12.40pm, Thursday June 11, Canaima airport ....mon dieu

Oh my god, oh my god. I can't believe what I've just been able to do: fly over the Delta Orinoco and Guayana forest. It was amazing. The first flight from Margarita to Puerto Ordaz was mostly over flat plains separated into squares by dirt roads, but the second flight, well, let's just say I will feel okay if I don't see the Amazon.

First the little 12-seater to Canaima flew over Delta Orinoco, navy blue smooth water dotted by sprouting flower islands like hand-printed fabric or fancy wallpaper. Occasionally there are tiny
round islands as well. Miles of this paisley turned into plains of trees as far as the eye can see.


view of the Orinoco Delta

Then all of a sudden a steep cliff emerges up or down and the plains of trees starts again on a different level. At first the cliffs were also tree-covered, but these gave way to sheer cliff faces and waterfalls careening in face-long caves. This is the most breathtaking landscape I have seen - better, even, than Utah - though its impressiveness lies in the scale of its breadth, which one can only perceive by flying over it.



view of Venezuela tepui

Having heard that the rainforest is disappearing by a football field a minute, seeing the vastness of this forest is heartening. It must have taken us an hour to fly across it and it stretched in both directions to the horizon. I am lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky to be here and I have just been served a lunch of thin brown french fries, salad and cheese. Buen appetito to me!

My guide, Anthony, sat with me through most of my meal. He asked if I want to go dancing tonight and said Canaima has everything. So far all I've seen is the airport: a platform with stalls selling jewellery, postcards and such, and a food stand with homemade cake. At 2.45pm I headed to the Canaima lagoon. Anthony is a Caribe indio, born in Canaima. He has travelled around Venezuela and says everything is here in Canaima: beach, waterfall, lagoon, forest, savannah, animals. I'm almost prepared to be disappointed with Canaima, as both Nicol and the dodgy tour booker described it as mystical. They told me I'd love it, that it is the most amazing place. Really? Yet, after that plane trip, nothing can let me down.

My room at the camp is white, with wooden bed bases with white sheets, two twin beds and a double, a bright green tin roof, brown and grey mottled tile floor and wooden shutters and a door. The bathroom is big with a large shower area. I have an hour to read Michael Palin's 'Full Circle' (borrowed from MS upon finishing Auster) in the hammock outside my door. What did I do to deserve such luxury? (Answer: Work full time!)

7.30am, Thursday June 11, Margarita airport ....off to nature

Here, coffee is espresso, though not particularly nice espresso. Must be the Italian influence.

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!'

2.30pm, Wednesday May 10, MS's ....waiting

This morning I walked to T's place to get more money off of him and he dropped me off back at the tour office to make my final payment. Walking in Margarita is a hot and barren affair. The sun is relentless and the roads so grey. It is sometimes difficult to motivate myself to go somewhere, especially if it involves a long bus ride, but once I am on my way I am fine, the sun ultimately a pleasure and my sweaty self cleaned by the trickly cold shower upon my return to MS's home.

Now I am waiting for MS to come back from his errands. I am ready to play! It has been an errand-filled two days. Last night MS was so tired he went to bed around 8pm. I was bored. Too tired to write, I read a bit but the last novella of The New York trilogy didn't hold my interest much. I sat around, bored, too hot to sleep, without keys to go for a walk. I finished Auster and finally went to bed around 10.30.

I can't figure out the rhythms of this town. Today, C and the boys (at least A, the younger one) were up at 6am, but often the boys are home in the afternoon, sometimes C is and often K is. When, exactly, is school?

8.00pm, Tuesday June 9, MS's ....finally booked

I have finally booked a tour to Canaima. I still have to get the rest of the money from T tomorrow, as I leave on Thursday for three days.

Today I spent a couple of hours at an internet cafe, booked my trip, and went to La Asuncion, the historical capital of Margarita. There is a grand municipal building there, a brick-road plaza, bright-coloured houses and more greenery.

Municipal Palace, La Asuncion

I walked around, looking for a bakery or an empanada seller or someplace that looked like it would sell something I wanted to eat, but no luck. I did come across a small plaza with stalls selling fruit, DVDs and jewellery, with chairs and tables outside belonging to a hamburger stall and a deli selling empanadas but there were no cheese empanadas left. I continued walking around until I got to the main road where the buses come and kept walking. All in all I wasn't in La Asuncion for that long - definitely no longer than an hour - but I needed to get back to give the tour agent my deposit.

No buses that were the right route came by and I finally took a taxi back to Los Robles. When I arrived back to the agency to finalise my booking, the agent, Nicol, finally figured out that we had met at Playa El Agua when I was there with N and C. The minute I had sat down at Nicol's desk I knew I had met her and I gave her a big smile, but she didn't return it and I couldn't remember where I had met her - had she helped me with bus advice? She remembered who I was when I mentioned being vegetarian, because we discussed vegetarianism on the beach with the falafel seller. I took this as an omen that I was supposed to book the trip with her. It was more expensive than the others (though also an extra day) and didn't include transport to the airport, but also I felt like I was somehow betraying MS. I had to fight with these feelings - it is my trip to do what I want/need to do with it. But he made noises about possibly coming with me, gave me the number of a friend who is a tour guide in Canaima (I called four times but no answer), but I can't wait for MS. I needed to book this trip today for fear that I'll never go - or not see anything else. How easy it is to give up one's will to a boy. But I didn't; well, I haven't entirely.

The trunks of trees here are painted blue and white. Sometimes the top, narrower, band is of another colour but mostly it is blue. I was told this is to keep bugs away.

