Malabo

“Can you go to Malabo on Friday?”

Not exactly the kind question one expects at 8 a.m. on a Monday in the heart of all things suburbia--otherwise known as Bethesda, Maryland.

It was the assignment everyone was suddenly “too swamped” to take. Malabo, in the words of my veteran supervisor, was the "weirdest place on earth.” By his account, six years in sand-stormy Sudan would be more pleasant than a six-day assignment in Malabo, Equatorial Guinea.

Aside from that sunny comparison, I had at my imagination’s disposal four facts about this location: it’s the only Spanish speaking country in Africa; photography is punishable by jail sentence; the government is renowned for torturing opposition supporters in “Black Beach;” and most of the population is extremely poor while foreign oil extractors live comfortably on Pleasantville-style compounds.

It was just the kind of place I wanted to spend Christmas alone.

My bosses needed a Spanish speaker to coordinate startup for a USAID project there, and it all had to be completed within two weeks, or else I’d be spending the holidays on Strange Island.

Before I knew it, I was floating in a sea of long faces and alligator skin attire at the Paris Charles de Gaulle airport. About 30 men, not so fresh off their flight from Dallas, looked like they were waiting for the Devil to swing by and escort them back to Hell. Everyone, from the pilot to the rotund man named Jimmy sitting to my left, had one thought plastered on his face: What’s a woman doin' on this plane? Maybe she’s confused and thinks we’re goin’ to New Guinea in South 'merica.

After a few half-comatose and extremely disorienting realizations that the silent, deep indigo view I repeatedly awoke to was indeed the Sahara, and that all my sleepy co-passengers were indeed from America's Heartland, we descended upon Malabo.

The electricity-less terrain we’d just passed made the island of Bioko look like Vegas on steroids, with dozens of oil refinery fires thrown in for good measure (environmentalists seeking an image of natural resource exploitation at the height of its fury need look no further).

On that cold night under heavy rain an immigration officer looked me up and down with an unhurried, menacing grin. He gripped a bulky machine gun and posited his main question--the one thing every border patrolman must know: "Why are you without your husband?"

Welcome to Malabo.

Sensgiveen en Caracas

Last night was an unexpectedly very Thanksgiving-esque dinner en mi casa en Caracas. Turkey, wine, stuffing, sweet potatoes, green beans, soup—the whole deal. We even went around and each said what we’re thankful for en español. Por ejemplo, Thom and I said we were thankful for all the friends we’d made in Caracas; Steve said he was thankful for water (we had no running water, which made washing dishes/hands interesting...), and Giulio said he was happy for passing all the tests he needs to graduate (eeesooo). The mood was lovely and everyone left five pounds heavier than when they'd arrived.

Back for more

The cleaning lady at our office just sprayed the most oppresive brisas de vainila odor-eater throughout the office. HELLLLPPPP meeee!!!

So anyway, I’m now here on a courtesy visa, which is their way of saying "please get off our backs until we’re assured that Devil Barbie (Sarah Palin) will not be elected" (she just said she'd use military force here--that's fun! I’m really glad that she made that comment. It was well thought-out and reflected her nuanced understanding of relations with this country).

As much as I enjoy temporary corporate housing, it is so nice to be back here. Yesterday, it rained in that four-to-five-inches-on-the-streets kind of way; and when I said I was leaving to walk home (everyone else takes metro or drives), my coworkers wished me a pleasant swim. Even though it was 65 degrees out, they all rested assured that the boss-lady would be stuck at home with the flu the next day.

Instead of the flu, I came back with a Tupperware stocked with amazing cookies. Which leads me to the next point: I am becoming domesticated. Not sure where it’s coming from, but I actually look forward to grocery shopping—and I’m not even buying frozen meals. Last night, I washed and chopped vegetables with my boyfriend and actually enjoyed it—felt a cozy, appreciative relationship with the tomatoes and mushrooms.

Thankfully, domestication hasn’t reached the point of enjoying laundry, which is why I also made sure to purchase several weeks worth of extra clothing while in the U.S.

New favorite word

Carabobeño.

(http://www.el-carabobeno.com/)

The magic wand.

