La Muerte del Comandante

As you all know, the death of President Hugo Rafael Chávez Frías was announced late in the afternoon of Wednesday March 13^th. We were in our Business Spanish class talking about the recent news that Vice President Nicolás Maduro had expelled a U.S. Embassy official for inciting rebellion within the Venezuelan military. The Venusa Director Francie burst into our room and told us Chávez is dead, we have to go home, and that we would not have classes until the following Monday. As we rushed out, we took note of a few grown men crying on a street corner; most faces were pretty somber since we are in a dominantly Anti-Chavista city. On the Trolebus, however, one of our pretty American-looking friends got quite a few dirty looks from a gigantic man who looked very upset. Cointa was very calm when we arrived home and only said something along the lines of, “Now he cannot cause more pain.” We watched the news that evening, which was mostly dedicated to Chávez tributes and interviews with family members. We had heard about some riots in the Centro around 7PM and wanted to head down there to check out the action. Martín drove me and a couple others (both of whom are Asian so we were feeling inconspicuous) in his truck around 9PM. By then the police had gotten everything under control, and all we found was a group of Chavistas in red singing and mourning in la Plaza Bolívar. The rest of the city was silent and all the streets empty except for the occasional gang of Chavistas on motorcycles holding hands and swerving in the roads. We listened to various speakers on the radio and Martin’s observations, which reminded me of my respect for the man. Although the latter part of his regime focused more on consolidating power and creating a sort of personality cult, I have to admire his fight for social justice, despite the dubious nature of his methods. What some refer to as his “utter lack of diplomacy” might also be interpreted as courage to stand up to the pervasive cultural and economic imperialism of the United States. Although many of his policies are not in the long term economic interest of the country or its people, the man loved el pueblo.. In the morning, I tried to get up early to buy a copy of the Frontera or the Pico Bolívar, the two papers in Mérida, but I ended up sleeping in until about 9. I walked around for probably two hours trying to find a copy, but to no avail. Eventually I gave up and met my friends to drink some coffee and figure out what to do with our five day weekend. That afternoon we climbed Pan de Azucar again, and thankfully ran into a guy selling newspapers along the way. I guess you find what you are looking for when you stop searching? Later that night we went back to the mountains to enjoy the chilly air (there is something Minnesotan in me that just wants to put on a sweater)… A dry law had been instituted for eleven days following the president's death, and some other folks were drinking when we arrived there, so a few minutes later a truck drove up and about twelve members of the Venezuelan military got out and started arresting people. Thankfully we were not drinking, so we were allowed to go home. Otherwise I might have gotten a look at the inside of a Venezuelan prison. Thursday we hung out in the mountains again and found a cool pine forest, after which we came across a place that rents cottages at $3/person/night so we decided to spend the night there and ended up playing lots of catch phrase. Friday morning we had pasteles for breakfast, which are essentially hot pockets, but half the size. They come with trout, cheese, ham and cheese, or ground beef usually and cost about $.20; I have become somewhat addicted since they sell them on most street corners. We found out later that Nicolás Maduro had been named president illegally. Most people here are saying Henrique Capriles Radonski would win the election in a month, but that the Chavista who is head of the elections commission would not allow Maduro to lose despite his lack of popularity and perceived lack of experience and astuteness (his previous career was a bus driver). That evening, we hung out with our friends Martin and Rafa and went to the house of their friend, a DJ who gave us a little sample.  Afterwards, they took us to a 21^st birthday party of a friend, where we met the privileged young Venezuelans. I don’t think I have ever been to a party with more attractive people; it was fairly intimidating. We also met a girl from Nova Scotia who is about to start studying Spanish at Venusa. I have developed a bad habit of subconsciously seeking out English speakers at social events; it’s just so hard when you overhear someone talking and realize, “Wait I know that language!” Saturday I had the opportunity to go paragliding. I had originally opted out due to the price but someone had already paid for me and I ended up on the list. Could be a sign? We drove a half hour south of Mérida and then up a foothill where we met our “pilots.” They give you a helmet, strap you into a sort of harness and then attach the harness to the pilot behind you. You are lifted into the air as the wind catches the parachute, which is long and narrow and controlled by pulling on just two handles. My pilot was an old guy who had been flying for 26 years, so I told him he could go crazy and he showed me all his tricks. At one point we were flying in a horizontal circle. This was definitely the closest I have ever felt to flying; we were in the air for about a half hour but it felt like much less. I probably would not go again without the intention of learning how to do it myself. I guess it only takes about 6 classes, but the parachute is the pricey part. Sunday Rafa and Martín took us to meet their friend from Spain, who made us some great coffee at his house on the edge of town near some hills in an area called Pedregoza Alta. From there, we went on a half hour jog up a nearby hill and enjoyed the view from there before heading home to get some work done. It has been quite the weekend to be a gringo in Venezuela; I had the chance to experience a small piece of history, something I will not forget. I only wonder if I will remember receiving the news as much as in first grade on a Tuesday morning in September…