MS thinks Venezuelans are lazy and don't want to work. I can't say I blame them. Nicol talked about how relaxed everyone is, especially on Margarita, where the common refrain ia 'Tomorrow!'

1.20am, Tuesday June 8, at MS's ....too much Spanish

The three Argentinian couchsurfers are still here after a barbeque. MS and I were at another barbeque, for the occasion of MS's boat's captain leaving to go overseas. I am writing because I am tired of listening to Spanish.

Today I saw a goat. Grazing the garbagey suburb like the cows.

MS's eyes are green, sometimes blue. I like to watch him eat because he seems to savour every bite. His friends like him very much. His filmmaking colleague attempted to explain to me several times how lucky I am to have MS as a 'boyfriend'. He is straight - here the sparkly-eyed Italian photographer moved his hand up and down. Then he put his hands together in a prayer motion. People respect and worship MS, he said, not just here, but elsewhere too. Later, when he was more drunk, the photographer praised MS again, this time to MS as well. MS is a saint, Saint M, and again reiterated how lucky I am.

At the party, they all kept referring to MS as my boyfriend. It felt odd, made me proud, made me insecure. I felt almost like an imposter, or a slut, or like, yes, how lucky I am to inhabit this role for the moment. I wonder what they will think of me later, MS and I all over each other and then I'm gone, just a fling. But I can't think of this. And it seems that such things don't dawn on MS, who lives truly in the moment.

Venezuelans aren't argumentative like Italians and Jews. There was a lot of silence at the barbeque, with one natural-born storyteller doing most of the talking. He laughed and gambolled around and made big gestures and illustrative movements, the centre of attention. I remember MS saying that the purpose of loud music is so that people do not have to talk to each other. The woman whose house we were at talked with me a bit later in the evening with her little bit of English and my little bit of Spanish and I allowed MS's fellow filmmaker sell me a pair of blue dangly fake-crystal earrings that I didn't really want.

We stayed at the barbeque for a long time. Through the afternoon and as night fell we drank rum and Cokes, swam and talked in the small round pool of the host's apartment complex, and danced to a selection of concert DVDs played on a rigged-up television: rock, hip-hop, blues. I have yet to encounter anything on earth as sexy as dancing with MS - and this mostly was not good music to dance to. But I stayed close, my eyes locked on him, his eyes, his chest, I wanted to go home.

But, wait, it gets better. MS and I hitched a ride home in his boss's jeep. MS and I were in the back, with another drunken reveller. Riding in the back of an open jeep, the wind flowing through my hair and touching my eyes, watching the scrubby, hilly scenery of Margarita pass by in the moonlight was not too huge a step down from riding the waves on the catamaran. People ride in the back of trucks in South America all the time. Finally it was my turn.

11.15pm, Sunday June 7, at MS's ....such a nice family

MS has a lovely family. The only raised voices I have heard in the house have been directed to a dog. His older nephew helps put groceries away and the younger one give me his cheek for a kiss when he says hello. The older boy is handsome, with sparkly eyes and quite ways, while the younger boy is a charmer.

Young women in Venezuela seem to like their children. Children are well-behaved and I haven't noticed a mother screaming at or hitting her child in public. The kids on the buses have been quiet and the kids in the plazas have been running happily. I haven't witnessed a tantrum or a child crying because she didn't get what she wanted and many mothers hold and caress their children.

MS and I went to Pampatar today. We took a boat ride around some of Margarita's coastline. There are many half-finished and just-started builidngs. A whole little settlement on an overhang is unfinished but looks more like old ruins than new abandonments, glassless houses in various styles thrown together. A grizzled-before-his-time boatman with big stitches in the bottom of his foot, acompanied by a black-skinned handsome muscular man that appears to be retarded, drives our boat. The black man grunts and whoops, salutes and whistles.

We passed boats heaped with netting, one with a string of plastic drink bottles hanging like Christmas lights from poles on either end of the boat. We passed around men fishing off of a pier and young people standing about, looking towards the shore. Margarita is pretty from this distance. The hills are more striking.

I might have taken this photo from the boat

We had to cut the boat tour short because of problems with the engine. As MS and I walked back towards Pampatar we passed people having huge parties at beach kiosks, with plastic tables and chairs and salsa music.

For dinner we went to T's, where C, her boys, MS and I joined T and his wife, their son and his girlfriend and a young man,J, who is living with them. T's wife cooked hamburgers and I observed that this large gathering was much more subdued than what a dinner with my Italian family would be like.

2.00pm, Saturday June 6, a panaderia in Pampatar

I have bought a cheese-stuffed pastry, two bread rolls and something that looks like a chocolate square of sour gummy candy. I can't wait to see what it is like.

Last night, after we arrived home from Coche and showered, MS and I emailed a bit at the internet cafe then went to a Mexican restaraunt in Las Robles that he had been keen to try. For starters we had corn kernels in a light sauce with what I think was Parmesan and another cheese grated on top. Simple and delicious. MS ate chimichangas and I had cheese quesadillas. If one eats vegetarian here one doesn't get more vegetables but lots of cheese. MS's meat was served with a side of tomato, onion and coriander salsa and hot green salsa. All very nice.

After Coche and Mexican food I'm now used to eating again.

MS thinks that Chavez does good things but doesn't let anyone speak out against him or the government. He doesn't spend enough money on the poor to make the changes he promises real and gives to the rich to keep them in line. He needs the poor to stay in power.

The brown sugar-crystal-covered sweet is not to my taste. I don't know what it is but it is certainly not chocolate, maybe some kind of fruit. I'll bring it home and ask MS.