Parks in Ha Noi are the kind of place where it’s difficult to walk ten feet without bumping into a man or group of men who are meditating, resting their untroubled gaze upon some placid body of water, or engaging in a similar mind/body/spirit expanding activity. What struck me about those guys (and other Vietnamese people I’ve bumped into on the street) is that they are relatively very soft spoken until you pull out the magic wand: a camera.

This device turns the shiest of Vietnamese into smiley, jazzy friends who think its so funny that you have a camera! A staff member in a red shirt blazed by me yelling “Hello! Where you from!” as I sat by the pond at the Temple of Literature.

Out of nowhere: a dragon pose.

I searched around me to see if one of his friends was about to snap a pic but no, he was waiting for me to capture his moment of glory—finger claws, snarled teeth and all—to be placed in the photo album he’d never see.

I then asked him where he was from. Time to get shy again. It was probably his lack of English, but the man went from a crazy fun-loving dragon to a self-conscious staff member who suddenly had to run away. Literally, he ran away from me, but at least he was smiling when he did.

CHỈ SỐ VỀ TÍNH NHẤT THỂ TÀI CHÍNH CỦA CHÍNH QUYỀN ĐỊA PHƯƠNG

One of my four favorite things about being in Ha Noi is that I have absolutely no idea what anything means. I’m here developing an index for local governance that I call the Fiscal Integrity Index. I just got it translated to Vietnamese for a meeting with government reps. It looks so ridiculous to me. “Fiscal Integrity Index” apparently translates to the following: CHỈ SỐ VỀ TÍNH NHẤT THỂ TÀI CHÍNH CỦA CHÍNH QUYỀN ĐỊA PHƯƠNG. The one word that I actually understand and brings me solace is my name. But then it's followed by 1209 other words I am totally lost on.

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I do hate the flaming ignoramus feeling when it comes to local languages, so I try to feign apprehension with cab drivers by repeating whatever they just said to me. The other day I met a lovely cab driver who had the most endearingly awkward bowl hair cut. He was so smiley that I couldn't help but want him to think I knew Vietnamese:

Lovely cab driver: Anh bao nhiêu tuoi?
Me: Ah! Yes, anh bao nhiêu tuoi .
Lovely cab driver: Tôi duoc ba mươi lăm tuoi...
Me: Oh--lăm tuoi—haha!
Lovely cab driver: (turns around, confused) hahahahaha!!!

Sa' tu donest'ah laof'ina de fax?

And now: a guest post. From Ms. Hina Strayer:

The most giant soft old woman with painted lips of coral and misaligned pencil drawn eyebrows just sauntered up to me. It was as if a Floridian shower curtain had ripped itself from a retirement home bathroom and found its way to my desk. She asks, in a dialect that could only be Caribbean Spanish, a long melodic question that sounded like "Sa' tu donest'ah laof'ina de fax?", followed up by an flagrantly frustrated "Oye, hablas espanol?". I reply amicably, "si, pero no se donde esta...", and she interrupts me by rolling her big tired-lidded eyes back into her head, just shaking it slowly back and forth. And waddles away without another word.

Sigh.

Vietnam: I like my pants linen and my moto without a seatbelt

Crossing the street in Vietnam is like walking through a beehive and just trusting it will be ok if you go at the right pace. If you stop or get scared, ZING, you.are.dead my friend. Every time I do it I feel like a 13-year-old boy is directing all the motos from his Nintendo controller up above, just waiting to confuse one of the opponent motos into crashing into me.

I first discovered this while on my way to a meeting on the other side of town. A professor and I walked to his motorcycle and I put on my helmet in a way that wouldn’t mess up my hair, which is not possible. He couldn’t believe I’d never been on a mototaxi in Ha Noi, or that no one had told me how to cross the street Vietnamese style.

Time to look cool: “Well I’ve only been here 24 hours.” Even cooler: “also, I’ve been in Caracas, where riding these things is likened to a death wish.”

“Hah! Here too!” he shouted as we sped off around the corner, all of my precious papers nearly flying out of my lap and into the street. “The good thing is,” he continued, “I’ve only been in one accident. But it practically wasn’t my fault, you know?”

No. No I don't know.

I then determined why everyone in Ha Noi wears those face masks while riding motos: exhaust fumes. Mmm.

