ORINOCO FLOW

     Simon Bolivar was no slouch.  Two hundred years ago he led five South American countries to independence.  In Venezuela every town has a park named after him.  There is even a "Bolivar City".

   
We were invited to visit our relatives in Ciudad Bolivar.   One night in early July we boarded a bus in Caracas and headed south-east.   By dawn we were crossing the magnificent caramel-colored Orinoco River.  I'd been thinking about it ever since Enya put it into song 25 years ago. 
    Like her paean to dreams of travel ("Orinoco Flow" (Sail Away) ), our summer adventures opened our eyes to new things.   Next to the highway truckers slept in hammocks strung from one bumper to the next.  When our bus arrived it was  6:30 am in Venezuela but 7 am in Miami.  When I asked about the disparity I was told that President Chavez changed the time six years ago "to give the people extra time to get to work".

      Ciudad Bolivar sits on the south bank of the river where its broad shoulders narrow to a half-mile.  It reminded me of our own Mississippi, except that our river does not constantly carry pieces of jungle with it .   Some look like little islands floating east to the Atlantic.
     An old Frenchman told us the river used to be filled with crocodiles then years ago, officials decided they were bad for tourism.  Henri added, "Sunning themselves on the river's banks made them easy targets."   Despite the eradication of crocs, tourists are rare there.
    There are plenty of fish.  We visited local fisherman who were selling wht they'd pulled out of stirring cafe con leche waters.  One of them kept busy waving a plastic whip trying to keep flies  from eating his fish.
     Hungry ourselves,  we opted to take a water cab to a restaurant on the other side of the river.   I touched the cool water as we glided along, mindful of the piranhas that were said to lurk below.   We paid dollar for the ride and six more for lunch. 
  
In Ciudad Bolivar we stayed with my wife's relatives in their beautiful 1880's home.  




It opened up to a terrace which opened up to a church and the river below.  

Independence Day (July 5th)  started at 7 am with the church tower playing the national anthem.  Francesca smiled, remembering how her mother used to sing it to her. 



 An hour later a military band played it again in the Simon Bolivar Plaza.  This chip salesman stood at attention.

     The old town was a perfect place to relax.  We were able to leave the fast pace of Caracas behind and appreciate the quiet river and its people .  Their faded buildings reminded me of Ybor City and the old Key West. 



























 

Some sported colorful coats of paint, an effort, I was told, to spice things up.   Others were built on huge, smooth boulders that led down to the river.

 At night I'd look down from our balcony to see cats quietly playing in the street.  We needed one for a mouse problem so I began to chum them with chicken.  Every ten minutes a car or a wandering dog make the four of them scurry.  A minute later I'd be chumming again.   Efforts to catch one were futile, too feral, too fast, those Orinoco gatos.

     
 One day we visited new friends who have a finca in the country.  We drank cold bottles of Polar, (the national beer) while floating in a spring-fed pond.  Later, they cooked a huge pot of arroz con pollo over an open fire.  For sure, the chickens were free-range.  Some watched us eat their brethren.    
   The dinner guests were speaking in a language I did not understand so I kept busy eating mangos.  There were many and I shared some with caged parrots and later, our hosts.
Francesca was asked, "What is it with your husband, feeding us so many mangoes?"  She explained how my love for them led to starting a crazy Miami mango parade.  As she translated this to me they smiled with approval.





A few days later it was time to leave the quiet behind. 

A roaring a jet lifted us over the great river one last time.  In its grasp were the usual trees, bushes, and other flotsam headed to sea. 

We flew north until we reached Miami.  
Those trees and bushes? 
I suppose they're lost somewhere in the Orinoco's flow.

