I was driven to the airport (Nicol included a taxi ride to the airport by a friend of hers in my Canaima package) by a lovely curly-haired young man with two daughters and two houses who hates Chavez. He says the Venezuelan bolivar is so low because of Chavez. Venezuelans can't afford to travel. Chavez wrecked the economy. He says Chavez wants to take people's second houses without paying for them; that basics like milk are hard to find because Chavez won't give corporations dollars (Is this true? I've been to the supermarket and everything seems to be there); people don't work because Chavez gives them education and money, which they drink away because they have no ambition. Chavez steals the country's money and gives it to other countries instead of, say, making the hospitals better (an interesting example compared to F's happy experience with the free Cuban physiotherapists).
Chavez had people with multiple identies vote several times for him and he erased all the opposition's marketing so that all people saw was 'Si va!' (Yes, go!, Chavez's campaign slogan). The driver repeatedly called Chavez 'cheaper', by which he meant 'cheater', and cited Panama as an example of somewhere the quality of life substantially improved when the Chavez-like dictator was finally thrown out. He said Margarita ten years ago was the type of place where people didn't have to lock their doors but the 1999 landslide that killed so many people in Caracas sent many of the survivors to Margarita. These were bad people and crime became a problem on the island, so now everyone has to gate, lock and alarm their houses and cars. He thought people made good salaries. I asked this young Francisco what he thought the solution was. Like MS, he thinks many Venezuelans are lazy and don't want to work. They start drinking beer at 6.40 in the morning. That's crazy!, he says.
It would be interesting to talk to some of these lazy, uneducated Venezuelans that hard workers don't like. (I worked for my two houses - why should the government take one from me?, Francisco complained. They won't even let him rent it.) I always think if being pooor is so bad then surely people would choose to work: working must be even worse, or nonexistent, or people are unqualified to do it. How to fix this?
Despite all of this complaining, Venezuelans love their country and love Margarita especially. H, who picked me up from the airport, also expressed a love of Margarita and its beaches. Young Francisco had lived in Caracas, where his other home is. He has been on Margarita for four years and said he never wants to go back to live permanently in Caracas, which is disgusting, too much traffic.
MS woke up at 6am with me and walked me to the tour office, where Francisco picked me up. MS is lovely. He wanted to make me miss him while I am gone and he is always smiling at me. What can the future possibly hold for a Venezuelan and American-Australian? Nevertheless, we do fantasize a bit. Future travel...
Yesterday afternoon, when I got back to the house after 45 minutes at the internet cafe, I found Michel in the kitchen, eating beef. I told him I was ready to play. I admit to having been dispirited that he wasn't around when I wanted him. I had texted him when I got back to Los Robles and waited around for him. When I didn't hear back, I went to the internet cafe. He had come home as I left to find food and email. He said he didn't get my text until two hours after I sent it. I was a little morose, waiting for him to finish eathing, which he tends to do in silence. We talked about calling his friend to ask about an Amazon trip. I said that I didn't think I had time to make it there anymore but that I really wanted to see the Amazon. He said that he distracted me and I should go. It would make 24 days of malaria pills worthwhile (as opposed to all those pills for just three days in Canaima). But I didn't want to waste more time organising. I wanted, finally, to play.
We went to Pampatar, to the free government-sponsored movie theatre, Fundacion Cinemateca Nacional, that screens art, independent and foreign films. A modern building, with a roof like an open book, or bird wings, the front 'cover' much shorter than the back, it stands out amongst the palms and old rendered houses. There are Cinematecas in many of Venezuela's cities and they all look the same.
one of the national cinemas
Unfortunately the movie playing was in French with Spanish subtitles, but Rocky Horror will be showing on Monday evening, so we will go. Yay! Rocky Horror in Venezuela with a Rocky Horror virgin. Also on the schedule was Kandahar, Philadelphia, The Scent of Green Papaya, a short film by Ben Affleck and many alternative films from the 1940s and '50s. How fucking cool. I said a government that provides cheap bookstores and free movies to the people can't be all bad. MS replied, yes, that's how Chavez works - rather than doing really important things like giving people decent salaries and good jobs. Who needs money, I said, when books are cheap and movies free! We laughed, but I get his point. Yet mine still stands - a government making (Leftist) high culture accessible by all is great - even if no one does go to see the films. MS goes by himself usually and says the cinema is always empty. It was empty when we walked in yesterday. Not one person, just a movie playing on a big screen to empty chairs in the dark.
Instead of seeing the movie, MS and I walked to a lighthouse. The view from the red-brick lighthouse was beautiful. With wooden doors staggered throughout the way up, there was a continues series of balconies for rest, to feel the wind and stare at the sea. The piece of Margarita ocean the lighthouse looks to is very beautiful. There is the ocean, a narrow strip of beach, long and empty of stalls and people, and behind the beach shallow square pools separated by bars of land like rice paddies. The sun shone down on the saltwater ponds and hills rise up behind them and it was tranquil and beautiful, free of cars and garbage, just swirling dirt trails.
a view from the lighthouse
On the way from the lighthouse, MS and I walked along a road with an Inca-style impressive stone wall - cemented, but the cement was very well hidden between the narrow square stones -overlooking big hotels and apartment buldings with rooftop pools and views of the sea. We stopped at Sambil mall for chocolate (Frey's) at a huge, upscale chocolate/candy shop, with aisles and aisles of chocolate, from dime-store variety to Valentine tuffles. We bought three bars: 73% chocolate for us to keep to ourselves and 63% and 51% chocolate to share. I had a piece of the 51% - it was nice, but I am hungry for the darker stuff.
We finished off our evening at an outdoor bar over three beers each and a plate of battered deep-fried cheese sticks with sauce. Nice. That was dinner.
At the lighthouse MS told me I am beautiful. Ah, the glistening illusions of hormones! And he said it again, when we were looking at a swirling cloud. I said hurricane, he said black hole and I said, yes, where we go through and live this week again and again forever. He looked at me (how he looks at me!), hugged me and said, 'You're beautiful!'
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