Now the Rest of the Story

Sunday, October 12, 2008

The rum distillery.

About ten of us loaded onto a bus and headed down the road for the Santa Teresa rum distillery. It is located in the city of La Victoria, about an hour and a half from Valencia. Everyone was very sympathetic to my plight; they all volunteered to throw down whatever cash was necessary to cover us for the event.

We chatted and hung out until we arrived at the gates. It is a beautiful space with rolling green grass, palm trees, and old bits of train lying about. Each of us was given a plastic mug with the name of the place on it, but we weren’t allowed to fill it until our tour started. We brought in some food and had a picnic on the lawn while we waited for our appointed time.

Finally, they called us and we all rushed forth to claim our Cuba Libres. These were made with a plethora of rum and just the right amount of lime. We then boarded a little trolley car for our tour. The guide spoke only in Spanish. Fortunately we had two Venezuelans along to translate for us. This, however, became more difficult as their plastic mugs were emptied. By the end we had no idea what they were saying and we really didn’t care.

We drove through the sugar cane fields and learned about the organic way they get rid of pests. We drove around the distilling plant and the holding tanks and discovered that the byproducts of this rum are used as cleaning products and paint thinner. The bottling plant was closed so we only drove by. Eventually we came to the original building.

Here we were greeted by folks in period clothing. They ushered us in and showed us around. The museum that was the inside was set up to look like the place might have looked two hundred years ago when it was built. There was a Victrola and these great player piano devices. We weren’t supposed to touch them, but I couldn’t help myself. We looked at the original still and learned more about the process of making rum.

After a little more wandering we ended up back where we started. Here we tried to get our promised refill, but were told that would not happen. After some shrewd discussions with the man that had organized our tour we finally prevailed. With our second drink in hand, we boarded the bus for home. We were a little drowsy for the ride and by the time we arrived back at school we were all pining for the restroom.

It was a really fun day. We had time to spend without Zachary and we got to know our colleagues a little better. We can cross one more thing off of our list of things to do now.
MJR

Speaking of the Police

Saturday October 11, 2008

It’s funny, actually, thinking about the police. It reminds me of a completely different story. I have hesitated to tell it until now only because it’s a little embarrassing.

You hear stories about the police in Latin America. I think that basically they are true. If you have a handout they will leave you alone. It’s the best and easiest way out of a situation. The problem is that I don’t really know how to do that.

When you grow up in a place, you learn the rules. I have had run ins with the sheriff, the city police, the highway patrol, and even the F.B.I. It’s terrifying the first time you have to deal with law enforcement, especially when you are unfamiliar with the rules. As an adult, I am used to it. When a cop pulls me over I know the dance moves. I know what he expects from me and I have an idea of what I should expect from him. This is no longer true when you leave the safety of your mother country. The police here are scary. They carry big guns and they have the power to do pretty much anything they want.

I was coming home from the store on the day of Zachary’s birthday. I had some groceries, some ice, and a pocket full of cash. As I got closer to home, I discovered a Chavista rally right outside of my apartment. There was a big tent, lots of music and noise, tons of people in red, and more police than I could count. I pulled into my parking lot and didn’t think any more about it.

As I came around to the back of my car however, I discovered two fellows in uniform. I then noticed a big flat bed truck with a car on the back. The car was surrounded by more of these fellows in uniform. I took a deep breath and focused my attention on what was being said.

I have been quite disappointed with myself and my ability to understand Spanish. I can speak it reasonably well, but I can’t understand anything anyone says. Carrie is much better at deciphering things than I am. We make a good pair, actually, because she hears the words and I formulate the replies. When she is not there, I struggle. I was relating this fact to the father of one of my students. He was at the little man’s birthday party. He is Mexican, but he speaks English very well. Anyway, he told me that he too is challenged to understand the Venezuelans. He feels that they speak very fast and that they generally tend to drop the endings off most of their words; that made me feel a lot better.

I really did try to focus on this guy, but it’s extremely difficult when he is a man in uniform surrounded by men in uniform. I heard him say that they were collecting money for their cause. He had this slick brochure with lots of pictures of expensive stuff. It seemed like he was trying to convince me that it was some kind of raffle, but I couldn’t be sure. I stared at the brochure and then I stared at him and then I asked how much. He told me I could get in for fifty, no sorry, he really said one twenty, no, no, that’s one fifty for me. I reluctantly pulled out 150Bs and paid the man. He gave me the glossy brochure, smiled, and waved goodbye.

I stuffed the brochure into the back of a drawer. What’s the big deal? We all have to pay the gringo tax at one point or another. The deed was done so no point lamenting over it. I went off to the birthday party and forgot about it…then came that day last week.

