How
the Press & the CIA Killed Gary Webb's Career
Today's
Stories
December
18 / 19, 2004
Joshua Frank
The
Spin Doctor: an Interview with Mickey Z.
December
17, 2004
Dave Lindorff
Racism:
Philly Style
Dan Bacher
Bush Abandons Salmon Restoration
Marisa Jacott
NAFTA and the Environment: Trade Still Runs Roughshod
Francis Thicke
How Now, Industrial Cow?
Rupert Cornwell
The Inuit Strike Back
Cockburn /
St. Clair
CounterAttack:
How the Press and the CIA Killed Gary Webb's Career
Website of the Day
Franz Boas Unrolls Over in His Grave
December
16, 2004
Michael
Neumann
How We Became Barbarians
Merlin
Chowkwanyun
An Interview with Ralph Nader
Gabriel
Espinoza Gonzales
The Dubious Career of John Bolton
Christopher
Brauchli
Louis Freeh's New Gig: Usurer
Patrick
Cockburn
Allawi's Pre-Election Ploy: Putting "Chemical Ali"
on Trial
Mike
Whitney
Gearing Up for a Draft?
Walter
Brasch
Hillbilly Humvees and Rumsfeld's New Physics
Bill
Conroy
How Gary Webb Saved My Ass from the FBI
Website
of the Day
Saturday Memorial for Gary Webb
December
15, 2004
Robert
Fisk
Who Killed Baha Mousa?
Jennifer
Van Bergen
The Monster Under the Bed
Heather
Gray
Will the Real Christians Please Stand?: a Personal Testimony
Dave
Lindorff
The DNC, Albright and the Iraq Elections
Luis
Hernandez Navarro
To Die a Little: Migration and Coffee
in Mexico and Central America
Joshua
Frank
The Ohio Recount: an Exercise in "Dumbocracy"
Greg
Moses
Eighty-Sixing Civil Rights in Ohio?
George
Caffentzis
The Petroleum Commons
December
14, 2004
Dave
Lindorff
DNC Meddling in the Ukraine Elections
Larry
Birns / Seth DeLong
Haiti is Unraveling and No One is Saying
Anything
Richard
Thieme
My Last Talk with Gary Webb: "I Knew It Was the Truth and
That's What Kept Me Going"
Patrick
Cockburn
A Year After Saddam's Capture, Iraq
is Getting Worse
Chris
Floyd
Client State: Moral Values and Voluntary Servitude in Bush's
America
Akiva
Eldar
A One-time Hanukkah Miracle
Burbach
/ Cantor
The Legacy of Pinochet: Kissinger
and the Teflon Tyrant
December
13, 2004
Cockburn
/ St. Clair
Gary Webb: a Great Reporter, Trashed
by the CIA's Claque
David
Phinney
"Contract Meal Disaster" for Iraqi Prisoners: Rancid
Food Sparked Abu Ghraib Riots
Paul
Craig Roberts
A Dose of Non-Delusional Reality
for Douglas Feith
M.
Junaid Alam
The War is the War Crime
Robert
Jensen
The US Has Lost the Iraq War...and That's a Good Thing
Richard
Oxman
Kafkaesque Lessons for the Left
Greg
Moses
Send No Messengers of Defeat
Douglas
Lummis
The Pentagon's Neurosis: Fallujah
Gulag
December
11 / 12, 2004
Alexander
Cockburn
Running an Empire on the Cheap
Ron
Jacobs
The Drugs of War: Getting High in the Green Zone?
Saul
Landau
Listening and Talking to God About
Invading Other Countries
Gary
Leupp
Bush's Capital
Sharon
Smith
The Horrible Toll on US Troops
Dave
Lindorff
Deja Vu All Over Again: 5,000 Desertions and Counting
Uri
Avnery
The Boss Has Gone Crazy
Jude
Wanniski
The Neo-Con Smear on Kofi Annan: What Food-for-Oil Scandal?
Heather
Gray
How the South Became Republican: an Interview with John Egerton
Patrick
Cockburn / Ken Sengupta
Fallujah: the Homecoming and the Homeless
John
Pilger
Return to Kosovo: Calling the Humanitarian Bombers to Account
Joshua
Frank
All the Rage: Mr. Solomon, Say You're Sorry
Ben
Tripp
O Canada!: the Truth About the Election of 2004
John
Stanton
God Speaks!
Laura
Nathan
Porn Stars are People, Too: a Talk with Christi Lake
Poets'
Basement
Capaccio, Davies, Louise, Ford and Albert
Website
of the Day
Fallujah Photos: Killed in Their Beds
December
10, 2004
Ralph
Nader
President Bush, Stop Destroying the
Mosques of Iraq
Greg
Moses
Whitewashing Voter Fraud
Nicole
Colson
Rebellion in the Ranks: Grunts Are Resisting Stop-Loss Orders
Frederick
B. Hudson
"They Still Got Those Dogs": A New Book Probes Old
Civil Rights Lessons
Patrick
Cockburn
Iraq's Insurgents Oppose the Occupation, Not the Elections
Kathy
Kelly
From Haiti to Iraq: Burying Water
December
9, 2004
Greg
Moses
Ask Not Who Bankrolled Fallujah
Joshua
Frank
Cobb and the Ohio Recount: Vote Fraud as Fundraiser!
Ralph
Nader
An Open Letter to Bush: It's Time to
Disclose the Real Casualty Figures
Lee
Sustar
Bhopal: the Making of a Disaster
Tom
Barry
Restrictionist Resurgence
Mickey
Z.
Sander Hicks and the 9/11 Truth Movement
Christopher
Brauchli
Bush in the Bubble
Mark
Donham
Why are House Democrats Trying to
Deny Cynthia McKinney Seniority?
Gary
Corseri
On the Anniversary of John Lennon's Death, 2012
Paul
de Rooij
The Voices of Sharon's Little Helpers
December
8, 2004
Ralph
Nader
Will the Real Michael Moore Ever Re-Emerge?
Ann
Harrison
The Ohio Recount: Reluctant Officials
and Few Rules
Paul
Craig Roberts
War Crime
Dave
Lindorff
They've Got a Secret: Inside the $40 Billion Black Budget for
Spying
Patrick
Cockburn / Andrew Buncombe
CIA Warning on Iraq: Fallujah Did Not Break the Back of the Insurgency
Col.
Dan Smith
Rules of Engagement in Iraq
Emily
Alves / Michael Johnson
Paradise Lost: Corruption and Clientelism in Costa Rica
Richard
Oxman
The Dylan Bob Wouldn't Mention: Up With Dylan Thomas
Ron
Jacobs
In Fallujah, Freedom Isn't Free
December
7, 2004
Patrick
Cockburn
Running Battles in Baghdad
Behrooz
Ghamari
Lost Muslim Voices of Dissent
Dave
Lindorff
American Fantasies: Psst! Hey Buddy,
Did You Hear How Well the War's Going?
