"Vamos teacher!"

I stand at the track and look around me. Usually i show up about ten to fifteen minutes early, simply to avoid arriving at dusk when traffic is a little heavier, but also so that i have a few moments to think before we head out. The track is called Las Ballenas, otherwise known as "the whales", and the shrine of the track is a stunning statue of two women with voluptuous bodies, though in my head they remind me of the Incredible Hulk. Around the kilometer track are signs or placards with how beneficial exercise is in your life. The track is heavy with traffic early in the morning (not that I'd ever know) and once the sun sets over the palm trees. People run, walk, mosey, sprint, rollerblade, and usually they have a buddy with them to keep them company. On the inside of the track there are soccer pitches, people playing kicking ball (or kick ball), soccer cages, kids flying kites, bars for body mechanics, and a small tienda or store for buying energy drinks and water. 

The heart of a city is its sense of community, and this track in Anaco is certainly one of those places. There's the juice guy, or flaco (skinny), who stands in the parking lot without fail nightly from 5:30ish-late, slicing and serving fresh-pressed orange juice; i do not lie, it's the best jugo I've ever had. But I'm getting ahead of myself; juice comes after.

Around 6:03, the guys show up. Sometimes it's only one or two, sometimes we make up our own biker gang with more than ten of us riding. We're lit up like Christmas trees so that we don't get hit by cars, trucks, motorbikes, or pedestrians, and dogs, and despite that we're riding on roads, no one has a road bike. We greet each other like old friends, but that's normal in these parts. I cannot keep all their names straight, but somehow they all know mine. Their bikes make me feel poor, with Specialized and Merida being the main players in this game, with RockShox and the occasional Fox or other brand for parts, but no matter, everyone is welcome for the nightly ride. I am almost always the only woman to ride, which I think they value me for, or at least they put up with me because they know I won't ever respond to most gruesome or sexist remarks because I simply don't understand them. I ride hard and don't give up.

We take off from the track around 6:15, heading out through the PVSD neighborhood, the state-based oil company that essentially founded this town. We cruise into downtown Anaco, and I can smell the shwarma, alcohol, petrol exhaust, and I see the glances of people from their stores. They are not surprised, and we occasionally get hollered at or whistled. We enter into a dangerous intersection, and down Avenida Merida along the airport strip. It's dark, but with all our lights and reflective gear you simply can't miss us. I usually fall a bit behind here, but this crew doesn't drop anyone and they patiently wait. It's a quiet stretch of road, except when the city buses going flying by. The tree cover and empty airport strip make for a nice ride. We cross over to the other side of the airport strip, and are passing restaurants and banks. The banks always have lines of people waiting at the ATMS, without fail. We cut back towards the main highway, my least favorite road to ride simply due to traffic. It's a great way to see the city of Anaco, and pass the circus, many stores, restaurants, grocery stores, banks, pharmacies, and liquorias.

We continue on to do another stretch of road that enters into a neighborhood, and it's a whole different feel. Passing the playground I hear children shrieking, laughing, and parents chatting. We pass the local police or national guard station, I'm still not always sure of the difference, and we finally slow to stop at a cafe, simply to sit for a few moments and chat. I listen quietly, sometimes the conversations of these guys follow politics or money, but often this is their time to relax, so they talk about bikes or other stress-free topics. Most of the guys know that I understand enough Spanish to follow, as I smile and nod along. 

We head back out onto the road and back towards the major vein of the city, Avenida Jose Anzoategui. We head down the hill, I swear Anaco only has one. And all the guys fly by me, as my body weight simply doesn't compare-as I didn't grow up eating empenadas, tequenos, or malta daily, they are simply far more sturdy than I. I trail along down the hill, and eventually get to the roundabout where we head of course, back up. Slowly but surely, we make it, though I often get yelled "come on Ms. Morrrrley or vamos teacher!" as I strain my already tired legs to make it back up, legs burning and eyes tired from the dust and exhaust of the cars. 

