..to the Rage Stage

They say there are four stages to living abroad: the honeymoon stage, the rage stage, the understanding stage, and the acclimation stage.  After three months of wandering awestruck and cheerful through Caracas (remember that January post about becoming a real Caraqueña?), my honeymoon phase came to an abrupt end this week as I hit the rage stage like a car hitting a tree.  Lots of little things that I'd laughed about or shrugged off before suddenly had me wanting to tear my hair out in frustration or punch a Caraqueño in the nose.  

I will preface this rant by saying that I still have nothing but respect for this country and its people.  That being said:

Leave my flip-flops alone! Back home in NC, everyone wears flip-flops.  I have friends who wear flip-flops in the dead of winter.  These aren't - normally - little plastic bathroom flip-flops, but Rainbows: super nice $45 brown leather sandals.  So popular around where I live that I just discovered that Rainbow makes custom sandals for my university (baller!) - NCSU Rainbows! Anyway, color me thrilled when I get to spend eight months in a country where EVERY day is Rainbows weather!  Thrilled until I realize that nooo one here wears normal looking flip-flops outside on the streets (as they've been permanently categorized as bathing shoes or something).  Sure, they've got plenty of ridiculous looking sandals with all sorts of flowers and/or rhinestones stuck to them, but flip-flops? Noooooo.  

So, when little 'ol me rides the metro or walks the 25+ minutes to work every day, I usually walk in my Rainbows with my heels tucked in my purse.  Cue the judgy looks from pedestrians and fellow metro users, 1. because I'm not wearing my work shoes and 2. because my footwear of choice is flip-flops.  One day last week, just for kicks, I decided to do the whole commute in heels.  I arrived at work convinced that every woman in this country is absolutely nuts for walking in their ridiculous stilettos up and down the uneven streets of the city.  I AM going to wear my flip-flops thank you, and if you even think about judging me for wearing my spectacularly comfortable, worn, Rainbows (which cost a whole lot more than your skanky ho heels), we may have to throw down.

Hey, you with the face-paint! I came to the shocking realization this week that I rarely leave the house without make-up anymore.*  Back home I'd wear it going out, or going to work.  When I came here, I started by doing the same.  However, you leave the house here without make-up and people stare at you in a way that reminds you of that nightmare where you accidentally show up to school having forgotten to put on clothes.  As much as I LOATHE the catcalls and hisses (actually correction: I did find make my peace with the hisses after awhile - reminds me of cicadas on a summer night in NC), what one of my guy friends told me is true: if I DON'T get a catcall, I feel like I've got spinach in my teeth.  I've been living in the city too long.   

*The notable exception is working-out.  I will never, NEVER, adopt the Venezuelan habit of working-out in full make-up and a matchy-matchy outfit (at times including a shirt I'd only ever consider wearing the club).  Sure I get looks when I run by in Soffe shorts, an old T-shirt, and crazy hair, but some of us actually try to break a sweat when we work out.

Looking for the Feminine Mystique, Venezuela Edition  This country is about thirty years overdue for a feminist movement.  I'll never consider myself a burn-the-bra radical feminist, but I'm starting to lose it with the female obsession with obtaining the most Barbie-like figure.  At least in the parts of Caracas I frequent, it isn't an exaggeration to say that 50% of women in a given setting may be sporting breast implants.  I'm also getting super good at identifying butt implants as well (the key: if it defies gravity, it ain't real).  Young girls get surgeries for their 15th birthday present (like Sweet 16 in the US) - doesn't it matter that you don't finish growing til your early to mid-twenties.  Women who are married and have kids get them, women with children my age get them.  I have met Venezuelans who are ambivalent towards implants, but I've yet to meet more than one or two who share the view that most of us female Fulbrighters have, which is: this is the most ridiculous thing we've ever seen!  There is no voice in the decision-making process that says 'no, why would you get invasive surgery - you look fine the way you are!'  In the States, breast augmentation and plastic surgery in general is still - in my opinion, at least - viewed somewhat critically.  Here it's the norm.  The Venezuelan obsession with beauty* is downright exhausting. 

*For women, anyway...

Okay that's my rant...I could go on, but I'd rather not be TOO judgmental or grumpy over the World Wide Web.  As you can see, Honeymoon stage DEFINITELY over.  I'm not worried though; Venezuela and I have a healthy foundation to our relationship.  It's a beautiful country, with some awesome people, a great take on the Spanish language, and a lot to see. Give me another week or so and I'll be just fine.  Looking forward to the Understanding and Acclimation stages. 

...to a maracucho fin de semana

We ETAs can´t seem to go too long without seeing each other.  I last saw most of the crew at the beginning of January in Caracas, but we made plans almost immediately to reunir (meet up) in Maracaibo - Venezuela´s second largest city - at the end of the month.  Maracaibo, is in oil country, nestled on the edge of an ENORMOUS lake and is known across the country for being SUPER* hot.  We basically walked around with this permanent sticky sheen on us... for some reason it reminded me of Kuwait; the architecture, layout of the city, etc.  I can't tell if it was sheer coincidence or had something to do with the fact that they're both into petrol.
*super = relative term here...it can´t hold a candle to North Carolina in August, but I´d say humidity and heatwise, it´s at least around a Southern May or June.  Definitely warmer than what I´m used to back in Caracas.