I got an email from the school secretary; she told me that a man had come around looking for me. He arrived at the gate around 11. Security called her and she refused to allow him in. She passed along his name and number, along with the message that I still owed more money. She wanted affirmation that she had done the right thing. I assured her that indeed she had.

Now that this guy had shown up at work I was a little nervous. How the hell did this guy find me? Was he going to accost me on the way to work? Would he be waiting outside the building when I arrived home? I didn’t know, but I was working myself into a frazzle trying to figure it out. I finally ventured into the office and sat down with the woman who takes care of us gringos in all things Venezuelan.

I had to tell her the whole lurid story. I had to confess that I had been an idiot to begin with, but I was scared. Who wouldn’t be? There have been exposés about the police in Latin America. You know, I might even remember an entire "60 Minutes" dedicated to the issue. I didn’t want any trouble, but now it was knocking down my door.

She called the guy up and gave him the what for. It turns out that they weren’t police at all, only fireman from the next town over. They were, however, expecting me to cough up 150Bs a month for the next four months. I had, after all, bought in to the lottery. Fortunately, after some discussion, they forgave me my debt. Only when the F.B.I. told me they weren’t going to arrest me have I ever felt so relieved. I was happy to put the whole thing behind me.

Anyway, maybe that’s why I was a little braver with the real officer. It could be that and the fact that I really didn’t have any money and I really didn’t want to go to jail. I will tell you this for sure; I definitely did not want to go back into that school office and have a conversation with the same woman about this adventure.

In the end, I had no choice. I sheepishly related my story to the same woman who shook her head and assured me that there would be no repercussions from my misfortune. Wow, am I lucky…

MJR

What Does Make Sense?

Monday, October 6, 2008

So much to say all of a sudden…

We went to a party last week. It was on a Friday night. The party started at ~5, although being Venezuela, nothing really got under way until closer to seven. It was held at the house of a television magnate. He owns the Christian station here in town. Apparently the monstrosity that is their home along with the pool/swim up bar/waterfall wasn’t big enough so they bought the place next door too. This was where we went for the party.

One of the sons is a classmate of Zachary’s. It was his sixth birthday party. There were the usual games, jumpy castle, popcorn, hot dogs, candy, hot appetizers, soda, juice, and cocktails that one would expect to find at any six year old’s party(?). The theme of this one was “High School Musical!” This meant that there was a live stage show synopsis of the Disney film by the same name. The party favors included a High School Musical card game. This game, with English instructions, requires each player to be able to read. Is that really appropriate for a six year old?

We got home sort of late so I missed the presidential debates. I already know who I’m voting for so what’s the point? Many of my colleagues took the time to sit and watch from beginning to end. Later that evening, when we got together for poker I learned that I hadn’t really missed much; same old, same old. It was good that I learned that just before being relieved of all my cash.

I did get a chance to watch the Vice Presidential debates. That was quite interesting. I feel insulted by John McCain. I am supposed to elect a seventy-one year old man with an idiot for a vice president? How is it that the Republicans can have Dan Quayle, George W, and Sarah Palin and still feel like they can insult the Democrats? Are the American people really that stupid? That’s rhetorical, please don’t answer. If the septuagenarian is elected it will make our decision about moving home that much easier.

Now we are broke. The economy here is in terrible shape. Prices, especially on food, have increased by 50% since last year. Even the old timers are complaining. Although the pay here is good for Latin America, the cost of living will drive us out. We have to find a place we can actually afford to live and save at the same time. We are having to dip more and more into our savings just to get by. Next month we will have to cut back on the lunches we buy from school and start brown bagging it instead. The three of us went out for burgers last week; the price came to 80 Bs. That works out to $40 for three burgers, two fries, and some tea; definitely not what we signed up for.

We have put together our résumés and are working on pursuing jobs in Central America. The salaries are not that great, but the cost of living is less. Even if we wanted to stay here another year, we just can’t afford it. Paying New York prices is fine if I live in New York; paying those same prices to live in Valencia is Sarah Palin stupid.

So, that leaves us planning one more move; Zachary’s fifth house in seven years. I don’t know how much longer I can do this. All of this moving makes me infinitely sad. The next place better be a settling place.

MJR

We're Off To...Maybe Not

Saturday, October 11, 2008

Last week we had a great trip to a local rum distillery. It was arranged through the social committee at school. Carrie is a member of that committee. She has been pressing them to branch out a little, so we ended up at the Santa Teresa Rum Distillery.

We were scheduled to meet everyone at the school at 10:00 Saturday morning. A bus had been reserved to take us on the hour and a half trip to the city of La Victoria for the tour. My job was to take Zachary to his friend’s house across town, get some cash from the ATM and buy some credit for the phone. Easy enough… Except we live in Venezuela.