A few white-knuckled miles later, it was yet again time to enter Super Mario land o' oncoming motos. I stayed directly parallel to the professor and copied his movements exactly, in an attempt to use him as a buffer in case of emergency (likely).

Just because they stopped for two seconds is not going to keep them

from starting up while you're mid stream.

When we got to the meeting, rife with chivos (higher ups) in the international development community, I noticed many U.S. expats here like to wear linen, a look that says “I’m humble because I work in development—no 9-5 office clothes for me, no sir. I can take it without AC--just look how simple my office is--except when I get home to my U.S. tax-paid cushy palace that has three local maids and a cook. I also like to have peace of mind—an attitude embodied by these pants that easily adjust to locally practiced meditation poses, which I never do.”

For the love of a generator.

I saw a three year old in the park in Ha Noi today. He was all about this generator so I decided to take lots of pictures of him. And now I've created a mystical tale about their romance:

He had a feeling from the beginning that this generator was the one.

At times, he did wonder if this inanimate object was The one. After all, the tree was tall, dark and organic.

He soon realized though, that his love for the small gray metal box was unstoppable.

He ran into its nonexistent arms.

He greeted it with love and smacks.

He was sure: for him, there was no other generator.

The frirk

I’m on my way back from my 5th trip to Caracas and feel removed enough from U.S. culture to make some superficial generalizations. Namely, that we gringos are so awkward. I asked for soda water with a lime and this caused the stewardess to get all “uhh!! I’m going to have to—look—uhh! for that...later..uh!”

Alternatively, the Venezolana approach might have been to say no hay before flashing a deadpan upside down smirk (like a frown + smirk: frirk). The frirk no hay combo is deceptively simple but roughly translates to:

And what are you going to do about it? I’m not even going to mention what the other options are because you went and asked me for something I don’t have. And when you tell me what you want instead, I’m going to look in the other direction and pretend I didn’t hear because you know what? I have better things to be thinking of right now. God, it’s hot in here. No, you can’t get your money back, because I already made your receipt and the manager’s at his wife’s cousin’s aunt’s baby shower, and only the manager can give you your money back. He’ll be back at six. But we close at five.

’cho-cuiao-co-ua-vaiii

Having a bilingual Venezuelan boyfriend is similar to having a personal translator. All I have to do is say a Spanish word with a certain intonation and he auto-feeds the translation back to me. It also works for phrases. My favorite is “You better WATCH yoself:” Mucho cuidado con una vaina. We mutilate it into a snobbier, single word: ’cho-cuiao-co-ua-vaiii always pronounced with an open, lazy mouth and sometimes an accompanying finger snap or threatening “OK” sign. I use it as an extremely dramatic overreaction to anything: getting too close to another car on the highway, stealing a fry from my McDonald’s meal—basically any act that slightly resembles a transgression calls for ’cho-cuiao-co-ua-vaiii.

Cheaper than water

Colleen just forwarded me one of those email jokes. This one looked promising because it was about gas prices, something I rarely concern myself with as a car-less freeloader.

The whole gas thing of course got me thinking about Venezuela's petroleo. On a lovely four-hour mountainous drive to the beach, Giulio and I pulled up to a gas station.

Oh yeah—offer to pay for gas. I’m getting a free ride here.

“No no—let me get this,” I selflessly offered.

"It’s ok,” he said, scrounging for some coins between car seats. "Do you have like, 15 cents?"

I looked at the register and wondered if the figure we saw was for one liter, or if they should have been using the old currency and forgot to add three zero's to the end, or if the machine was broken and computing incorrectly, or if the mountain air had induced in me a form of temporary numerical illiteracy and 98 cents really meant "109080 cents".

Nope. The whoooole tank: 98 cents.

Bienvenido a Venezuela.

Caracas: Why walk two blocks when you can drive?

My Paris parenthesis

It is greedy to dream of traveling abroad while in a foreign country, but I just searched for pictures of Paris because I have ahuge crush on it. If I were a city, I'd want to marry it, but would surely have to get in line with all the other (certainly more financially capable) admirer cities.

The photos stirred up my latent fantasies of being a petite Frenchy for a month or two--doing nothing but drinking vin rouge and writing about the quirky things Parisians do and say in the public places I'd stealthily observe them, like bus stops and park benches. My intermediate French language barrier would ensure mild alienation and thus an ability to feel completely at ease in taking notes while staring at strangers.