I BOOKED it out of my conversation club Friday afternoon, lugging my massive hiking pack through the metro at rush hour, trying to catch the government-run shuttle to the airport and praying we wouldn´t hit any of the Caracas, Friday afternoon cola (traffic jam) that is oh, too typical.  Had a wonderful tour through the barrios, as our driver decided to take a shortcut and ended up getting lost and taking us the wrong way on a narrrrow one-way street with the result being our giving a propane truck a love-tap.  The Venezuelans on my bus were less than happy. 

I came into La Chinita International (yes, that literally means Little Chinese Woman...embrace the political correctness) around 11:15pm (over an hour late) and was met at the hotel in El Centro (the downtown area) by Eric before midnight.  We joined Camille (also posted in Maracaibo), Hilda, Ala (from Roraima fame) and their friends at the gay club a block away.  Gay clubs are becoming a bit of a tradition with our group...I always enjoy myself thoroughly.  Given that there are parents who read this, I will say little about the general awesomeness of the evening, but I MUST say that it included a show with both a male and female stripper.  (That last line was more to enjoy the mental image of my mother bursting out laughing, and my grandmother busting out her rosary and praying for my soul)

Saturday consisted of eating interrupted by a bit of walking and touristy business.  We dragged our unhappy selves over to a cafe called Jeffrey´s (Hilda developed an unnatural obsession with this place), tucked into some morning/early afternoon coffee, got ourselves an empanada, then moseyed over to CEVAZ (CVA in the state of Zulia - where both Eric and Camille work) stopping first to get a buffet lunch (yes, we´d eaten about 30 minutes prior).  CEVAZ was beautiful - wonderful facilities, all sparkly and shiny, and Camille and Eric are CELEBRITIES (they´ve got film ads within CEVAZ...).  After CEVAZ, we RETURNED to Jeffrey´s for large amounts of dessert (my stomach was starting to protest at this point) and coffee and were joined by Carolyn!  Totally exciting because I hadn´t seen this Valera ETA in over a month!

Wayyyy too much torta...notice the light sweating courtesy of Maracaibo humidity

Did some more wandering, checking some of the gorgeous buildings and churches in Maracaibo´s downtown area (yes mom, I made three wishes).  My years of Catholic school came in handy when I was able to correctly identify the statues of a martyr with arrows sticking out of him as Saint Sebastian *bows*.  I still haven´t the foggiest why he´s so popular there.  Pizza for dinner (really, the amount of food was unnecessario) and then we headed back to our respective abodes to change for night two on the town.

Blue church in El Centro!

San Sebastian: thank you Sunday School!

We ended up at this ´sifrino´ club (hmm best way to translate that is like, hipster, high-class, or posh) for the evening all dolled up in our sifrino clothes (I did some serious shopping on Sabana Grande in Caracas before I came).  Danced until three then did some late night driving to a place where I fell in deeply and profoundly in love.  With a Venezuelan dish called patacon. Imagine a sandwich but in place of bread there's fried green (or maduro - mature) plantains.  Then add chicken, lettuce, tomato, amazing sauce, etc.  DIVINO.  I'm not even doing it justice.

The girls in our sifrina attire

Sunday morning we dragged ourselves out of bed even later, and went to this restaurant/lounge that can best be described as a cruise ship (entertainment-wise) without the boat.  Camille snuck us in a loaf of pan de queso (cheese bread - bread filled with this delicious cheese) and we stuffed our faces.  Then off to the park where we got to see the lake, and enjoy some gorgeous sun and breeze.  We went to this little gourmet tea shop and then partook in some cocadas - think sweet coconut drink.  We waddled-erm-WALKED around the park for a little bit afterward then moseyed off for a dinner of mas patacones and ice cream.  After that, it was time to part ways but not before some random fellow stopped us on the street and started telling us (in English) about poetry he'd written about a girl he'd been writing to in Milwaukee for about ten years.  ...Hilda's and my taxi came at that point soooo we gracefully ducked out and left Camille and Eric to finish the conversation.

The overnight bus home from Maracaibo started out super scary.  Hilda had left her passport in Caracas (not knowing that, by law, foreigners have to carry passports when crossing state lines) and literally pleaded for about twenty minutes to get on the bus.  She was finally allowed on with the stipulation that, should we get stopped at a checkpoint and she have to go talk to the guards, the bus would leave her.  The two bus operators offered to 'hide' her in the front from the guards for 500bf (in perspective - our bus tickets themselves only cost 100bf). Meanwhile, passengers are telling me that she's just getting ripped off because she's a foreigner and there's no need to hide - no one is going to stop us.  Cut to large argument with the two operators when they discover that 1. Hilda doesn't actually HAVE 500bf and 2. I'd been discussing our predicament with other passengers (who now knew these two were engaged in something illegal).  We were finally rescued by two spectacular guys, one of whom worked for some government ministry, who went down and basically flatly told them they were breaking the law and Hilda needed to come up.  Sigh of relief as I DIDN'T have to call the embassy at some odd hour letting them know that there were two gringas alone, at some random checkpoint between Caracas and Maracaibo.