Occasionally we take a ride into the parking lot of the local shopping center, UniCasa. I'm still not sure the interest in this is, but riding up a steep car ramp, flying around the parking lot, and back down again avoiding cars, people, and shopping carts has its own appeal I suppose. We then head back into the darker area towards my school and towards the track, working hard to stay as a group and to not block traffic and avoid getting hit by distracted drivers. We make it back to the track, usually about an hour or so later, happily tired, sucking wind, and all caught up on adrenaline.

We are immediately served orange juice, thick with pulp and glory. We share a few words, and then we all head out, always making sure that everyone has a safe way to get home, and I usually receive an escort from one of the guys in the group, often a parent of one the students at my school who live extremely close to me, and we head off into the dark. Calmer. More clarity. And we go back out again. 

It's not perfect, it's not mountain biking, more like extreme urban riding. There have been flat tires, near accidents with cars, many Spanish swear words which I learned quickly, and a lot of simply jackass moves by these guys, but they are safe, they are smart, and they ride hard. 

Akupekuruman (thank you very much)

You stretch your legs to take a rather large step onto the stairs of the plane that extends most of the way down to the tarmac, but doesn't quite touch; there is no connecting gate or ramp that extends to the airport here. In the former capital of Venezuela, stunning Ciudad Bolivar, most flights leaving from this regional airport are heading south, into the jungle. The security consists of walking through a metal detector (though it may not actually be turned on), and the security personnel pass your bag around the x-ray machine, only to be hand-searched for knives, bug spray in aerosol canisters, matches or other potentially dangerous items (please note that the latter two items are acceptable to take with you, because you know, you are going into the jungle and just might need them).

Once you board the plane with your 18 fellow passengers, you will be instructed by the pilot, who turns around from the cockpit to look at the passengers and speaks to you instead of over an inter-com system, to go back into the terminal because there is something wrong with the plane. You de-board, and twenty minutes later, re-board. No harm, no foul.

Now that I have your brain adjusted to how things seem to work in this part of the world, I will share with you my past four days exploring Canaima National Park in south-eastern Venezuela, home to the world's highest waterfall, Salto Angel, or Angel Falls.

I traveled with four co-workers and another American friend over our Thanksgiving holiday break to visit one of nature's finest creations. After a three hour car ride from Anaco, we spent one night in Ciudad Bolivar and explored the old town, a quaint colourful city center that is dead once the sun slips under the horizon, which happens to be around 6pm this close to the equator.

For this trip, having a packaged tour arranged by our wonderfully accommodating venezuelana co-worker Andreina, allowed us to stay in a clean and welcoming guest house in the city, transportation to the airport,  tickets to the village of Canaima, bedrooms in another guesthouse in Canaima, transportation up and down the river in gas-powered motor canoes, and food and hammocks provided once in the jungle.

We flew into Canaima and spent a day romping around the beach of the lagoon, exploring some of the lower yet incredibly gorgeous lower water falls of the Caroni river, el Sapo and el Sapito falls. Our guides brought us in canoes across the lagoon, through the stunning jungle, and on a hike up and behind the waterfalls. Seeing the vines, smelling the sweetness of the forest would have been enough. Having never been behind a waterfall of such magnitude, I have a new-found respect for water and its sheer power. Having always lived in a place with close access to large bodies of water, I was happy to have had an entirely new and enticing experience with one of earth's greatest treasures. Clinging to the sandstone rock walls and a few guard ropes, we slid our way under the falls. A secret world seemed to exist under these falls, a climate and habitat unique to only this place in the world. Due to the slippery-ness of the stone under the falls, our guides instructed most to take off their shoes and venture forth in socks. Seeing many men and women in their skinny speedos or bikinis and hiking socks was quite the fashion statement.