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I would live in an exorbitantly-priced closet with a view of the Sienne; eat fresh nutella crepes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; and stroll around listening to the Amelie soundtrack on my 'pod as though I were starring in my own petite scene. I'd probably try to find an old, bitter, but quirky and ultimately lovable, artichoke vendor like the one in the movie; but I wouldn’t be able to converse with him (or anyone) without sounding awkward. That’s fine though, because Paris would be lovely for exploring life as a hermit.

Raid and vulgarities: Venezuelan futbol

Going to a soccer game in Venezuela is the same as going to a Red Sox/ Yankees game, but just everyone is on crack. Upon arrival, I made the assumption that the fire shooting from the hands of fanaticos originated from special fire-spouting devices that one can only purchase in Venezuela.

Upon further inspection, though, I realized they were cans of Raid with a lighter held to the spout. So that’s fun to inhale in an enclosed space.

I got pretty decked out for this game and even bought my own devil horns to celebrate the red glory that is the Caracas fútbol team.

I wrote down and memorized the chants that everyone sings to the other team. Also similar to chants sung at Red Sox/ Yankees games, but everyone is 10 times more pissed off and 100 times more vulgar. When a special goal kick is made (I’m sure it has a name other than ‘special goal kick’ but we’ll take care of that bit o’ knowledge at another time), everyone shouts HIJO DE PUTA!! to which the other side of the stadium (Tachira fans) responds TU MADRE!!, to which we retaliate with LA TUYA!!! We also sing about how everyone says that Caraqueños are drunken delinquents.

This fan only looks innocent.

You better put that budget right.

Being part of "management" in an office where I am not a native speaker and am half the age of the people I "manage" is always fun, particularly when I get pissed off at employees and write threatening emails in awkward Spanish:
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"Paola, I waste the time on this. I don't want more. Please put the budget right next time. Make me know if you have the questions about this. A thousand thanks. Bye."
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This love is in its air!

I have a lot of free time here, so naturally I like to find special Babelfish translations of websites.

Some gems:

-From cooking websites:

“Although by house several tons of candies have left still the other day desired to me to do the muffins for breakfast. It is possible to be said that they have left delicious, very spongy to us!”

“This time I have used pumpkin because it was an idea that it had in the head since I made those cakes the Christmases.”

“Is time to watch at the mirror with horror when discovering meat unknown during the covered months of winter so I am going to make a pause with candies."

“We did it for Christmas Eve since after the supper the latest that desired to us was a forceful dessert. It gave something me of fear to annoy it. But the truth is that he is not nothing difficult!”

“I continue taking advantage of the strawberries; it could not lack a jam!”

- From horoscopes:

"If able one exists somebody to defy your mental capacity and to make annoy your heart... because he is very lucky!"

"Two together hearts, much more have power that one. To give a breathing to the people who surround to you, really will be a lightening for all!"

"It considers the first days of this week like a phase of preheating. Soon you will enter yourself in a new space station, in which you will have renew your loving life."

"During a pair of days, it tries to walk to your own rate; if you feel that something clay is approached, probably is the incredible energy. This love is in its air!"

A stroll through Caracas

Karla is my favorite shopping buddy, even though we’re in a city where a white cotton t-shirt runs about $45 minimum.

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Sambil: The place to go for grotesquely overpriced clothing.

On our way to Sambil in order to sambilear (kindof like Macy’s-ing), I asked her if it’s safe for us to walk there at dark. She assured me no hay problema--it is a nice neighborhood, but in most other places we wouldn’t be doing this.

I then told her about my gringo friend Matt, who thinks it’s safe to walk most anywhere in Caracas at night. As I blabbed on about all of the "crazy" neighborhoods in which our feet have tread the earth, Karla bowled over. She laughed in the way that sitcom actors react to the crazy neighbor's harebrained antics, turning her whole body away from me while waving her hand in disbelief.

I arrogantly concluded my stories: Y bueno en fin no estoy segura que Caracas sea tan peligrosa como se dice. (“In the end, I’m not sure Caracas is as unsafe as everyone says..”).

Karla smugly giggled at my wrap up and forced a pause.

Jajajaja pero Erin--mira esto.
("Hahahaha but Erin--look at that.")

