab was for Andres and I to share our laps with Ignacio, and because of this I can summarize the half-hour ride as being: painful.

The Beach.

Arriving at the casino, I allowed the feeling to return to my legs before heading in to watch Ricky and then Ignacio lose their money on electronic roulette. I myself followed my traditional approach to casinos, and meandered over to the actual roulette table. In a system that has become the cornerstone of the Patrick Ives School of Casino Roulette, I followed a pattern of betting on the 2nd and 3rd dozen numbers over two cycles, and walked away from the table with my investment effectively doubled. I then coached Andres through my system, played for Ricky, and later coached Lucho, and I am happy to say that the Patrick Ives School of Casino Roulette has continued its unblemished streak of success.

One of the more interesting features of the casino that we were playing in was that it was a part of the Hilton Hotel complex recently seized by the Venezuelan Government. A subject of much international controversy, but not altogether uncommon in this pseudo-dictatorship, the hotel was seized last October, and has since been run by the state. This did not, as I experienced, save it from being subject to the new power-rationing policies resulting in orchestrated brown-outs across the country. In an effort to save electricity, the casino and hotel were taken off the grid at midnight, though they continued operation on backup generators.

Covert photography of the Casino.

After enjoying a few complimentary drinks, we left the casino to return to our resort, where I was kept awake through a series of five domino games before I was finally defeated, and allowed to go to sleep. The next morning began, as with every morning, with a trip to the beach. Though on this occasion, we walked the length of the coast, to visit a neighboring beach were we were meeting Ricky's aunt and cousin for lunch. The walk was short, but enjoyable (I should mention that certain parties would disagree with both of those categorizations) and we were soon greeted by Ricky's relations. Everyone huddled under cover during a brief afternoon shower, during which we enjoyed an excellent lunch of fish and fried everything. I followed lunch with a spirited, if reasonably talentless game of beach tennis with Ricky's cousin (who was actually rather good at the "sport") before we piled into a car for the drive back to the resort.

The arid land of Margarita.

'Los Simpsons' continued to be a feature of our late afternoon schedule, which ended with dinner, the unarguably hilarious concept of "cop chickens", and a cab ride out to a different club. "The Beach Bar", as it was appropriately titled, was less pretentious and more enjoyable than or previous club-of-call, and I found myself more involved in the dancing aspects of the evening, though tragically, all photographic evidence of the evening has been mysteriously destroyed. When the music finally stopped playing a little after 4:00, we all piled into cabs and returned to our resort for a well-deserved sleep.

Wrapping up night of wild Caribbean dancing.

Another morning, another day at the beach. I procured a new pair of swim trunks, as well as a beach towel, and otherwise followed the laid back schedule that we had by now become accustomed to. I opted to explore the rocky coastline at the edge of the beach before heading back to the resort, and found the rocks to be reasonably accessible, through very secluded. Which would probably explain why, rounding a bend, I... how should I say? "interrupted" a couple. Waving, a bizarre knee-jerk reaction, I turned about-face and headed inland. I explored the arid landscape of Margarita for a while, coming across some rather stunning landscapes in the fading light, as well as a wild honey bee hive. Before it started to get genuinely dark, I strolled back to the beach and caught a ride back to the resort when I rejoined the rest of the group.

Stumbling on a wild bee's hive.

We spent our last evening on the island relaxing and playing several rounds of premium tequila-fueled dominoes. Turning in sometime after 3:00, I woke early the next morning to enjoy our last day at the beach. It ended up being a short stay, as we had to return to the resort to check out, so I'm glad I made the most of it by sleeping nearly the entire time, then charging into the waves right before we left. After checking out, we had plenty of time before the shuttle would meet us to take us to the airport, so we called a pair of cabs to take us to The Mall. I'm not a big fan of malls, but it was a good way to kill some time. Lucho deprived the elderly and infirm of mobility by renting a scooter(which is actually a common enough practice for otherwise mobile mall-goers here), which he drove around the mall in a highly entertaining fashion. Before long, it was time to head back to the resort so that we could catch our minibus to the airport. All in all, it was a great few days at the beach, but now it's time to plan out a more adventurous chapter in my travels.

Friday, January 1, 2010

happy new year


I'm taking advantage of Logan International Airport's brief flirtation with free wifi to post this from my boarding gate. They'll be calling us any minute, so I'll briefly mention that I have obviously made it to the airport in time to catch my flight despite staying out until roughly 3am for New Year's (a quick shout out to everyone at the party who I promised I'd keep blogging for: I hope you'll all be enjoying the New Year when you finally wake up in roughly 4 hours).

All geared up and ready to go.

Because my first layover will be in Aruba, sitting here in the waiting area in the early morning hours feels a lot like going to Bow Mill's United Methodist Church: everyone's a little groggy and I'm at least 40 years younger than the next youngest passenger. After all, you can't spell "I want to get the heck out of the cold" without "old". So far I've managed to avoid getting my cheek pinched though I know it's just a matter of time.

Saying goodbye to the frost and snow.

Okay, the Captain and crew and making their way inside now, so I'd better get packed up. Next stop: Aruba, Bogota, and Caracas!