Joshua
Frank
Dean at the DNC?
Richard
Oxman
Down with Dylan: the Insufferable Interview
Ray
McGovern
All Mosquitoes, No Swamp
John
Chuckman
The Invasion of Hallifax: The Imperial Wizard Visits Canada
James
Petras
Latin America: the Empire Changes Gears
Website
of the Day
ToxMap: Who's Poisoning You
December
6, 2004
Paul
Craig Roberts
Paranoia and Pre-emption: Is the
Bush Administration Certifiable?
December
4 / 6, 2004
Alexander
Cockburn
Politicize the CIA? You've Got to
be Kidding
Joe
Bageant
Dining with the Rhinos
Alan
Maass
Reporting from the Ground in Iraq: an Interview with Patrick
Cockburn
Brian
Cloughley
Democracy, Bush-style, in the Gulf
Laura
Carlsen
Latin America Shifts Left
Lenni
Brenner
Jefferson, Madison, Bush and Religion
Anna
Ioakimedes
Brazil's Haitian Mission: Doing God's Work or Washington's?
Uri
Avnery
Widow of Opportunity?
Fred
Gardner
Supreme Court Hears Medical Pot Case
Dave
Zirin
Steroids to Heaven
Jackie
Corr
Mining Camp Blues: the Red State Variation
Don
Fitz
Will Greens Abandon IRV?
Lucy
Herschel
"Art can be a Weapon of the Oppressed": an Interview
with Artist Anthony Papa
Richard
Oxman
No Angels in America: Bashing the Gay Play
Ron
Jacobs
Holiday Greeting Card
Poets'
Basement
Collins, Albert, LaMorticella
December
3, 2004
Dave
Lindorff
Lie Then Escalate
Ben
Tripp
Fun With Boycotts: How to Shop in a
Time of Crisis
Joe
Allen
Murder in El Salvador: the Assassination of Teamster Organizer
Gilberto Soto
Matthew
B. Riley
Human Rights Court Fails Lori Berenson
Meir
Shalev
In the End, It is the Violin that Wins
Bob
Wing
The White Elephant in the Room: Race and Election 2004
Christopher
Brauchli
When McCain Bit His Tongue
Sasan
Fayazmanesh
The EU, the US, Israel and Iran
December
2, 2004
Tito
Tricot
No Justice in Chile: I'm a Torture
Survivor in a Country Where Torturers Still Run Free
Behzad
Yaghmaian
The Murder of Theo Van Gogh and Muslim Migration
Dr.
Susan Block
Lana and Me: Meetings with Remarkable Apes
Frank
/ Chowkwanyun
Liberalism and Its Bounds
Lee
Sustar
Standoff in Ukraine: the Bad v. the Corrupt
Patrick
Cockburn
Another Grim Record in Iraq
Mark
Engler
Seattle at Five
Michael
Donnelly
Something Stinks in South Bend: the Firing of Tyrone Willingham
Nate
Collins
The Bay Area Mall on an Ohlone Burial Grounds
Saul
Landau
The Assassination of Danilo Anderson
December
1, 2004
Phillip
Cryan
Associated with Whom? Rightist Bias
in Wire Coverage of Colombia
Dave
Zirin
What's the Matter with "Leon"?:
Budweiser's Racist Commercial
Ghali
Hassan
Iraq's Health Care Under the Occupation:
200 Children Die Every Day
Donna
J. Volatile
Beware Western Nations Threatening "Democracy"
Patrick
Cockburn
How Saddam Tried to Arm the Insurgency
Nick
Meo
Chemical War Over Afghanistan
Mike
Ferner
The Battle of Toledo
Mokhiber
/ Weissman
Shame and Determination on Global AIDS Day: 40 Million and Rising
Kathy
Kelly
Looking the Other Way: the Real Crimes
of the UN in Iraq
November
30, 2004
Jennifer
Van Bergen
The Veil of Secrecy
Toni
Nelson Herrera
Meeting Kurtz: When Art is a Crime
Paul
Craig Roberts
The Bush Delusions: Successful at Incompetence
Patrick
Cockburn
The Insurgency Strikes Back: There Are No Safe Havens in Iraq
Chuck
Munson
WTO Protests Five Years Later: Seattle Weekly Trashes Anti-Globalization
Movement
Adam
Williams
Citizenship Sold: Back to Business in Indiana
Gregory
Elich
A Dangerous Turn in the US Plans for
North Korea
Website
of the Day
Read Lynne Cheney's Lesbian Novel Online!
November
29, 2004
Dave
Lindorff
Blowback in Ukraine: The Hand of
the CIA?
Omar
Barghouti
"The Pianist" of Palestine:
Roadblock Concerto at Gunpoint
Mike
Whitney
The US Media and Fallujah: How to
Market a Siege
Uri
Avnery
The Abu Mazen Style: "Give Me
Some Credit!"
Matt
Vidal
Globalization and Economic Inequality: a Look at the Numbers
Patrick
Cockburn
An Interview with Iraq's Foreign
Minister
Alan
Farago
Sex Change and Salvation: God, Girly Men and Endocrine Disrupters
Justin
Huggler
Bhopal 20 Years Later
Antony
Loewenstein
How Australia Reported Arafat's Death and Legacy
Gary
Leupp
Ukraine: Poll Results Aren't the Real
Issue
Website
of the Day
Mosul: Images from a Kill Zone
November
27 / 28, 2004
Peter
Linebaugh
Torture & Neo-Liberalism with
Sycorax in Iraq
Alexander
Cockburn
What Happened to O'Reilly's Loofa?
Fred
Gardner
Ashcroft v. Raich: Medical Marijuana and the Supreme Court
Kathy
Kelly
What We Can Control
Diane
Christian
The Other Cheek: "Empire Doesn't Analyze, It Acts"
Gary
Leupp
One More Neocon Target: South (Yes, South) Korea
Lenni
Brenner
Equality and Rights of Return: Jefferson Instructs the New York
Times
Ron
Jacobs
Death Squads and Iraq's Elections: the Mysterious Murders of
the AMS Clerics
Joshua
Frank
An Interview with Kevin Zeese on Nader, Kerry and the ABB Crowd
Toni
Solo
The Murder of Danilo Anderson
Saul
Landau
Fallujah, the 21st Century Guernica
JoAnn
Wypijewski
Matthew Shepard Case 6 Years Later: Why Hate Crimes Laws are
No Cure for Homophobia
Justin
Taylor
Empire's Lawless Opportunities
Amos
Harel
The Case of Captain R.
Walter
A. Davis
Tabloid Justice
Stephen
Hendricks
God's Kind of Men
Poets'
Basement
Albert, LaMorticella and Ford
November
26, 2004
Peter
Feng
Gavin Newsom: Man or Machine?
Greg
Moses
It's the White Vote, Stupid
Liaquat
Ali Khan
The Devil's Work: Bush's Minority Appointments
Michael
Mandel / Gail Davidson
Why Bush Should Be Banned from Canada: a Memo to the Ministry
of Immigration
Dave
Lindorff
Nation of Sheep, Turkey of an Election: Urkrainians Show the
Way
Gary
Corseri
When Black Friday Comes...
Paul
Craig Roberts
Whatever Happened to Conservatives?
Website
of the Day
Iraq Pipeline Watch
November
25, 2004
Willliam
Loren Katz
Giving Thanks to Whom?: "Thanks
to God We Sent 600 Heathen Souls to Hell Today"
Mitchel
Cohen
Why I Hate Thanksgiving
Mike
Ferner
An Uncommon Mom
November
24, 2004
Gila
Svirsky
License to Kill: the Example of Violence
is Set by the State
Winslow
T. Wheeler
The
Other Mess in Congress
Christopher
Brauchli
The Company He Keeps: the Syndicate of Tom Delay
Dave
Lindorff
Double Standards on Exit Polls: Hypocrisy Sans Irony
Ron
Jacobs
The Occupation of Iraq is the Root of t he Problem
Ken
Sengupta
Witnesses: War Crimes in Fallujah
Diana
Barahona
The Final Holocaust or Why I Voted for Ralph Nader
John
L. Hess
Safire the Shameless
Jason
Leopold
Did Harvard Hire (Another) War Criminal?
Jeffrey
St. Clair
The Mark of McCain: the Senator Most Likely to Start a Nuclear
War
Map
of the Day
Now and Then: 2004 v. 1860
November
23, 2004
Forrest
Hylton
Bush and Uribe at the Beach
November
22, 2004
Dave
Zirin
Fight Night in the NBA: Selective Outrage
in Detroit
Paul
Craig Roberts
On to Iran: We Won't Get Fooled Again?
Michael
Mandel / Gail Davidson
Why Bush Should be Banned from Canada
Kathie
Helmkamp
Our Son: a Marine Who Won't Kill
Ken
Sengupta
The Triangle of Death: "This is Now the Most Dangerous Place
in Iraq"
Mike
Whitney
Greenspan's Hammer
Roger
Burbach
Why They Hate Bush in Chile
Website
of the Day
Fed Up with Government Lies and Corporate Spin?
November
20 / 21, 2004
Alexander
Cockburn
The Poisoned Chalice
Todd
May
Religion, the Election and the Politics of Fear
Abbas
Ahmed Ibrahim
The Horrors of Fallujah: a First-Hand Account
Kevin
Zeese
Mishandling Nader
Landau
/ Hassen
After Arafat
Tom
Barry
The Vulcans Consolidate Power: The Rise of Stephen Hadley
Fred
Gardner
Pot Shots: Ask Dr. Todd
Justin
E.H. Smith
Triumph of the Will: the Sequel
Carl
Estabrook
Where We Are Now
Gary
Leupp
Imperial History-Making vs. Reality-Based Thought: a Dialogue
Dave
Lindorff
Apocalypse Soon
Jenna
Michelle Liut
Plans Colombia and Patriota: Wanton Wastes of Money, Manpower
and Lives
Mickey
Z.
The Granma Moses of Radical Writing: an Interview with William
Blum
Greg
Moses
The Same Old Struggle Against Imperial America
Sharon
Smith
Abortion Rights and the Election: What Now?
Ron
Jacobs
Sandwiches and Car Bombs
Ben
Tripp
Raising d'Etre: Finding Money in Hollywood These Days
Richard
Oxman
Basketbrawl Two Pointer: Iraq Rules!
Gilad
Atzmon
Politics and Jazz
Poets'
Basement
LaMorticella, Albert, Ford, & Anon.
Website
of the Day
Voice of the Forest
Hot Stories
Alexander Cockburn
Behold,
the Head of a Neo-Con!
Subcomandante
Marcos
The
Death Train of the WTO
Norman Finkelstein
Hitchens
as Model Apostate
Steve Niva
Israel's
Assassination Policy: the Trigger for Suicide Bombings?
Dardagan,
Slobodo and Williams
CounterPunch Exclusive:
20,000 Wounded Iraqi Civilians
Steve
J.B.
Prison Bitch
Sheldon
Rampton and John Stauber
True Lies: the Use of Propaganda
in the Iraq War
Wendell
Berry
Small Destructions Add Up
CounterPunch
Wire
WMD: Who Said What When
Cindy
Corrie
A Mother's Day Talk: the Daughter
I Can't Hear From
Gore Vidal
The
Erosion of the American Dream
Francis Boyle
Impeach
Bush: A Draft Resolution
Click
Here for More Stories.
|
December 18 / 19, 2004
A Caracas Romance
Wolves
and Revolution in Venezuela
By
DOUGLAS VALENTINE
"Businessmen they drink
my wine, plowmen dig my earth,
None of them along the lined know what any of it is worth."
Bob Dylan, All Along The
Watchtower
I'm no celebrity, and definitely not
accustomed to special treatment. But for some strange reason,
I was invited to the Defense of Humanity Conference hosted by
President Hugo Chavez Frias in Venezuela. The Venezuelan government
paid my airfare, and my room and board at the Hilton Hotel in
Caracas, where, over four days in early December, some two hundred
"artists and intellectuals" from forty nations met
to form a strategy to save the world from George W. Bush.
Wow.
Like I said, I have no idea
why I was invited to this big event. No one I know, personally,
was invited either. I knew there were to be ten "tables
of discussion" and that my job was to sit at Table 10: Defense
of the Peace, on Thursday and Saturday. On Friday I was to hook
up with some other "artists and intellectuals" and
tour six or seven places where Chavez and his political action
cadre, with a helping hand from Fidel Castro and the Cubans,
were improving the lives of poor people in the countryside.
I was also invited to some other events, including a dinner Saturday
night with President Chavez (I presume at the Palace), and a
Plenary Session on Sunday to formalize the strategy.
I decided to get there early
and when I arrived on Monday, a political cadre was waiting for
me at the American Airlines gate. She greeted me warmly, and
ushered me through Immigration and Customs to a van outside.
Two security guards accompanied me, alone, to the Hilton Hotel
in Caracas. I don't speak Spanish and they didn't have any English,
so we drove in silence for forty-five minutes. Along the way,
I gazed at the scenery. It was raining so hard that I was afraid
that the shantytowns the red-orange cinderblock houses
stacked one on top of the other against the steep forested hills
might wash away.
They didn't wash away. But,
as I would later learn, they have washed away in the past. And,
if Bush, the Israelis, and the Venezuelan bourgeoisie have their
way, a wave of mighty US Marines will wash them away again.
More about that later. First
let me say that Venezuela, under Chavez, is a country of contradictions.
On the one hand, seventy percent of the people live in poverty;
on the other, there's enough oil money to wine and dine two hundred
artists and intellectuals who can't decide what to order for
lunch, let alone save the world.
Not only are there contradictions
in Venezuela; there is an air of unreality, and a visceral sense
of desperation.