Furthermore we were led to top of these smaller falls to take photos of the surrounding landscape, darted with tepuis, or sandstone plateaus that are unique to this area. If you have ever seen the movie "Up", this is exactly what I was able to see. I swam in pools of cool jungle water while viewing the tepuis and imagining how a simple earthquake or plate-shift may have caused such a stunning formation thousands of years ago. The only thing that could have improved that moment would have been a beverage in-hand.

The following day began my true relationship with water. We spent four and half hours surging forth up the Caroni River in search of earth's highest waterfall. Our guide, Kaiko, along with two cooks and two boat captains, prepared our two canoes with the provisions for the next 24 hours and encouraged us to bring as little as possible as the river was low due it being so late in the rainy season. We packed 12-people deep into long but thickly-built wooden canoes,  enjoyed the sun, the surrounding jungle, and the stunning tepuis that felt like stone giants watching us from above. Putting my faith in the expertise of our guides (who only lost the boat once when both men were talking to a man about a horse, at the same time during our lunch break) was a freeing experience. Each boat had a rather strong motor, and one of the Pemon guides in front with a thickly built wooden paddle used to draw the boat quickly away from rocks. I almost felt at home on the Brule as they drew these 25 foot boats swiftly out of harm's way.

We reached our destination, and surged forth into the jungle, ariba. Up, up, up the side of the tepuis for forty minutes, reaching a breath-taking view of Santo Angel. It was hard to take your eyes away from the falls, simply because the water seemed to disappear from the top to the bottom as it turned into mist. We also spent time bouncing around rocks and around trees on a roughly designed path to bathe in a pool below the falls. I can firmly saw that I have swum in the highest waterfall in the world. Moreover, I felt one with a stunning new part of Mother Earth.

The most exhilarating part of the day was the descent. The group started slow, but light was fading rapidly. I made friends with a Brazilian man in our tour group, and he started trotting slightly on the path. I followed him as he seemed to be in good shape; he soon-after admitted he had a large fear of snakes and that was exactly the time when they come out to feed. He and I decided to run as much as we could on the root-ridden path to get out of the jungle and to catch up with some of the others in our group. We walk/ran for over 25 minutes, seeing shadows of trees, passing other groups who shouted motivating words in various languages at us, and eventually we made it out. I feared for the many others in my group far behind us without headlamps, struggling over boulders, winding paths, and thoughts of snakes, spiders, and getting lost in the jungle.


Everyone made it safely, was ferried back across the river, and led by headlamp to our camp, where our guides had our hammocks and spits of chicken over the fire waiting for us. Life was perfect. We changed into dry clothes, gulped down chicken, rice, salad, watermelon, and the ceremonial Coca-Cola, and a cup of coffee to keep us warm. The rain descended just after everyone made camp, and everyone was appreciative to be warm, dry, and to have amazing photos and memories of the surrounding sites.

After dinner, around 8pm, most people headed to their hammocks as we were all pretty knocked out physically and emotionally from a long day. Later in the evening, one of our guides subtly offered me a finer beverage (rum), which was greatly appreciated after such a heavy day and as the cold air rolled in with the rain. I attempted to sleep but due to the grueling day, sore muscles, and rolling thoughts about nature and our greater existence, I sat with five guides under candle light and listened to them speak in Pemon (the native language of this area, part of the Carib language group and the language in which the title of this blog is written). The moments spent drinking with these guides reminded me much of my parents' travels and of our trip to Thailand where my father smoked a pipe of some substance with a local woman. I felt honored and welcomed; you do not say no when offered such a gift. I listened to Pemon and thought of all the places in the world that I could be, this place was where I was meant to be at the moment. I slept little that night due to the cold air and the light blankets, and watched moths commit suicide in the flames of the candles that were scattered about the sandy floor of our camp (only a thatched roof above but it kept all the rain out).

The following morning was celebrated with arepas for breakfast (seemingly the national food of Venezuela, a corn-flour pastry that you cut open in the middle and stuff in things like eggs, cheese, ham, etc. It's delicious, and filling to say the least. Later we sped, much faster due to the greatly bloated river due to the night's rain, downriver and back towards civilization. I was sad to be departing from the jungle, the tepuis, and the sanctity of the wilderness, but glad to be able to find dry clothes once again. I couldn't seem to erase the smile from my face.

After celebratory beers shared with new traveler friends and our guide at the "airport", an open air thatched hut with one man at a computer desk with a clipboard of paper checking in passengers and assigning them to bush planes, we boarded a plane once again, and made it home only a few hours later than predicted.


All photo credits to Matt Tilford, who I owe a beer for stealing his pictures to put on my blog.

Amistad

Over the past month I have had the wonderful opportunity to meet a great number of new people and have learned a lot about myself, about communities, and that friendship truly knows no language or borders.

I spent four days at the stunning Hard Rock Hotel, a 62-floor monstrosity,  in Panama City with all our international staff, and felt like a queen. During out adventures we traveled out of Venezuela at one in the morning after the power in the Barcelona airport going out (full black-out inside a terminal obviously leads to confident travelers), and arrived in Panama City at four am. We visited the Panama Canal, the old city, enjoyed spoiling ourselves to dinners out and buying local crafts. We enjoyed roaming around one of the largest malls I've ever been in (not as big as MOA) during the monsoon-like rain. I spent our last afternoon camping out at El Rana Dorada (or the golden frog) cerveceria, or brewery, nestled into a cobble-stone street in the old city. Having micro-brewed beer was a treat, but even more so were the other people that I met during my three hours there. First I met the brewer, a late 20-something guy named Marshall from California who used to work in Colombia; he shared with me a lot about the business and his experiences of biking to and from work in Panama. He then informed me that there was a brewery tour on Mondays at 5pm, which was quite a treat. Listening to him talk intelligently about the brewing process and then turn around and say it all in fluent Spanish was very impressive to me. During my time I also met a former Venezuelan baseball player who had played in MLB apparently in the states for a few years, and a US navy vet hanging out (it happened to be Colombus Day). Furthermore, I met two guys who are former PCV, and now work for Peace Corps in Panama, they had some great stories to tell, despite spending the majority of their time at the bar hitting on the other two American ladies who were present.

I have also enjoyed friendship, or maybe simple group-bonding, with the group of guys that have a bike club that I join about once a week or so. I am one of two women that goes, and the other lady is an extremely fast and fit road biker, while the guys are not all super fit but ride fairly quickly down the streets of Anaco. We ride after dark, because otherwise you will melt into a puddle on the road, and we must be quite a site with everyone lit up like a Christmas tree. This week I went for a ride well knowing that the impending thunderheads would likely catch up with this, and boy did they ever. We rode hard for about 15 minutes, found my friend Homero who came flying out of nowhere with a rather amusing "helllllo"; note that I am in the process of teaching Homero English in return for bike help, beer, and friendship. Oh, and learning Spanish. I am learning Spanish quickly from all of these guys, but they certainly are teaching some of the groserias, and they regularly call me "teacha", mostly because they know I work at the school and a few of them have students that are in my classes.

My latest sentiment of friendship was brought to me this weekend, when Homero invited me over to his friend's house to meet a few of their panas, or friends. I had a great time just messing around and watching music videos on what I'm pretty sure is the oldest TV in Venezuela, and I enjoyed our conversations in Spanglish. I was invited back for the next night, Mexican food. Sometimes I forget that when the word fiesta is uttered, this usually details staying up most of the night, copious amounts of food and beverages, and a great time. It was all of that and more. I sat around a kitchen table and was serenaded by gorgeous voices of love songs new and old, and met many new faces that made me feel so much more at home here. I was immediately added onto Facebook by most of them, and was told that we are going to the beach in one of the upcoming weekends. It was so calming to have a group of people simply allow me to walk in to their group of friends, and to be charmed, as my friend Nathalie so eloquently phrased it.

