Sunday, March 27, 2011

Random Blurbs

Following blurbs written on a notepad due to no internet in La Guaira.

Political Asylum:
We spent the morning at the apartment of a lady who's done the
diplomatic circuit in years before Chavez, and since does document
interpretation from her apartment. Over a mixed pastry breakfast we
were shown her political rally bag with the national flag and the
badges and first aid goods and the vinegar and rags for tear gas
defense with a wonderful view of Mount Avila out the window. We talked
about the upcoming Venezuelan census and the fear it will lead to the
forcible 'reallocation' of homes based on number of people and number
of domicile rooms. We concluded with a left hand toast to a Cuba Libre
and carried on with our day.
Later, the government of Canada fell to the first successful
non-confidence motion in Commonwealth history.
I later telephoned our breakfast host and asked for political asylum
and offered to be counted as a resident during the census. I don't
think either of us will stop giggling over that for a long time.

Wild Ride:
So, yeah, I get into a truck with real seat belts and off we go, me
the only Anglo in this part of the two car convoy to the airport to
drop off the sister in law's mother. So being good hosts, they pass
back a mixed whiskey drink and off we go into the streets of Caracas,
the driver passing the other drink back and forth to his wife. Is that
a check engine light? :) Again Caracas is a mixture of fascinating
urban decay and renewal and coloured light fountains dancing to music.
All that and thankfully only one face full of booze as we bounced and
jounced over hill and pothole onto the freeway and out of the valley
to the sea.
Once again I surprise everyone around with the breadth of my basic
Spanish and we achieve some basic communication with a mix of Spanish,
French and steadily drunkening pantomime.
I'm not afraid anymore, even without the help of booze, although I
remain wary and alert in the airport. Horay, after the delay in
currency exchange I've been able to spend my first Bolivars. At an
airport fried chicken shack. Nobody there knew if anything drinkable
was caffeinated. At this point, who gives a damn anymore. :)
We see mother off, and pile back into the cars, crack some fresh
beers, and set off to the sister's beach apartment. Pass a few police
checkpoints where we just lower the beers, and away we go past barrios
and parks and the beach crowded with teens pumping tunes from their
cars while the odd police truck cruises by to keep the peace. And
damn, it's hot at sea level, and the beach apartment is really cute.

All Night Party:
When music volume is consistently making a car alarm sound in a gated,
locked, patrolled by man and dog condo compound, the reasonable
response is to turn up the music, right? It's 2:38 am, and the car's
been screaming for 14 hours. Waitaminute. Ricky Martin sings in Spanish?

No comments: