Well.
I make no pretense of being in the same literary league vis-a-vis
Fido-travelogues as our noted Dr. Leipzig, but I surmised a quick
resume of my just-completed sojourn to our southern neighbor might
be of a modicum of interest. To someone.
Monday last, I received a call from my esteemed amigo Enrique (Ricky)
Lowinger, a 3rd generation Venezuelan who has been, as have I, in
the ophthalmic equipment business (optibidness) for 30 years MOL.
It was, of course, an emergency. (Nothing that happens in Venezuela
is anything else). Seems that our mutual friend Edgar Behrens (another
3rd or 4th gen. Vzn) had purchased for a song, an entire laboratory
full of what is now in 1999 ...uh, shall we say, 'incipient antique'
machinery? Yes, let's say that. (It just struck me...most of the
people I know down there have names that sound more like *my* heritage
than the expected Spanish sort...but then, I have a neighbor here in
Redneck City named Kaleem Kerish, or something similar to that)...
Owing to the fact that Ricky had engineered the sale of this rather
large carload of electromechanical apparatus, and that Edgar couldn't
make any of it work, he was understandably somewhat anxious to make
at least some of it at minimums 'light up', as it were, when plugged
into a source of electricity. Which in Caracas can be of virtually
any sort of voltage and frequency (Hertz to you technodweebs). 60
is, however, the most common. What is not so common is to have
something closely approximating 110 or 220 volts. 85 is found with
alarming regularity, as is 185, and that usually lacks any sort of
neutral (or ground which can in a pinch be substituted in a way that
would turn any electrical inspector in the USA seventeen shades of
green).
But I digress. (Of course I digress...how else could I make this crap
even *remotely* readable???)
Upon arrival at the redoubtable airport at Maiquitia down at the beach
(Caracas is in the mountains 40 Km away and its only flat space is taken
up by Aeropuerto Carlota which is for the exclusive use of whatever
General is running the country at the moment and whose runway is all of
1100 meters long which makes it a bit difficult to stuff a 747 into
its rather limited real estate), I declined the noisome importunations
of the ...er, 'legitimate' taxi drivers lined up outside what passes
for the terminal, and located a 'coyote' taxi. I learned many years
ago that they're quicker, cheaper, and know where to buy Cacique Rum
at a fair price. I told the driver (who was obviously fresh from
the Orinoco Outback and whose Spanish was no better than mine) to
take me to the Continental Altimira Hotel. This has always been my
favorite in Caracas. He never heard of it. "No problema", I said,
"Just go to Petare and turn left. Let me know when we get to the
U.S. Embassy". Oddly enough, he didn't know where that was either,
but he did know Petare. "Close enough", I said.
After a couple of hours of what always resembles a roller-coaster
ride (but mostly all uphill), he announces we're there. But where
we are ain't where 'there' used to be. My lovely Hotel Altimira,
where I spent so many wonderful days and evenings, eating aguacates
(avocados) picked from the tree in the garden, has been torn down
for a fucking parking garage. AGGGGGGGGGGGG.
Well, I despise the Hilton there. So I opt for the Tamanaco. ("It's
still there, right?" I ask him.)
"Si, Senor, es un gran hotel".
Yeah, yeah, I know. It is a very beautiful place but it's too big and
it's too touristy and all that shit, but I do know it and even though
it's clear over on the south side of the city, I agree it's the best
choice. So I get delivered thence. 85 Bolivares later. Sheesh.
Now, this part is kinda funny. The last time I was at the Tamanaco,
they were full, but finally relented and let me stay in one of the
cabanas at the pool. I loved it. So I asked for a cabana again.
The clerk was aghast. "Que?...Senor, eso es para la piscina!" (That's
for people swimming!). "I know", sez I, "That's what I want!" Neat.
They let me have cabana #5. It might have been the same one I had
10 years ago. No locks on the door...well, actually no door...and a
cot. But a bar full of Polar Cerveza and 6 steps to the pool. I had
a beer and a dip within 45 seconds.
Knowing I had to make yet another cross-country journey the next
morning (Caracas is not a place for faint-of-heart auto passengers),
I decided not to go overboard at the bar. Ho ho. For some odd reason,
I seem to prefer to drink screwdrivers when I'm in that city. I think
it's because the name is so neat in Spanish. Destornilladores. I
figure when I can't say it any more, I've had enough. Rum is just too
easy. Anyway I had a couple or 5 and got to chatting with a fellow
Norteamericano who was sitting at the bar. I just about fell of my
stool when he told me who he was. He is the nephew of a guy I grew
up with and who was my best friend in grade/high school. He's in
charge of Toyota's Venezuelan distribution system (however the hell
*that* works) and has been there for a year. Still hasn't learned
more than 30 or 40 words of Spanish. I told him his uncle Jim would
be proud, but it went over his head...but he had a Toyota ...what
the hell was that thing, some sort of 'Rover'???....one of those
eleven-wheel-drive/nineteen speed monsters they advertise on TV, I
guess...I'm not into those kinds of vehicles, and informed me he wanted
to 'try it out'.
Well, I figured that might be a bit of a hoot, and we proceeded to
formulate a PLAN. Said plan being that when I was done the next day,
we'd meet (in the bar of course) and go off trekking. Some plan, huh?
Turned out I was able to teach some fairly clever young fellows how
to connect up all the machinery in about an hour next morning. (I
called Edgar when I got back this morning and he said everything is
"moving". I hope it's "working" too...), so I met Mike back at the
Tamanaco Bar and we hopped into his pristine and polished (demo I
imagine) machine and headed south. He said he had heard of some
'interesting' caverns down that way.
Other than the obvious limited speed, a bulldozer would have proven to
be a more expeditious means of locomotion through what are probably
laughingly referred to as 'roads' once one leaves the metropolitan
Caracas region. Or maybe a Ford would be appropriate, since that is
what one must do when reaching one of the seventeen thousand rivers
tumbling down from that Western spur of the Andes. But I must admit
it is a fascinating and beautiful piece of the world. We travelled
about 300 miles over hill and dale and river and rock and never ever
found any goddamn caverns. I didn't remember the Spanish word for
'cavern' and it probably made no difference anyway because the
indigenous humanoids in the jungle speak a dialect/mix I couldn't
make heads or tails of anyway. But they ALL knew 'cerveza' (beer).
We stopped at one tiny village, replete with naked natives at the
edge of an incredibly pristine and beautiful river/waterfall, and
wandered into a hut where there was *obviously* some sort of ...er,
'beverage' being consumed, from the raucous laughter emanating from
same. Appearing, I imagine for all the world like Aliens from Jupiter,
we calmly waltzed into this ramshackle hut, vocalizing the only word
we imagined might have a chance of recognition, 'CERVEZA?'.
This produced one of the most amazing reactions I've seen in my travels.
These fellows (there were no women present) all burst into insane
fits of laughter. One of them finally composed and excused himself,
stumbled down to the river, about 20 meters away, and fished out 3
bottles of Polar beer from the riverbed. It was cold, it was delicious,
and we all babbled at each other for half an hour while understanding
nothing. (That isn't really true...most of you will grasp what I'm
saying here). A memorable moment.
I would loved to be able to drive (impossible) as far as the Tepuis.
Last time I was in Vz, I made friends with a bigshot in the govt. who
promised to let me fly his plane down to Angel Falls, but the weather
never cleared while I was there. (It's overcast about 300 days a year).
Some day I'll see it.
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Karl Schneider
My spring break
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