Transportation, treats, and teaching conferences

Big things happened this week in my life. I suppose it was more than a week, but I'm going to say that almost every day in the past ten days or so, something wonderful happened. No, I'm not going to tell you how absolutely amazing my every single day has been in Venezuela, but here are a few highlights, along with photos (none of which I can take credit for... my pictures are coming as soon as I can find my connector cord. No promises on quality though, I haven't purchased a camera yet.

My first BIG purchase in Venezuela, has been a bike. My good friend Dereek brought me to downtown Anaco to check out bikes. We walked into one store, saw the five or six bikes that were for sale, and then started to wander around looking for one of the other two bike shops that exist in Anaco. For being a not very bike-friendly city, it certainly has enough bike shops to keep me happy.

We were walking down a street, and found a few empanada shops, but no bike shops. Out of the corner of my eye, as I was in deep thought about about how I was told that Anaco was kind of a sh*thole (sorry for the language, but that was how it was expressed to me), I saw it. The banner. On the next street over, a banner with bikes and motorcycles on it plastered on a concrete building. Dereek just stared at me for a moment, wondering how I had even seen it (I think he believes I have eyes in the back of my head now).

We walked into the bike shop, and saw a few really expensive bikes: 40,000Bs, or 1,000$. We asked about something cheaper, and found this beautiful gleaming black beauty pictured below. As we checked it out, I was shown the different helmets, bike pumps, patch kits, waterbottle holders, and globes that I would later purchase. Oh, and I was served a glass of iced sparkling wine during my time at the shop. Magical.

I will say that this new bicycle has taken a lot of my time in the past week, especially since the crank on the left pedal was so loose at one point it fell off, the gears wouldn't switch into 2nd gear, and the front brake squeeked intensely unless I actually hit my brakes. However, after three hours, two different mechanics, a drive through the barrio of Anaco, one malta and empanada dinner with my bike mechanic later, my bike is rideable and good to go once again. Don't worry mom, I'm being extra safe.


One Sunday I spent the day with the family of two of my students, who delightfully offered to bring me and another teacher to the beach with them. Little did I know this would include taking a boat taxi out to one of the most gorgeous islands I've ever seen, snorkeling for coral and fish, eating fresh fish, drinking cocada (coconut smoothie) con ron (rum), and enjoying a wonderful day with their amazingly kind family. The eldest son (5th grade) is one of my students, and their daughter, who is 3, is also one of my students. Talk about student-teacher bonding! We had a great time and I learned so much Spanish just being with them as well.

The school week was pretty average, other than not having water two days in a row (something with the power system failing to pump the water from our school's well), which involves not having water to flush the poo in our Pre-K bathroom. #venezuelanproblems.
I will post pictures of my 3 year old cuties later this week. On Thursday a few of the staff organized a photo for International Day of Peace, and had all students dress in white. This is a view of our school grounds and all of our students and staff (Photo credits to Sir Jamie DaCosta who climbed up the water tower to take this picture)


Last but not least this week, was our first professional development conference, which took place in Puerto la Cruz, a little over an hour drive away. It was a great opportunity to meet other int'l teachers (even met two from Wisc and one from Roseville, MN), and to network. Furthermore, the focus of the conference was writing, which helped me to learn so much about what other teachers are doing.
Here's a little photo montage that my friend and co-worker Andreina made up, using "The Dot" concept that the conference built off of. The middle picture is the staff that attended (I'm in red)




Now back to the grind, three more week until fall break, Panama, and I couldn't be more excited to be where I'm at. September is rolling along nicely.

It´s the little things in life

Working with three year-olds requires a lot of patience, changes of scenery on a fairly regular basis, and of course, an extra supply of clothing less than one hundred meters away (fortunately my house isn’t even that far from the school).  Of course most of you already know this, many of you having already raised children on your own.