Faced with this predicament,
I did what any misfit writer would do. I went to the beach with
a beautiful Russian woman. No, I won't tell her name, but (as
my devoted wife knows), it was her idea and I went along for
the ride. I came down to breakfast that morning, overheard her
speaking English, and asked if I could join her. She looked
up from a huge plate of scrambled eggs, fruits and bread, and
said, "Okay." She went back to eating while I sipped a cup
of café and nibbled a croissant. A few minutes later
she pushed her plate away and announced, in her soft, lyrical,
lilting Russian voice, "I want to go to beach today. You
come too."
Okay!
Let's call her Gala. Gala
is tall and slim with great posture, high-heeled sandals and
long legs, a devilish grin, wild flaxen hair, and wide sparkling
eyes. She arrived in the lobby looking cool, dressed in tight
denim jeans and possessed of remarkable self-assurance. Every
eye in the place was on her. Later, when I asked why she invited
me, she said slowly, sweetly, "You are convenient and flexible
man."
That's me.
It was Wednesday, and I could
have stuck around and gawked at the radical chic celebrities
drifting into the Hilton. But the lure of a trip with Gala to
the Caribbean was irresistible. The political cadre didn't mind.
Then again, we didn't ask permission. So off we went.
Our adventure was made more
exciting by two things: 1) neither of us spoke Spanish, so we
weren't able to give our driver directions, and 2) we didn't
know where the hell we were going. Basically, we were just driving
east of Caracas, along the coast, looking for a nice beach.
Along the way we stopped in little coastal villages, sometimes
to get our bearings, sometimes to eat and drink, once so I could
buy a floppy bush hat (Gala belly laughed at how ridiculous I
looked) and sun block. Everywhere we went, the Venezuelans were
great.
I love Venezuelans.
It was a gorgeous day, a little
breezy, and after about an hour and a half, we arrived at Pantaleta.
The village of Pantaleta is memorable because its sidewalk market
stalls boldly display women's panties. Gala and I are both naïve,
and we assumed that women's panties were the local product, and
went on our merry way to the beach. We paid for parking, and
I gave our driver a ten-dollar bill so he could go have a nice
long leisurely three-hour lunch. We rented two beach chairs
under an awning from a shabby Venezuelan man who had the franchise
for a fifty-foot stretch of beach. We modestly changed into
our bathing suits, and dove happily into the crashing, eight-foot
tall waves.
Thank you, President Chavez.
It was a weekday, so we pretty
much had the beach to ourselves. The sky was Dali blue, with
a few high clouds. I went back to sit by our belongings and
watch Gala frolic child-like in the surf. In a while I was joined
by a black Labrador retriever and a few minutes later I was joined
by his owner, Sabrina, a lovely young Venezuelan woman from Caracas.
Sabrina shyly introduced herself and knelt beside me. She was
spending this delightful day at the beach with her husband, William.
He was about a hundred feet down the beach, standing with his
hands on his hips, anxiously looking up at us. She said they
were better off than most Venezuelans. William worked for a
TV station and Sabrina did graphic design. They were better
off than most, but they could not afford to buy both a house
and a car. That was the big decision in their lives: a house
or a car.
As a middle-class American,
I could sympathize. Gala came out of the water, dripping wet,
and joined us. I explained Sabrina's situation, and Gala gave
me a disapproving look as she stood there, unabashedly toweling
off her long white legs and wild hair. As a mature Russian woman
who had lived through the original "socialist paradise",
Gala did not empathize with pretty young Sabrina. She didn't
say so there and then, because she is wise, as well as beautiful.
But Gala is very taken with Chavez and his vision. She understood,
at the time, better than I, the mortal danger Sabrina's attitude
poses to Chavez and his social reforms.
Gala later explained that she
had met Chavez in Russia, several months before, at an event
her high-powered organization had sponsored. She was the moderator,
sitting beside Chavez, and some lunatic Russian had pushed passed
security to the front row. The man reached inside his coat pocket
to pull out some letters not a gun he wanted to hand
Chavez. Gala had boldly stood up and told him that he was out
of line and would have to wait his turn. When she sat back down,
Chavez whispered in her ear, "You have a flame inside."
Gala blushed. "He wanted
chance to say nice thing," she said sotto voce. But I could
tell she believed in him, wholeheartedly. Her idealism played
off my skepticism, which, I suppose, is one reason why we made
such a good team.
Sabrina and her dog Picasso
knew nothing of "the Encounter" being hosted by Chavez,
or the radical political reason Gala and I were there. Sabrina
talked economics, because the economy is a pressing concern wherever
one goes in Venezuela. Sabrina was being herself, open and warm,
like Venezuelans tend to be. She graciously gave us her telephone
number and invited us to dinner. But the great Chavez was giving
a speech that evening, so Gala gave me "the look" and
I said thanks, maybe. Sabrina went back to her nervous husband,
and Gala told me fabulous stories about the Tatars in 14th Century
Russia, about superstition and magic, and about the mysterious
ways of the universe.
We took a last languid walk
along the golden sand. Gala climbed out on a stone jetty.
I had to gallantly go out, take her hand, and help her cross
the jagged rocks. We lingered on our way back to our chairs.
It was late afternoon, time to return to the hotel. We stood
and modestly changed clothes, looked wistfully at the sea and
the lush green hills behind us, which, to my surprise, were devoid
of the cinderblock houses of the poor.
Gala liked me by then. I was
not just "convenient and flexible man" anymore. On
the way back, I sat in the corner in the backseat, leaning against
the door. Gala was tired from jet lag, swimming and lively conversation.
She laid her head back on the seat, looking up contentedly.
Then she turned and gazed over a soft shoulder at me. My eyes
must have said okay. She may have snuggled close against my
arm, laid her head on my shoulder, and gone to sleep. It could
have happened that way.
I do remember looking north
out the car window, at a string of deserted apartment and office
buildings, and relatively new seaside resorts, along the beach.
I wondered why they were empty.
As we got nearer to Caracas,
I once again saw the burnt-orange cinderblock houses of the poor
were stacked precariously against the steep green hills to the
south.
In This Corner,
Representing The Oppressed, Hugo Chavez Frias!
Back at the Hilton, I went
to my room and Gala went to hers. We changed into our evening
clothes, and met in the lobby. She looked great in a long sleek
dress and high heels. The festivities had begun at the auditorium
across the street, but Gala and I were starving, so we rushed
to the hotel banquet hall for something quick to eat. Then we
hurried over to the auditorium to hear Chavez give his speech.
(On the way over, Gala leaned against my arm. She smiled devilishly
and whispered in my ear, "I am famous woman here."
Her boss had arrived that day, and the first thing he had said
to her was, "I hear you have been to the beach.")
Gala and I must have been the
last people to arrive, but we were famous by now, and one of
the young Venezuelan production crew (not political action cadre,
but bi-lingual students hired from the university to help the
"artists and intellectuals") eagerly found us two seats
together. The seats were at the top of the lower section, near
a door that opened onto the aisle that divided the upper and
lower halves of the auditorium. We barely had time to sit down
when the door flew open and out came Chavez and his entourage.
The place went wild.
Chavez and his dark curvaceous
translator, menacing bodyguards, and rock and roll media ensemble
passed so close we could have reached over the railing and taken
his hand. People surged and swarmed around him. He was working
the crowd like a pro, reaching into the seats and hugging and
kissing people. Gala had met him before, in Russia, but it was
the first time I'd seen the great man in person. He is dark,
solidly built, and Indian tough. You know he could take on three
muggers in an alley and walk out relaxed. He walked down the
center aisle of the auditorium, strode up the stairs of the main
aisle, lunged into a row of seats to hug someone he saw, put
his hand on the railing below him, vaulted over it, down to the
aisle five feet below, in a fantastic athletic move that sent
the crowd into pandemonium. He landed like a cat and was off
again.
Let's see that little pendejo
Bush do that!
The place was electric, packed
and buzzing with excitement as Chavez and his entourage took
their seats. The minister of something or other gave a rousing
speech. A Mexican professor talked about changing history.
Then Chavez took the stage. He told about a Venezuelan prosecutor,
Danilo Anderson, who had been assassinated by a car bomb barely
two weeks before. Anderson had been on the verge of arresting
a number of mercenaries and Venezuelan counter-revolutionaries
who had staged an unsuccessful coup in 2002. Chavez told how
the CIA and MOSSAD had arranged the coup, and (unlike in Chile
in 1973) how the Venezuelan military had backed him. Chavez
explained that the prosecutor was about to expose Bush's blood-soaked
hands in the plot.
In the press, the assassination
was blamed on some shadowy entity called the Cuban Mafia. Don't
believe what you read in the press. Bush, the MOSSAD, and the
Venezuelan bourgeoisie assassinated Anderson. Truth be told,
Bush is a mass murderer and the biggest terrorist in the world.
If you have any doubts, visit Venezuela.
Chavez is very different than
Bush. He's tough, and he shoots people, yeah. But he fights
for the little guy. That's how he likes to be portrayed. He
spoke about the power of love to unite all the different factions
in the world, and how love could give us the strength to go on
the offensive against Bush and overlords. He was truly inspiring.
But like Castro, he doesn't know when to shut up. The joke
among the Venezuelans is that even the Cubans get up and eventually
leave a Chavez speech. I was taking notes and wrote on a piece
of paper, "Do you want to go?" I handed it to sleepy
Gala. She wrote back, "Yes!!"
Luckily the speech ended soon
thereafter and we were able to leave without being rude. Back
at the hotel, Gala's Russian boss appeared at her side and whisked
her away.
"Maybe I'll see you around,"
I said to the space where she had been.
The Devil In
The Detail
The one thing you can say about
Chavez, with total certainty, is that the man knows how to make
an entrance. That show-biz quality is not reassuring.
You can also say he talks too
long, and fondles his crucifix too often.
He may also be doing some unethical
wheeling and dealing behind the scenes, with the likes of Jimmy
Carter and Gustavo Cisneros. But there's a low-intensity war
going on, and both sides are resorting to terror. The subject
of terrorism is my expertise, and I guess that's why I was invited
to the Encounter.
Inviting me was a big mistake.
The Venezuelan and Cuban military men who ran my discussion
group, Table 10: Defense of the Peace, turned me off entirely.
They were too doctrinaire, too oppressively repetitive, with
an agenda that was transparently pre-conceived. Call it, like
Gala later did, anti-woman. Whatever you call it, it was awful
to have to sit there and listen to the ideologues say the same
thing over and over again.
Ancient Ramsay Clark opened
our discussion group, spoke for about ten minutes about America
being the greatest purveyor of violence ever on earth, and left
to go to a court proceeding. After that it was all downhill.
I swear to God, if I hear the word solidarity once more, I'll
do what Gary Webb did, God rest his soul.
I stuck it out till lunch and
ran back to the banquet hall for something to eat. I sat at a
table with a middle-aged American woman from Table 10. She'd
been the only person to mention women as victims of male terrorism,
which I thought was cool, though the moderators dismissed her
remarks as irrelevant. Over lunch she started telling me how
much she liked late night American comedians. Something called
the Daily Show? Meanwhile a sultry young Venezuelan woman sat
down at the table and caught my attention. She was slender and
curvaceous, about five foot four, wearing a smart pants suit
with a typical, for Venezuelan women, low-cut and revealing blouse.
She smiled seductively and looked right in my eyes. I turned
back to the American woman and said that I didn't know much about
late night comedians, but the little I heard seemed to trivialize
the awful mess America is in.
We were obviously in disagreement
on this point, so the American woman left the table rather than
get into an argument. I think that's why she left. As she left,
she cast a disapproving glance at the sultry young woman sitting
very close beside me.
Over the last twenty years,
ever since I started writing about the CIA, I've been waiting
for the moment when a beautiful spy would attempt to seduce me.
It's become a long-standing joke between my wife and me. How
would I react? Would I take the bait?
In this case, yes, I would
take the bait.
Was she really a spy? I don't
know. How could I? I do know that over the course of my fifty-five
years, not one beautiful young women has ever approached me in
this fashion before. So it's probably safe to assume.
On the other hand, she saw
how disgusted I was with the discussion at Table 10. She is
an astute observer, and maybe, being one of the "oppositers"
(as the Venezuelan bourgeoisie refer to themselves), she thought
it might be worthwhile to try to tell me the counter-revolutionary
side of the story? Maybe she was just an angry and bold young
woman, acting for personal reasons, on her own. That happens
too.
She definitely knew I wasn't
with the program. She knew that I had been to the beach with
Gala. She asked where we'd gone, and when I told her, she giggled.
"Do you know what Pantaleta means?" she asked.
It means women's underwear.
Which explains a lot.
Then she asked if I would like
to have a cigarette with her in quiet part of the hotel; and
thus began, with one interruption, that intriguing part of my
Venezuelan tale of romance and revolution.
I vowed not to reveal her name,
so I'll call her Maria. We sat and talked for over an hour,
in general terms, about the mind-numbing discourse at Table 10.
Maria was an interpreter: she sat in a paneled box with a window,
translating from Spanish into English the inane verbiage that
never came close to establishing any new language or ideas about
dealing with world terrorism. Maria insisted that Chavez was
engaged in terrorism too, cited a few unsubstantiated examples,
and offered to tell me more about it.
I'm not a political activist.
Everyone else at Table 10 was, in some way, an activist associated
with some group or cause. I'm a writer and an investigative
reporter beholden to no one and nothing except the principles
of telling both sides of the story, and corroborating my facts.
Everyone else at Table 10 was content to follow the Party line,
except me and two men from India who wanted to insert a clause
about the myths the world press perpetuates by constantly using
the term "Islamic Terrorism" but the moderators
shot them down, too. So I agreed to meet Maria after the discussion
ended, at 9:00 pm, for my lesson in counter-revolution.
Alas, I lasted at Table 10
on Thursday till five o'clock, and then returned to my room in
total frustration. I called my wife in Massachusetts and told
her how awful the discussion was. She advised me to get a good
night's rest and see what tomorrow's trip into the reality of
Venezuela would bring.
Okay, Alice, I said, I love
you. Then I conked out.
The Universal
Need For Lovers
I did meet Maria again, and
I'll tell you about that. To get to Maria's story faster, I'm
also glad to let Saul Landau tell you about our trip into the
countryside on Friday. Saul brought along his video camera and
has all the details.
I'd never met Saul before.
I was slumped outside the hotel lobby, depressed at the prospect
of getting on a tour bus, when I heard someone mention Saul's
name. My muse had smiled upon me once again. I accepted her
gift gratefully, and immediately asked if I could leave my tour
group and join Saul's. The cadre said okay, so off we went,
about twelve of us, under the guidance of Jose, a college kid
with a pony-tail who served as our most excellent guide.
Saul Landau is a great man,
and if you ever have to travel into the Venezuelan countryside,
Saul is the man to go with. He grew up in an iconoclastic
neighborhood in the South Bronx, went to Russia in 1961, made
a movie with Country Joe in Chile in 1970, and knows almost everything
about Cuba and the revolution in Latin America. He's sixty-nine
now, in the process of assembling his life's work, which has
benefited humankind.
We had an official interpreter,
a dark and voluptuous Venezuelan woman named Asia dressed in
skin tight, hot yellow pants and tank top. But everything was
being thrown together hastily, and Asia thought I was the only
member of the group who did not have Spanish. When the time
came, her English was not very good. Our first stop was a meeting
with the mayor of the municipality we toured. I asked a question,
and Asia found it difficult to translate the mayor's response
into English. But Saul knew, and spoke up, and after that he
served as the unofficial interpreter and good will ambassador
for the entire group.
To sum it up, we visited a
school where older women were being taught to read and write,
and add and subtract. They had received reading glasses, and
were learning by watching programs on Venezuelan TV. It was
great, and the women were very grateful. They put on a fantastic
folk dance, in their colorful country costumes. One woman was
dressed as a donkey and threw candy to the scrounging waifs from
the apartment complex. The women held a lottery, too, and I
was one of the lucky winners of a hand made pillow, which now
sits under our Christmas tree.
We visited a medical clinic
run by Cubans, and had a delicious al fresco lunch at a restaurant
where the head chef was a female veteran of the Cuban revolution.
We visited a school at the end of the day, and watched the kids
engage in athletic events. Then their teachers played a game.
There were three groups in the competition. In each group,
a woman fed a man mouthfuls of food. The men made funny faces
and the kids laughed hysterically, and the man who ate all his
food first won, as a trophy, a fistful of women's panties!
The Venezuelans are not prudish
about sex. They don't walk around naked like Thais, but the
women are constantly adjusting their tank tops around their ample
breasts, and patting their skin-tight pants into place on their
voluptuous hips. It's very nice. In the schoolyard, the three
women teachers played a game in which their male partners tied
a jar around their waists by their zippers. The jar had a string
dangling from it and at the end of the string was a little red
ball. The object of the game was to swing the red ball between
their legs and try to flip it into the jar.
The woman who won received
as a trophya fistful of women's panties!
We concluded our tour with
a visit to a 350-year old church. We said goodbye to Asia, in
the church courtyard, and piled back in the bus with Jose.
Saul said I could join him
for dinner that night, and when I came down from my room, he
was sitting in the lounge off the lobby with some of his contemporaries
from the Old Left. Smithsonian curator James Early was there,
cheerful and wearing a brightly colored African shirt, and Pablo
Fernandez, the venerable Cuban poet, with his white goatee and
soft voice. I sat on a couch beside Julie, widow of the famous
singer and Civil Rights activist. Julie is an elegant woman.
She was wearing a beautiful scarf on her head, and a dark pants
suit, and still had the graceful moves of a dancer.
We agreed to have dinner together
at an Italian restaurant. Saul came down with Luciana, an Italian
woman he knew, and Julie came down with Pablo. We were joined
by Daniel Del Solar, who had a lively discussion with Saul about
everything that was going on. It was the type of banter one
would expect of artists and intellectuals. But it was a remark
Julie made that stopped everybody in their tracks. During a
pause in the conversation, she looked directly in my eyes and
said with heart wrenching humility and sincerity, "I'm not
an intellectual. All I want is a lover."
Forgive me, Julie, for telling
everyone what you said. But the emotional wave you created in
me has yet to subside.
I actually stood at the table
and said that her confession had captured the essence of what
Chavez was stressing about the power of love to unite us. I
said that we'd all become so sophisticated and cynical that we
couldn't even admit this simple fact of life anymore. Daniel
Del Solar heartily agreed, and said it was time for the Old Lefties
to hold hands and lead peaceful demonstrations for peace, once
again, like they did in the Sixties. Pablo Fernandez nodded,
I think. Luciana smiled and Saul, well, I'll let Saul explain
his feelings on the subject.
When Julie got up to go, I
made a point of coming round the table and shaking her hand.
Julie understands the universal need for lovers. I'll follow
her anywhere she thinks we should go.
Into The Underground
Saturday brought with it the
paralyzing thought of three more hours at Table 10. It was to
be a short session, until lunch, for the purpose of summarizing
in a three-page document their strategy for defending humanity
from terror. I knew it was pro-forma, and that our moderator,
and the Venezuelan and Cuban military men, had composed it before
we arrived. The only reason I went, was on the off chance that
Maria wasn't mad at me for standing her up Thursday night, and
that she'd still be willing to show me the other side of Caracas.
We met on the way over, and
she immediately said, "Let's go."
This was a dangerous thing
for her to do, for two reason. First and foremost, she is an
enemy of the state, and no state takes kindly to those who wish
to overthrow it. As Maria would explain, even Chavez, with his
message of love and social reform, resorts to violence when he
feels he must defend what Maria and the oppositers facetiously
call his "Revolucion Bonita." The Pretty Revolution.
The other risk was to her professional career. I was already
"famous man" for my escapade with Gala; now I'd be
leaving the hotel and disappearing into Caracas with a gorgeous
twenty-three old woman, dressed in a short brown, frilly skirt,
and the body old Goethe had sold his soul for.
I hadn't been into the city
of Caracas since I'd arrived. The cadre strongly discouraged
us from going, because of the rash of armed robberies and murders
(8,000 last year), often of foreigners. There was also the likelihood
of demonstrations against the Encounter and in fact there
was one later that day.
Nevertheless, as soon as Table
10 adjourned, Maria and I were off and running. We'd already
established a rapport, and now that I was going with her, Maria's
feelings grew. I could tell. Yes, she was using me, and not
just to promote the Acción Democrática line. Part
of the deal was that I'd buy her an expensive dinner at an exclusive
restaurant on the fashionable west side of town.
