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.
No comments:
Post a Comment