I sometimes wonder what my kiddos do at home, and how they use the information that they learned at school. The Pre-Kinder 3 class so far has learned/reviewed (in English): colors, numbers 1-10, counting and being able to identify how many of something there are, singing twinkle twinkle little star, identifying Mr. Owl, Mr. Rooster, Iguanas ( we count as many as we can.. but sometimes there are more than 15 and we can’t quite get that high), birds, the campus dog, and butterflies! We also practice our joga (yoga) every two or three days, starting with our heads on the table in the dark classroom, calming ourselves and pretending to wake up with stretching and breathing, and then moving to a circle on the floor where we meditate (no joke, they sit cross-legged and put their pointer finger to their thumb and go “mmmmmmmmmmmm”… and then they speed up until their vocal chords get sore and that’s how we cut it off). We then stretch our fingers, arms, shoulders, necks, legs, backs, and then we lay down on the floor and breathe.

The three year olds also enjoy doing art projects (we regularly play with playdough, paint, markers and crayons) and reading books, along with building with blocks, playing in our play room (giant soft blocks, a little kids kitchen, and a train and car track set).

I hope that all of these activities are really helping my students. Many of them are able to regurgitate information well but I hope that it builds and sticks in their brains... we do a lot during our half days (along with watching parts of movies that often have something to do with what we are talking about in our books.. such as Finding Nemo when talking about fish or apparently, Wizard of Oz, because it has a horse that changes colors quickly.. which is insanely exciting when you’re three… note, they chose Wizard of Oz).

Oh, and they go to P.E. class, which one of my kiddos doesn’t like. Actually, he’s terrified of P.E. as our P.E. teacher reminds him of a monster in one of his movies and every time we take him to P.E. he either promptly pukes, or stands in the corner and hides. 

More updates from the land of pee pee, poo poo, and ¨puhlease¨ soon. 

Lightning bolt moments in September

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It’s the bottom of the fifth, and the Minnesota Twins are up by two against Texas. Fox news is commentating, in English, mind you. I recognize most of the players on the Twins  roster, and on the Texas team I don’t know a single players’ name. But I do know that I don’t like them. Or rather, that I want the Twins to win.

Because it’s my home team, where I feel my sense of patriotism and pride. Most of the players aren’t even from my “home” state, but somehow I feel a strong need to shreak in joy at the T.V. whenever they put another point on the scoreboard…

…I’ve been watching the news over the past few days, mostly BBC, and taking in everyone’s views on Syria, what the U.S. should or shouldn’t do to “act” or “strike”, and thinking about my own feelings on the situation. I sometimes wonder about my own feelings on the actions of my countries’ government, and whether I feel really connected to the U.S. I watch videos of those suffering from gas burns, from children shaking because their nervous systems are compromised, and videos of world leaders making statements about these events, instead of taking “action”…

I find myself standing in a crowd of swaying, mostly off-key singing 20-something Venezuelans, head bobbing to the best rock band that this country has to offer, I feel just right. This is where I am meant to be; surrounded by my co-workers, that I also call my friends, watching a talented group of Venezuelan guys (one in a cowboy hat) rock out pretty darn well.

These three events may seem extremely disconnected, but they all lead to my understanding that I am one small being in a very culturally diverse but also extremely connected planet.

I feel an association to strangers who run around a baseball diamond 3,000 miles away, an association to strangers who stand outside until 3am to hear their favorite rock-band play, and association to my own government, in D.C., as they carefully and privately discern whether they should intervene in a crime against humanity, on the other side of the world.

Despite my distance from my home, Duluth, I feel so connected right now.

My friends in Duluth just enjoyed a celebration of freedom, a celebration of love, and a weekend of music, dancing, and rainbows. It’s gay Pride weekend. Though I missed Duluth’s annual celebration, sitting in the green grass of the Bayfront Park watching close friends perform, I looked over at a friend last night after we walked over three kilometers home from the concert on a poorly lit and crumbling Venezuelan road, and wished her “happy pride weekend in Duluth”, she responded accordingly, knowing that it was hard for me to be away from those I love.