She grabbed my shoulder and pointed ten feet behind us, to a man tapping on the window of a gridlocked car, clearly in an attempted stick up.

In my nervousness, and Karla’s lighthearted jadedness, we both threw our heads back in laughter, turned, and resumed our leisurely stroll to the mall.

El crimen de la comida

I woke up at 3 a.m. last night to realize the not-so-fresh sushi I'd eaten earlier was having a despedida in my estomago de gringa. At this point I am so pitifully familiar food poisoning that I mechanically know what to do—even at that hour, when I can barely remember my name. Charcoal pills (sounds weird but they absorb toxins), a tall glass of water and the wastebasket huddle by my bed. That night was truly maravillosa.

Calle bello

My clothes are blissfully drenched right now. For el 13 de abril, a municipality sponsored a free last minute Calle 13 concert in Plaza Venezuela. AMAZING.

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El Residente (see pic) has so much energia. I couldn't understand most of his Puerto Rican accent, but I am a little bit in love. He has the playful spirit of a kid and the mouth of a sailor.

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By the time they played their most famous song, it was pouring and everyone was bailando. In my Caracas heaven, every night ends dancing bajo la lluvia to the rhythm of an inappropriate serenade from el Residente.

Morning with a mango

I'm eating a Venezuelan mango right now and my hands are dripping with juice. My friend plucked it from a tree in her backyard and proudly offered it to me as a unique "you don't find these in the U.S. do you now" gift. When I told her we have mangoes up in el norte too, she smiled.

"Just smell it," she said.

It hadn’t been cut open yet, but it had an aroma—even the skin radiates fruity sweetness. That's why it's a Venezuelan mango--el perfume.

I was late to meet friends this morning, but it smells so luscious that I had to just sit with it. My romance with the mango was interrupted by the nosy neighbor next door, though. I noticed out of the corner of my eye that she had dropped the pan she was scrubbing to get a better look-see at what that weird gringa's up to now. She was probably trying to figure out why I had my eyes closed and a piece of fruit plastered against my face.

Peanut butter no more!

My coworkers held the door open as we stepped into the elevator, discussing our dinner plans. They were both so eager to get home and cook, but the mere idea of standing by an oven after a long day made me drowsy.

“Well, I hate cooking,” I said, unthinkingly.

-Silence-

I had exited the realm of Venezuelan social propriety and crossed into the land of nonconformist oddballs. One would have thought that I said I detest newborn babies. They looked at each other: Did she really just say that? Uh... maybe she got the Spanish wrong and meant to say she adores being in the kitchen.

“But Erin… Why??”

OK. Maybe it is a nice thing to do for oneself. I figured I would give cooking a try instead of the usual peanut butter crackers (my treasured Skippy jar is a smuggled staple in places where I don’t have the means to safely get to a market by myself, or haven’t yet figured out how the produce machines at the grocery store work).

I almost turned the kitchen into a fiery inferno, but am so pleased with my creation: boiled plantain, fried eggplant, and goat cheese on toast, with a side of passion fruit juice in a champagne glass.

I'm going to tell my coworkers all about it tomorrow.

I'll take one cake and... 5 trillion tanks of gas.

Whenever someone has a birthday, a mass email is released in the halls of our inboxes, signaling a fiery and exclamation-point-filled debate on what breed of cake shall grace our kitchenette table.

27 demands/pleas/negotiations later, we giddily arrive at our decision: mil hojas... "even though it will make us fat."

One time, we missed the birthday of the secretary of one of our partners. This heinous error prompted an informal meeting by the café station:

Ay!! Qué hacemos entonces??? Cuándo era?? Cuánto cumple? Ay no puedo creer que lo perdimos!!! (“Ay!! What are we going to do then?? When was it?? How old did she turn?? Ay, I can’t believe we missed it!!!!!”).


When all is said and purchased, I like to check out our spending reports just for kicks. With absurd inflation and ridiculously low gas prices (drinkable water costs more than gas), they generally look like this:

• Five full tanks for gas-guzzling SUVs: $4.12

• Single layer b-day cake with minimal frosting: $107.98

Powdered (or boxed) victory.

