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!