No problem. She doesn't have
the money. I do, and it's tax deductible.
It is a wonderful feeling to
step out of the stale air of conference rooms into the vibrant
atmosphere of downtown Caracas, especially when there's a pretty
girl by your side. The first thing Maria did was stop at a market
stall and buy a colorful wool hair band. Her hair was tied up
in a bun, and she pulled the band back on her head and let her
long brown hair fall down. It was a symbolic gesture, indeed.
We ducked into a subway and
on the way, Maria instructed me in the elemental arts of surviving
the streets of Caracas. First, lose the Encounter nametag I
was obligated to wear at the convention. It identified me as
a Chavez supporter, and where we were going, that was dangerous
to my health. It felt good, stuffing the thing in my jacket
pocket. Next, don't speak English. That would make me a target
of the thugs that roamed the streets looking for rich Americans
to rip off. That was okay too, as anything I had to say on
the subway I got to whisper in her ear. We got to act like lovers.
There was something undeniably
romantic about this adventure. Two pro-Chavez rappers shuffled
down the subway car, the first singing verses that asked for
donations to the revolution, for the poor, the second making
vocal rhythm sounds. Maria whispered in my ear for some coins.
She handed them the money and after they passed, she interpreted
their words of thanks. Unlike the over-produced, misogynist
rappers in the US, these guys were totally impromptu, and way
cool.
Six stops later we emerged
into a totally different city. We exited the subway at the Plaza
Altamira, cite of an anti-Chavez demonstration two years ago
that ended with a sniper, or snipers (known generically
as franco tirador) on a rooftop or rooftops, shooting into the
crowd. Maria was there that day and saw the dead bodies. She
helped wash away the blood and plant the flowers that memorialize
the massacre.
She trembles with rage and
horror as she tells the story. No one had mentioned this at
the Encounter. Maybe they expected me to know. I should have
known, but as usual, I was stumbling blindly into the fray.
There's no doubt in Maria's
mind that the Bolivarian Circles were the snipers. She describes
the Bolivarian Circles as hard-core Chavez supporters, often
poor people armed with AK-47s, who invade the homes of the bourgeoisie,
seize their property, and generally terrorize anyone who supports
Chavez. Every Bolivarian Circle has a district and a chief.
The Bolivarian Circles do exist
, but the pro-Chavez people claim it was the oppositers that
shot into the crowd that fateful day, using selective terror
as a psywar tactic to spread black propaganda.
I don't know what side of the
story is true. I do know that Maria especially hates Lina Ron,
chief of the Bolivarian Circle in downtown Caracas. Lina Ron
has terrorized journalists, and students at the Universidad Central
de Venezuela. According to Maria, Lina got into a gun fight
with another CB leader. They were fighting over the same building,
which they both wished to appropriate.
The other side of Caracas is
that crazy.
We paid our respects to the
dead, and then sat at an outdoor café. We talked during
a cloudburst. Maria is definitely afraid, especially of the
PTJ cops. The Policía Técnica Judicial. Everyone
must watch out for them. She says they rape women with impunity.
She shows me her national ID card. There's an X in the top
right corner, because she voted in the December 1999 referendum
to oust Chavez and dispense with his socialist reforms.
Maria is not putting on an
act. I sympathized with Sabrina on the beach, and I sympathize
with Maria, too. But unlike Sabrina, Maria is a militant. She
tells me how the college kids she hangs out with always carry
a handkerchief and vinegar to class, so they don't collapse when
they're gassed during anti-Chavez demonstrations. She claims
the Chavez forces use mustard gas.
That sounds like Saddam Hussein
propaganda, but this college kid has learned how to make Molotov
cocktails and potato bombs. Don't laugh. You slice a potato
in half, pour in gunpowder and chlorine, close it up, and put
it your backpack for protection during demonstrations. The papaina
enzyme in the potato acts as a catalyst, and when thrown with
accuracy, a potato bomb can take out a cop's eye. If the guy
is aiming a gun, or about to hurl a tear gas canister at you,
that seems a morally acceptable thing to do.
The rain stops. I'm starting
to feel a bit overwhelmed. Plaza Altamira is a lovely spot,
not at all like downtown Caracas. It's clean and although there's
traffic, the people walking around are middle class. They behave
well. They are mannerly. It's hard to imagine gunshots from
the surrounding roofs.
Maria decides it's time to
put politics aside and eat. That seems a grand idea. I'm hungry
and I have promised to take her to her favorite restaurant.
We hail a cab and drive across the west side of Caracas. We're
near the suburbs. It looks like America. No crumbling cinderblock
houses here. Nestled against the steep green hills in the distance
are securely built, million dollar homes, with SUVs parked in
two car garages.
No rap music either. We pass
the club where Maria hangs out. The college kids gather at 2:00
am and listen to Metallica. This is disturbing to me. I recall
a passage I read on my flight to Caracas, in the Dean Koontz
book, Odd Thomas. A waitress tells Odd Thomas why she likes
Elvis so much. She says, "(I)n his prime, pop music had
still been politically innocent, therefore deeply life-affirming,
therefore relevant. By the time he died, most pop songs had
become, usually without the conscious intention of those who
wrote and sang them, anthems endorsing the values of fascism,
which remains the case today."
Amen.
I don't tell Maria that I'm
usually in bed by nine, or that I suspect she too has adopted
the Metallica values of fascism, the furious sounds that have
swept away the last vestiges of humanist culture in America,
and buried them under the rubble of a thousand Fallujahs.
We have, despite my nervousness,
a fabulous meal at Mastranto Restaurant, on Calle Nueva
York. It's about 2:30 and the place is empty. There are
lovely flowering orchids on long trailing vines, and lots of
flowering plants. Upscale. First we have a selection of cheeses,
hard and soft that we spread on flat bread; and then salads and
the traditional Venezuelan Christmas meal, pan de jamón,
a delicious long yellow corn bread filled with chopped ham, veggies
and olives. Maria drinks scotch and water in a tall glass.
I have some beers. It is Christmas time in Caracas, and everyone
is the spirit of Felice Navidad. The trees are wrapped in white
Christmas lights. We talk happily about food and Venezuelan customs,
the check comes with our doggie bags, and it's time to decide
what to do next.
The Logic Of
A Counter-Revolutionary
This is where Maria's story
gets interesting. We decide to take the doggie bags back to
her place, so I can meet her parents, who know I am coming and
have some information they want to give to me. We get a cab,
and along the way Maria stresses the seriousness of the situation.
She tells me she is Jewish, which is something of a shock.
She is Sephardim Jewish on her mother's side only. Her biological
father was Catholic, like most Venezuelans.
Maria is part of the Jewish
bourgeoisie that comprise, in Caracas, a significant force in
the Guarimba, the CIA and MOSSAD-backed counter-revolutionary
militia. The people in her apartment complex are organized.