Lucho and I were waiting for our food when the juices arrived. Oh, divino, delicious juices. I told Lucho that strawberry drinks (thick and sweet tart with chucks of berry) are one of my favorite things about Venezuela. Here, I rest assured that even a filet mignon will always be accompanied by frosty strawberry juice, if I so choose.
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When I told him I can’t get this glorious drink in the U.S. unless I order the crappier imitation—a virgin daiquiri—Lucho looked at me like I’d actually said “Houses in the US don’t have doors—just spaces on the ground, where you get beamed inside.”

Lucho nervously ran his hands over the table in an attempt to regain a sense of reality.

He then asked for a confirmation of my outlandish statement before resigning to the fact that his next visit to the U.S. would be devoid of fresh jugo de fresa.

I further explained that the only juices you can easily get in the U.S. are boring: grape, orange, apple, and cranberry.

“I bet they’re not even freshly made,” he ventured, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Nope—from a bottle,” I confirmed.

In spite of our fresh juice deficiency, Venezuelans are in no place to judge the U.S. on the basis of its liquid consumables. There is no fresh milk in Caracas. If you’re lucky, you can get your hands on that boxed stuff that lasts longer than any animal product should, or the powdered kind, which I have trouble classifying as milk.

Going to the grocery store on a day when there’s boxed or powdered milk is to be avoided at all costs. When this happens, the grocer yells HAY LECHE!!!! at which point people dash for the back as if a tsunami were on the horizon: arms, bodies, and carts flail in all directions.

Having hoarded sufficient amounts for their families, customers proudly resume their shopping. The game doesn’t end there, though. Competition is so fierce that if you take your eyes away from your cart for even a second, you can kiss that pasteurized prize goodbye.

Worth fighting for.

If you do manage to make it to the front of the store with this precious commodity in hand, there is a special line for you and the other victors. In this line, people brag and congratulate themselves on their brave feat, eying how many boxes the person in front of them grabbed; and loudly fantasizing about the creamy stews, flans, and dulce de leches that now loom in their milk-laden horizons.

No room for granny panties on these beaches

There it was--every Venezuelan woman’s “must have” and every gringa’s worst nightmare: the thong bikini. Blindingly pink, yet so small it was practically invisible to the naked eye.

Veronica anxiously waited outside, amidst rows of other tiny pieces of fabric that also called themselves bathing suits. "Are you ready? How's it fit?? Do you need a bigger one?"

When I opened the curtain 5 inches, she insisted that I looked espectacular and demanded that I step out of the dressing room to spin around (in front of other people? that happen to be gorgeous Venezuelan models??). That’s it, she said: I absolutamente had to purchase it.

I was more of the opinion that I would/could/should never appear in public wearing something that resembles a four year old's headband. But I’d heard it all before on the beaches of Venezuela: my JCrew bikini might as well have been pulled directly from my grandmother’s underwear drawer. It was time for a change.

The sales associate interrupted her gossiping to corroborate Veronica’s ridiculous claim that I looked arrechisima. I pointed out all the blah blah blah criticisms women always make of their own bodies, and Veronica responded with her this gringa has so much to learn head shake. She reminded me that any woman who thinks she’s drop dead sexy looks sexy and—more importantly—she really didn't want to be seen with me wearing those granny panties anymore.

Two minutes later, I’m handing cash to the saleswoman and walking out of the store wondering what the hell just happened. Now it's time for a weekend at the beach. And exposing parts of my body that have never seen the sun.

Dengue Dreams

One of the weirdest things about Caracas is the fact that you can still get Dengue from white footed mosquitoes (I thought mosquitoes just had long dainty legs but apparently there’s feet too).

Matt and I laughed about this idea as we hiked el Avila: Hah, who gets Dengue, am I right? Isn’t that prehistoric or something?

Then he called me a week later and said he had Dengue. I knew he was joking, so of course I laughed. Then he said he was at the hospital and his voice cracked. Matt’s not that good of an actor.

We learned Dengue is not so prehistoric when your temperature goes to 106˚ and you have to eat smelly chicken’s feet soup while doing nothing but lying around for six days. A dainty mosquito did all that to a grown man, one thousand times its size! Pobre Matt.
Now, every time I get bit by a mosquito in Caracas, I say a little swear and check out its feet.

Álvaro

I just landed in Atlanta, en route to D.C., and I’m so loopy. A drug sniffing beagle and his border patrol owner approached my unreasonably large heap of bags. Naturally, I asked the beagle if he wasn’t just the most precious little thing I’d ever seen!

“Maam. Please refrain from engaging the animal.”

I received a call from my airport driver at 4:30 a.m. Pain. Álvaro, the driver, assured me his car has papel—bullet proof casing, and that he is armed. In my haze, I asked him if he had training for that. He said he had been a cop in Caracas for 20 years, which I took to mean, Are you kidding me?.

My hazy blabbing continued: Esto es un trabajo que jamás quisiera tener. (“That is one job I would never want to have.”)

Álvaro kindly explained that most cops in Caracas don’t want it either, considering they risk their lives daily, and generally get paid $700 a month. (As a point of cash comparison, my friend said he had trouble finding a one-bedroom in a decent Caracas neighborhood for less than $3500 a month).

Almost every Caraqueño I’ve met blames Venezuela’s rampant violent crime on el Presidente, so I asked him why Chávez hasn’t made it a priority to increase wages for la policia. My bilingual braincells were off duty at this point, but I caught key phrases in his response such as cabrón (bastard) and imbécil incompetente (incompetent idiot).

Álvaro left the police force five years ago because Irene Saez (who, not surprisingly, was also a Miss Venezuela and Miss Universe) stepped down as the first elected mayor of Chacao. People have a lot of respect for this woman and he did not anticipate that her successor would be as qualified a leader.

As we drove through of a string of hills marked randomly by shantytowns, Álvaro explained that his country has the same problem as most other developing countries: lots of natural wealth but nobody seems to know what to do with it. A common joke, he said, is that when God was creating Latin America he put oil, diamonds, and gold in Venezuela. When the rest of the region complained that all the good stuff was going to Venezuela, God said, OK, I’ll add Venezuelans.

I asked him if he’d ever considered leaving. He said yes.

Then some second thoughts quickly surfaced: “But Venezuela is a unique place. There is no country like ours. There is no gente like the venezolanos. I could leave Venezuela. But I would feel very sad.”
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A timely decision

Veronica needs to pick up a box tomorrow so she asked if she could come temprano tempranito—as early as you can get.

The 5:30am shriek of my alarm and the thought of greeting Veronica at the door with eyes half open and hair unbrushed begin to torment me.

Then she turns to me: “Ok so like... 11am?”

Thank you, gods of Venezuelan time.

I am currently making plans to meet up with a friend in ten minutes, but I know I’m going to take at least an hour. I’m in Venezuela, though, so technically speaking he can't get mad about that.

I think it's fitting that, aside from a handful of global cities (like Tehran), Venezuela’s clocks are always 30 minutes ahead of the rest of you guys. This shift sounds silly. But the point is to make it lighter when a lot of people go to work in the early morning. Precious daylight is a good way to combat crime. So maybe Chávez is on to something…

But why is it just half an hour—why not an hour?

For now he can control how we speak too: No mas English! We are no longer permitted to speak English in the office. This announcement incited a mass of what I adore about our office here—giggles. Venezuelans are lovely like that. Us norteamericanos would never giggle if the government tried to restrict our business languages because we would be too busy calling our lawyers on our blackberrys. But here, everyone laughs—albeit in a slightly anxious, when is the next flight to Miami? kind of way.

Walking to work

No respectable Venezuelan woman would walk to work in tennis shoes. So in my ever-failing quest to fit in, I made my two-mile walk in heels. This was a really bad idea. Aside from the fact that stop lights are interpreted merely as suggestions, the sidewalks in Caracas look like they were imported from an Indiana Jones movie set.

According to Verónica, venezolanas are las mas femeninas de todas las Latinas (the most feminine of all Latin women). Surely my normal gringa walk would make me stick out, so I pretend there is a book on my head (as if prepping for a beauty pageant) while dodging open potholes, motociclistas that observe everything on a road except pedestrians, and drivers of oncoming cars that don't really see the point in slowing down if there is a human being between their SUV and the open road.

In spite of all my efforts to fit in, no one approaches to inquire if I am Venezuelan. BUT, one creepy man who saw me across the street did stop dead in his tracks and called out, "Meeow. Meeeow. Meeeoww."

Ah, Caracas.