Rope speed bump

open-air kitchen

Guard, Independence Day

Fruit bat in garage

Bones of a palm tree seed pod

    

TEN CENTS A GALLON

   Our trip to Venezuela filled me with wonder.  It left me wondering why,

- People there are afraid to venture outside

-Gas costs ten cents a gallon

- There is much trash in the streets

- Taxi drivers are afraid that you will rob them (and you fear they'll kidnap you, or,  kill you with their kamikaze driving )

- I was the only gringo in town

- Driving a car is out of the question

- Red lights mean nothing

- Tourism is dead

- Many people support the Presidente-for-life, Hugo Chavez

- The huge disparity between the haves and the have-nots (which is probably the reason for most of the above)

  

 Considering this, You may wonder why anyone would want to go there.  Perhaps it is because,

- Angel Falls is amazing

- Gas costs ten cents a gallon and you'd like to take a lot of it     back to your  country

- You enjoy dangerous living

- Many of your wife's relatives live there and it's time to go meet them

-  One of them, Maria Andreina, is marrying Carlos Alberto Perez Otoala

     

The last two got me and away we went.   It was a world largely unfamiliar to me.  Most of the time was spent looking and listening, trying to understand life on this northern edge of South America.

We attended the wedding and met Francesca's southern family.  They have lived in South America for many generations.   Some have left (for Miami!) but many remain.

We stayed in a highly secured condominium.  Venturing out, we were told, would "put our lives at great risks".   One day I got a break when a cousin (knowledgeable, armed and fluent in English) asked me to tag along on a day trip.  

  We drove two hour east to visit his former nanny, Patrica.  "I love her dearly", said Ramon,  "She knows me much better than my mother ever did".

                                                   Above: Private residence's machine gun nest

    As we drove past the brown Rio Guaive he pointed out, "You're looking at Caracas' sewage system.  All of the s--- goes into canals which lead to this river which flows into the sea".   Miami had the same system for years.

  

 It was a delight to reach Santa Theresa, a small town complete with dirt streets and roaming chickens.  Patrica and her 77-year-old husband, Ambrosio, greeted us with hugs, smiles, mangoes, and frosted bottles of Polar beer.   Everyone was speaking a language that I did not understand but that was fine.  I got to experience something simple, safe, and new.   

   Ambrosio showed me the wooden wall sculpture he made of his tools (he still works as a stone mason).  Above them is his father's hat.

Below was the Clothes Washing Basin That Time Forgot. 

     In one of his three ancient refrigerators (who cares about electricity when energy is cheap?) he showed off bags of frozen pigeon.   Meat, unlike gas, is not cheap so he hunts these birds.  Beating his bare chest he gloated, "Pigeon makes you strong!"  (My brother-in-law's translation).

   After two hours enjoying this happy couple it was time to head back.  On the way home we stopped for gas.

It is so cheap you pay for it with coins, the ones you save for parking.    We filled up for $1.75.

    Crazy.  If Chavez ran for U.S. President on the Cheap Gas Ticket he'd get millions of votes.  Many Venezuelans joke about it being less expensive than water. 

    I also noticed that the gas station was selling roof-top taxi signs.  With this twelve buck sign, a dollar for gas, and an old Toyota I realized that I could become a kamikaze Caracas cab driver. 

 Oh, the possibilities!

GHOST HOTEL

     Dictators usually get their way.   Sixty years ago, when Venezuela's General Marcos Perez-Jimenez asked my wife's uncle, Tomas Sanabria, to design the "ultimate hotel",  the talented young architect complied.  

  

   Uncle Tomas came up with this fantastic design.   The problem was, it had to be placed at the very top of "The Avila", the mile-high mountain that looms above Venezuela's capitol city, Caracas.   At the time it took a day for a man and his donkey to climb to the peak.  Building a grand hotel would be no easy task.

    It took months just to build the "funicular railway",  boxes suspended by cables that would haul workers (and later hotel guests) up the mountain.   Two years later, in 1956, Hotel Humboldt opened with great fanfare (That's the General cutting a ribbon up top, next to Uncle Tomas).

     

For 66 years it has perched over the capitol city like a rocket ready for launch.  During his forty-year reign the General would refer to his hotel -named after a German explorer- as "the magnificent symbol of our great country".

     Perez-Jimenez is long gone and the hotel?  One could say it is "going".   Time, changing regimes, and the expenses of maintaining its aging buildings have taken their toll.  Long closed,  the Sanabria family was allowed to tour it while we were visiting six weeks ago.   Eighteen of us boarded the funicular and headed up.

    It was clear that the Humboldt's bare bones are still intact. Amongst rusting steel, peeling paint, and crumbling concrete, they still amaze. 
It made us even more proud of our dear uncle, who recently passed away, for this and his many other accomplishments.

As we walked we would come upon gems like the overgrown gardens designed by Roberto Burle-Marx or the sculptural mural (below) in the lobby. 

The furnishings are gone but one abandoned work room still had its  sock dryer. 

  

  The Humboldt continues to stand alone in the cool mountain air.  From the terrace you look down through clouds at valley that cradles Caracas.  Turning to north, the Caribbean Sea glistens 7000 feet below.   It's a fantastic location but perhaps not the best one for a hotel.   

 Looking north

   Lights above the swimming pool 

 Our Venezuelan family and others are doing their best to have Hotel Humboldt restored.   Like our own Coconut Grove Playhouse, it won't be easy.  It may be impossible.  Someone told us, "People are afraid to stay at hotels in Caracas because of the crime. The Humboldt could be successful again because of its great design -and- criminals would have a hard time climbing the mountain".

 Let's hope he's right.

  

    

NEW DAYS, NEW PLACES

"Where am I?", asked Francesca, in the middle of last night.   When I told her we were home she asked, "Which home?" 
It can be that way when you return from road.

(Left: Italian sugar packets)
For two months we began our days staring at many different ceilings.  Traveling light, it was hard to write about them or anything else.  

  Three weeks ago we woke up below these hand-hewn oak beams in France.  They support the third level's floor.  Below us had once been a saddle maker's shop.  It was hard not to think about the many people that had occupied the space since the 1700's.    

Red bicycle, Florence, Italy

Ian, Francesca, Brigitte, and Dylan in the town square.  Bastille Day in Josselin, Britany 
  
This morning we woke up in our Coconut Grove home and will soon be teachers again. We hope your summer has brought you stories to share.   In the next couple of weeks I will add words and pictures to tell mine.

BOXING THE SEQUOIA

Francesca and I continue our summer travels.          Someone asked, "If Venezuela was so problematic, why did you go there?"  As I think I mentioned, we went there to re-connect with my wife's many relatives who still live there. 
All were warm and generous. 
The country, with its beaches, mountains, and tropical greenery, is beautiful.  I'll be writing more about that adventure when we return to Miami in August.




Now we're in Europe visiting our Grove neighbor, Brigitte Kavanaugh.  We brought Ian and Dylan with us. 


Brigitte has a 300-year old house in NW France (Josselin, Brittany).   It's amazing, sheltering people like us for over three centuries.  
The weather?  Perfect.  We wish we could send some of the 64 degree air back to South Florida.  
Everyday here is remarkable.  Yesterday we stumbled upon a Catholic school in nearby Ploermel.  A monk showed us their prized 150-year-old clock. The school's founder, Jean-Marie de la Mennais, built it himself.  It fills a room, has revolving planets, and many, many dials.  One goes around every minute and another, every 1000 years.   After we took all that in he asked us if we'd like to step outside "to box the sequoia".  

    Who could refuse?  A garden tour ended at the base of a huge pine tree.  As Frere Gumanchey suggested, we took turns punching the tree's soft bark.  From its looks,  the towering giant has had put up with this silliness for many years.

   This part of France is so different from Miami.  No one there, for instance, ever invited me to pummel a tree.




Haft-timbered buildings in Rennes




















Dylan, lost in plants again.