I’ve got everything I need right now. A beautiful place to live, fun people to enjoy it with, and daily activities that keep my brain and heart occupied. I spent a few moments last week sitting outside after getting my daily workout of basketball in our school gym (it almost feels a mosque with the lighting that flows in during the evening hours), and as I sat on the soft ground I watched a beautiful lightening storm to the south west, which lasted over an hour. I called my friends and they came out to watch as well as lightening against the background of a huge storm system, lit up our sky, with stars still shining directly above us. I was perfectly content, but more, I was connected.

I will continue to watch Twins Baseball and yell at the t.v. in my empty apartment, and I will continue to follow the news and hope that the leaders of our world can come to conclusions that allow for the greatest and most continuous level of peace, and I will always, rock out. I will embrace this month, the flaws, the battles, and the gorgeous moments. I hope you will too!

Mercado Central

Today I'm going to take you on an adventure. You don't have to put on your seat belt (don't worry, I wear one whenever possible, even though it's rare to find a taxi driver who wears theirs here). We're going to walk through small urban streets, a few food vendors on either side, and around the corner we can faintly hear the thumping music from multiple radios. We've found the mercado, or market. On the outside, it looks like a maze, with many passageways and too many vendors to count (though not nearly as intimidating as the grand bazaar in Istanbul. Don't worry, this is manageable. After all, this is only Anaco.

Imagine a large football field-sized market area, with aluminum covered open-sided buildings each holding different varieties of food or produce.

As we enter the market, the first thing we notice is all of the produce, with the bold smell of fresh pineapple and guava almost smacking you on the face when you step up onto the hard concrete.  This part of the market is divided solely by long skinny tables, overflowing with lettuce, tomatoes, green onions, carrots, bananas, papayas, limes, passion fruit, guavas, and pretty much every kind of melon, and multiple men and women behind each shouting (however lovingly) to come to their table to buy their produce. 

To buy this lovely food, you put as much as you want in plastic bags, then eventually hand it to them, and they weigh it all together on hanging scales. They then estimate how much they want to charge you for it. A whole weeks worth of veggies and fruit to fill up a backpack and both of my hands costs a total of about 170bs, or a little under six dollars.The bags are heavy, and pockets only slightly lighter, but still full of bills, because the smallest bill here is 2 bs (or about 12 cents)

As you wonder further into the market, the aroma overwhelms you, pescado. (or pfish as my three year olds would say). Here you can also buy as much meat or fish as you want- I only bought chicken. It is actually cheaper to buy the whole chicken (already de-feathered but whole body in tact minus the head and feet.. but don’t worry, they sell the feet), a whole chicken costing a gringa like me a whole 1$. Though the currency exchange makes everything extremely cheap for me, for Venezuelans it doesn’t necessarily make everything as cheap (depending on how much they get paid or their wages have changed with inflation).

Most likely we will also grab a bite to eat at the mercado, from one of over 50 kiosks, all selling empenadas, tequenos, arepas, or another deep fried Venezuelan delicacy.. Yesterday we had empanadas, a deep fried pastry filled with a meat of your choice, we had chicken. We also had some freshly made passion fruit juice..mmmmmm.

The walk to the market, which was a little over half an hour, helps to burn some of the built up calories  from the empenadas and overly-sugared “natural” juice.But don't worry, on the way home we'll take a taxi.. that half a water-melon the size of both my femurs is pretty heavy.

I hope that you can see the colors of this market. The blood from the chicken stained lightly on the counters of the chicken market, the brown grit on the ground of all of the left-over fruits and vegetables trampled on by soft flip flops, day after day. The stark contrast of fresh watermelons piled in the back of a pick-up truck, to the fly-covered dried fish with a name I don’t understand and am not yet brave enough to try.

The market is a place of colors, of smells beyond your imagine (and no mom, not nearly as poor of smells as Dhaka.. only the potent smell of fish), and of joyous noise. Young kids run around chasing each other and offering you large plastic bags to carry all of your produce for a mere two or four Bs.

I hope you enjoyed your time at the market, now to make some watermelon juice! Ciao!