Men and comida

In the casual stage, dating is straightforward in Venezuela—no pointless games, no ooh, well, maybe, I’m not sure if I like you, because Venezuelan men are clear about that. They’re also very skilled in the art of flattery. A local writer sums it up well in saying that the role of women in Venezuela is “symbolically elevated to the peak of human experience. Women are celebrated as queens and goddesses.”

Venezolanos are also pretty good about things like opening doors, making sure the woman walks onto the elevator/small sidewalk space first, and (get ready to cringe all you egalitarian daters!)—paying for dinner.

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The restaurant near the place I’m staying makes milkshakes so divino I inhale them in a single sip, before they even have time to put the salsas on my sandwich. They also have delicious arepas (thick corn meal patties) that can be turned into massive pockets for avocado, steak, tomatoes, and cheese (just a suggestion), or simply served warm with butter. Or shrimp and avocado. Or melted white cheese. Or fried plantains with sauteed onions and steak.

My other favorite thing about eating in Venezuela is that everyone asks, “What fresh juices do you have?” before ordering anything. The response sounds like the waiter recently surveyed the shoreline of a tropical island: parchita (passion fruit), papaya, mango, piña (pineapple), naranja (orange), fresas (strawberries), limón (lemon), mora azul (blueberry), melocotón (peach), sandia (watermelon), pomelo (grapefruit), melón (cantaloupe), pera (pear), and uva (grape). I also inhale these before my food arrives.

My other favorite thing about Venezuelan food is pabellón criollo, which is rice, black beans, shredded beef, tajadas (fried plantain slices), and sometimes avocado or egg served all together. I’m not a food writer, so I’m not going to try to describe it, but please know that if you ever set foot in Venezuela, your first priority should be to find a place that will serve you this dish.

Why must I work out when there is liposuction?

This morning while eating breakfast, I saw a really special tv clip. It must have been a re-run because it provided suggestions for New Years resolutions. The first one was to forget working out—simply watch Doctor 90210.

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Why? Duh. Because that way, you can make an informed decision about which form of plastic surgery would best suit your needs..

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hablo venezolano

My favorite Venezuelan-ism is a word they plucked from us gringos: Full. They abuse it to no end:

For example:
Estoy demasiado full ahorita = I am FULL busy - OR - I am FULL of food.
La musica está full buena= This music is FULL good.
El centro está puro full ahorita = The mall is pure FULL now.
La vaina está full = The (insert noun) is FULL.
Había full gente= There were FULL people there (it was crowded).
Te quiero full = I love you FULL.



Venezuelans also know how to make each other feel really good through conversation. Instead of just saying “k cool” or “alright,” a more typical Venezuelan response would be:

- Buenísimo
- Magnifico
- Divino

And while they’re at it, they’re not going to refer to you as just “you”. You’re more likely to be:

- Mi princesa – my princess
- Mi amor – my love
- Mi vida – my life
- Mi querida—my darling
- Preciosa — precious

So a typical conversation might go like this:

Me: I brought chocolates for the office.
Venezolano: Divine! My precious—how wonderful! Well, I am full-busy right now but I will stop to enjoy these rich treats with you, my life!

I aspire to be a youthful goat

Today, Verónica explained that Venezuelan higher ups are chivitos. This is just silly, because chivito means “young goat.”

This factoid took a seat in my brain for the remainder of my afternoon at the office. I envisioned conversations with coworkers: “Oh no, a baby goat just caught me checking gmail” or "We really need to impress the little goats with this presentation." Then I pictured a pack of carefree, suited goats having a board room party, with one goat wearing a tailcoat and top hat, attempting a thumbs-up with his hoof (he had just signed a major contract).

To aid my imagination, I went google-hunting for goats in suits. This was an alarmingly effortless task:

Aló gringa!

The Avila is the only thing in Caracas that makes me feel tranquila. Sometimes, when I gaze at it for a while, it starts to sigh back at me like some village elder radiating stillness and indecipherable Latin American wisdom. I can tell el Avila is disappointed with the state of its darling valley below (the constant honking, the suggestive reggaeton lyrics blasting from cars and clubs, the crime, the sirens, the corruption). But being the understanding village elder that it is, el Avila serenely accepts this chaos and continues on.

el Avila