Venezuela Travelogue EN
Merida, Venezuela - visited in June 2007
This is our third night spent in this pathetic hotel that the owner, very creatively, named Hotel Italia. There are about twenty bedrooms, thousands of cockroaches and about forty beds with as many springs. Our backs seem to be held together with only a rusty and twisted iron wire. It’s still dark outside and I cannot sleep on this noisy wire. My computer clock says 5:28am. Unfortunately, my computer generally doesn’t lie. Thus, it’s with a good mood that I have opened my eyes for the eleventh time tonight. This, without counting the half dozen times when I had to wake up, putting on my flip-flops, going upstairs with a serious need to go to the bathroom. We are in a high altitude, so to avoid headaches we are obligated to flood our bodies with water all day long.
Yesterday, I had the chance to meet up with my Portuguese friend, a crazily creative guy from Coromoto. He is even in the Guinness World Book of Records... for creating more than 900 ice-cream flavours. Honestly, they’re not all that great, but I went to his ice-cream shop 7 years ago to give his famous ice-cream a second chance. His creativity is still expressed through original flavouring, and he surprised me with a selection of bell pepper, spaghetti bolognese, or garlic flavours. Nevertheless, I’ve been seduced by the perfumes of squids, basil and guava. Honestly, the texture and taste weren’t very appealing.
Fortunately, a cheerful sir who sells fruit juices saved us by offering us their local fruit juice. We also talked a bit with him about the Chavisme, the most popular topic to gossip about. In a few days it is the beginning of the Copa America and “El Loco” – what people call him here – has bought every ticket of every soccer match before anybody else could. He gracefully gave them to his supporters and also to a few brave Bolivians who’s travel to the event he also paid for. Supposedly, he hoped to avoid the humiliation of booing in the stadiums. He’s still dreaming. According to juice maker friend, less than 20% of Venezuelan people still support their corrupted government.
For once, the goal of this long detour through the Venezuelan Andes wasn’t a school visit. I had been there 7 years ago, to this region strongly affected by the elements. All those years ago, I had met a little girl in a village hidden in the mountains. Only about twenty houses had the courage to be built there. That was the girl with Emerald Eyes. I forgot her name and also the name of the little village which is not even on any maps. Only the letter “G” seemed to ring a bell. This magical “G” was definitely the first letter of the village. So I searched every village which begin by G in the region... in vain. I scoured maps in the Lonely Planet guides and Michelin maps before my departure... but nothing...
So, it was then, only with her picture, that I went to look for Emerald Eyes. One last memory made me think of something: seven years ago, I remembered that I was passing through another village a bit bigger which was situated 20 km away from G. It was called S-R. I found a van that could get me there. It was freezing, and my hands were bearing the brunt of the temperature change. Finally I found again the name of my village... and it definitely started with a G! (I’ve decided to keep the name of the village private, to avoid other curious individuals from seeking it out.) Seven years later, I set out on the poor road that leads to G. Electricity seems to have also made its way to the village.
Some new houses had been strangely set up here too. The village created a cooperative 2 or 3 years ago and has been offered a van to smooth transportation between the villages. My little guardian angels put me in 5 minutes on the trail of the van’s driver. He had red cheeks from being exposed daily to the wind and cold. He was wearing a straw hat to protect him from the moody weather. His smile showed his missing teeth but he kept his charm of family chief. His eyes were of a sparkling blue reminiscent of the Pacific Ocean. He came from G for sure. I showed him immediately the picture of Emerald Eyes. Again, he graciously shows me his missing teeth and tells me “I know her. Everyone knows her in G. She’s grown up a lot since that picture. She will be very pleased to see you”.
As two excited people, and new friends, we entered the truck and took to the roads in high hills. We passed the cows and sheep and some farmers who tried to grow garlic or potatoes. A frozen river crossed the beautiful lost village of G. He dropped us in front of Emerald Eyes’ house. Her aunt opened the wooden door. She was standing a hundred meters away in the hills and was curiously staring at us. A red cap covered her face hiding her look. She climbed down the hill slowly with her sister to meet the stranger who visited them. I explained to her briefly about our tour and why we visited the forgotten G village.
She thinks briefly. She lowered her head, sad for not being able to remember. She was only 5 years old back then, maybe more, maybe less. She smiles shyly, very shyly and is troubled to see herself so little in the picture. She kept her emeralds eyes. Her hands are more chapped because of age and the cold. Her golden hair faded away to an earthy brown. Too intimidated by this uncomfortable conversation, her aunt intervenes and tells us the story of the little family. Then I give her the camera and tell her that today it’s her turn to take pictures. Smiling with sparkling eyes, she enjoyed shooting everything she saw. Being uncomfortable with the camera’s weight and size, she gave it to her sister who had as much fun as she did. Her whole family has been immortalized by her little fingers damaged by the cold.
We were offered a little coffee to make us warm and to protect us from a threatening cloud. We shared some banana crisps that I had brought. I distinguished her voice for first time, saying thank you. It has always been her eyes which had done the talking. Seven years ago I wasn't able to speak Spanish, so that was the way we spoke. also It was with a little sadness that I had to go back to the mild lands before the night fall. I would have liked so much to spend more time with her, asking her a billion of questions, walking around the hills with her. I hope I won't wait seven years again to do the trip. She will be a woman for sure. Children with her eyes will be playing in the village just like there were seven years ago.
It’s sort of funny to imagine that I have seen thousands of faces in seven years but this is the one that has stuck with me. She must have seen less than one hundred and she couldn’t remember mine...
Anthony
Merida, 24th June 2007
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