My first stop was the Panaderia (bakery) for the cash machine. I waited in line, observing that no one was being successful. Finally it was my turn to be unsuccessful. That’s okay, no problem, I just hopped the fence to the pharmacy next door and waited in line at that cash machine. It wasn’t giving money either. I left without even trying.

It was getting late and I still had to get Z across town. We jetted off and stopped at another pharmacy to use that machine. It rejected me so I jumped in the car and blazed a trail. The next machine I came to told me that my card had now been blocked. This meant there could be no success so I opted for dropping Zachary off and going from there.

There was still a little time so I thought I might just make it to the bank and get it worked out with them. That would have been a lot easier if this town had been laid out in an orderly fashion. As it was I got turned around and ended up on the Avenida Bolivar going away from the bank. This is a main thoroughfare with a giant median in the middle of it. Okay, so I’m cruising the wrong way down this huge street, looking to make a uee. I have fifteen minutes before the bus is supposed to leave and I have to stop at a pedestrian light.

I will pause here in the story to remind you that there are no laws in Venezuela, especially traffic laws. A red light merely means slow down and make sure no one is coming before jetting through at top speed towards your destination. This is doubly true for lights at pedestrian crossings as pedestrians have no rights whatsoever.

I waited until everyone had crossed and then I ran that light headed for my u-turn when I got pulled over. I tried to play the part of the dumb tourist, pretending not to speak any Spanish, but the guy was relentless. Eventually he called over his buddies. These two guys were the size of small mountains and carried big guns. They interrogated me, refusing to take no for an answer.

I played stupid. It’s already really hard for me to understand people when they speak Spanish really fast so acting stupid isn’t a big leap. I just kept telling the cop that I didn’t understand and I insisted he keep repeating himself. He wanted 460 Bs, right now (that’s $200!!). When I told him I didn’t have the cash he told me I needed to go to the police station to talk to the captain. I kept pointing out that I didn’t have any money (isn’t that the whole reason I’m in this spot to begin with?). Even if I went to the police station, I still wouldn’t have any money.

In the meantime, the first guy was writing down all the information from my car title, ID card, and driver’s license. I suggested that maybe they could just give me the ticket and I would pay it later, but to no avail. I finally told them that I needed to get home and meet my wife. The biggest mountain of a cop shook his head and told me to leave. I didn’t understand him so I made him repeat it one more time. I think he almost smiled as I drove away.

I drove rather quickly to school to fill Carrie in on the details. We boarded the bus and headed for the distillery, but that’s a whole different story.

MJR

How Did I Get Here?

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Hang in there Hugh, there’s still time!

I have recently enrolled in Facebook. It’s amazing to see all of those faces from the past. Some are in Texas, some in California, but most are in Seattle. In conversing with some of these folks I knew in high school one theme seems constantly present: How did I get here?

I thought about this briefly while visiting the post office in Brooklyn. Behind the counter are dedicated workers. I imagine that some of those folks have been there a long time and will continue there until retirement. What path did they follow to arrive behind that counter? When they left school did they actually say to themselves; “I am going to work at the post office!”?

I remember one fellow who drove garbage trucks. He had been with the company quite a while. He was fairly young, healthy, and happy. He enjoyed driving garbage trucks. He acknowledged that it was probably the best job he would ever have given that he never finished high school. He had not aspired to be there, but he was infinitely happy to be there.

It seems like we all start out with high hopes and aspirations. At some point kids always want to be firefighters or police officers. Some want stardom with all the fame and fortune that accompanies it. I always wanted to be a cowboy, although I did become enamored with the truck drivers who moved us from New Jersey to Tacoma. I also aspired to be a photographer (in high school I imagined that Playboy was holding a place for me), a movie star, and a writer. I never once imagined that I would be a cook, a raft guide, or a teacher. Yet I have been all of these things.

Maybe at some point practicality wins out over all else. Or maybe life just steps in and takes over, forcing us to make a choice we might not have otherwise made. It’s not that we end up being unhappy in those choices. Indeed many of the people I have talked to admit that they are quite happy, just surprised at the turns their life has taken.

I did, ultimately become a professional driver, but why didn’t I become a photographer (maybe Hugh is still pining away for me)? I definitely enjoy taking pictures. I know that I am pretty good at it. I worked as chief yearbook photographer in college and was even hired out to do a wedding and some band shots. So what happened? Why didn’t I pursue it?

These are questions that will never be answered. I think the important part is that I don’t regret the decision. I am happy where I am. Although the path has been crooked, I am more than content with the destination. Besides, in the back of my head I like to think that any of my dreams are still possible; Brian Dennehy didn’t begin acting until his late thirties. I’d like to name a few others, but my mind is now blank. Suffice it to say that I may still pull a few surprises out of my hat…

MJR