They have chain saws ready to cut down the trees to form barricades
in case the Bolivarian Circles invade. They own and know how
to use automatic weapons, and are ready to man posts on top of
the buildings.
We arrive at her apartment
at dusk. It's actually two apartments. Maria's mother got pregnant
while very young, and though a single mother, worked hard and
was able to buy two apartments when this building was constructed.
She tore down the wall between the apartments, and her second
husband, Maria's step-father, has cultivated a dozen lovely bonsai
plants of various sizes in front of a wide window that offers
a panoramic view of west Caracas. The spacious living room is
well-appointed, with low comfortable sofas, carefully tended
potted plants, and high quality art. Maria is an artist, and
after I meet her mother, she shows me her paintings. They are
very good and she is very proud of them. Some are sold in foreign
countries. Most are abstract, but others are figures of Venezuelan
women.
We sit on the couch and Maria
talks politics and philosophy. She is educated, smart, and experienced.
This does not mean that her views and opinions are based in
reality. She believes in free will. She looks down on Venezuelan
men as lazy. "What do they produce?" she asks rhetorically.
Nothing. The women here do everything. Latino men need help
getting out of bed in the morning. God forbid they should provide
sanitary living conditions for their families. They'll get help,
Maria assures me, and it will come from either the Cubans, who
just want their oil she says that Castro invaded Venezuela
in 1961 in an attempt to grab the oil or the Americans,
whom she despises as well, but prefers.
Look at the Puerto Ricans she
says. They are "dumb as shit." They can't read or
write. But they have a life with human dignity, without communism,
she explains, because they have accepted American democracy.
Maria hates Chavez for personal
reasons. Her step-father founded a creative business venture
that prospered throughout South America. Then came 27 February
1992. She was ten at the time, sitting on the sidewalk waiting
for her school bus. The street was empty. It was eerie. Her
hands and feet felt the earth moving, and she saw soldiers marching
up the street. She was frozen with fear, but her step-father
raced down and grabbed her and brought her back inside. Her
family hid under their bed.
This is Chavez, she says venomously.
That day he and Jesse Chacon and Arias Cardenas organized a
coup d'etat. They "kidnapped" military tanks and stormed
the major television station (Channel 8) and killed everyone
inside. "Chavez killed fifteen people himself," she
says, her arms holding an imaginary assault rifle, "and
Chacon killed nine!"
She's trembling with rage.
"Chavez said, 'I want rivers of blood, full of freedom!'"
Her step-father walks by and
tenderly lays his hand on her shoulder. He moves into the kitchen.
Maria unconsciously crosses her legs on the couch. Her shirt
hikes up to her hips. She grabs a big pillow and puts it in
her lap, thankfully. She lights a cigarette and smiles at me.
Her mother brings me a liquor, and some documents in Spanish.
Maria says that I can learn more when I get back home by logging
onto www.globovision.com. There is also an underground radio
station that airs weekdays from five to eight pm. That's CNB
FM.
Maria tells met there are six
TV stations in Venezuela, and that five are controlled by the
opposition. Channel 8 is the government station. It's obvious,
she says. Channel 33 is like CNN. If you listen to them both,
you won't be able to figure out who shot who. And there's lots
of shooting going on. There's also a "muzzle law"
and the most vocal counter-revolutionaries have fled the country,
like Marcel Granier. One, Orlando Urdaneta, is on trial for
sedition. Maria's hero, Patricia Poleo, runs a clandestine station
and is constantly eluding the PTJ.
Maria is fighting back tears.
This is her life. She goes to her room and changes into sweat
pants and a t-shirt. It would be really stupid for her to return
to the hotel with me, after we were seen leaving together, she
says. However, oddly enough, she would like to go with me,
and deeply regrets that she can't. If she were to go, she might
meet Chavez, and he might hire her as an interpreter. Money
is tight and she'd take the job. Instead, she decided to take
me into her confidence and reveal her secrets, on the off-chance
I might tell them to the world, without exposing her.
She calls a cab, but there's
been an anti-Chavez demonstration in her neighborhood, protesting
the Encounter. The streets are jammed, so we sit and smoke and
make small talk while we wait. I could stay if I wanted. But
there is that dinner with Chavez at nine, and I ought to go.
Maria goes down on the elevator
with me. She's uncomfortable now, fiddling with the waistband
on her sweatpants. She looks at me forlornly. We go outside
and she tells the cab driver where to take me, and tells me how
much I should pay him. We hug and kiss on the cheek. I climb
in the cab and go. I know I will never see her again.
I feel sorry for Maria. She
is young, smart, gorgeous, and torn apart. That's what life
in the 21st Century can do to a young person in Venezuela. More
than anything, I think she would like a rich man to come along
and take her away.
Maybe she thought I might be
that man?
From Russia,
With Love
Thirty minutes later I spill
out of the cab at the entrance to the Hilton. There is a woman
standing in front of me on the curb. To my great surprise and
pleasure, it's Gala!
Gala is waiting, unescorted,
to go to the formal dinner with President Chavez. This is why
she came to Caracas. As I mentioned, she believes in his Revolucion
Bonita, and more than anything, she wants to meet him personally
and place in his hand a CD by the deceased Russian folk singer,
Vladimir Vysotsky. There is a song in particular she wants Chavez
to hear. It's called "Hunting Wolves".
There's a problem. Gala is
so exhausted she can barely stand. She has a blank stare, and
the muscles in her face aren't as tight as they usually are.
There's a line of minivans waiting to take the artists and intellectuals
to the Crown Performance, but she's unable, for some reason,
to take a step in that direction.
I haven't seen her in two days,
and seeing me seems to bring her back to life.
"I want to talk to you,"
she says sternly. "Yesterday I meet Mr. Saul Landau."
(I know what's coming!) "He says to me, 'You must be the
Russian woman who went to beach with Douglas Valentine.'"
"Are you mad at me for
telling him?" I ask.
"No," she says, looking
over a soft shoulder, with a smile that brightens the night.
"You look very tired,"
I say. "Sure you want to go?"
Her response surprises me.
"This is a very anti-woman thing," she says, meaning
the Encounter.
I tell her I have no plans
of going to the dinner, that I just want to hit the sack, but
I see the CD clutched in her hand. I know she's uncertain, so
I suggest we go inside and talk for a bit. She agrees. We find
some comfy chairs in an alcove off the lobby and plop down.
She asks a few questions about Saul, which I answer. She's
a little miffed that I ran off with a sultry young counter-revolutionary
(everyone knows), but she forgives me for that indiscretion too.
Gala tells me how frustrating
it was at her Table discussion group. Because she is a woman,
the moderators ignored her. Finally, she said, making a strangling
gesture with her hands, she stood up and read her statement,
whether they wanted to hear it or not.
They didn't, and she has become
disillusioned. With the Encounter, not with Chavez. She decides
not to go to the soiree, but she wants me to go for a walk with
her. She has something important to get off her chest, and in
the absence of Chavez, these words shall be said to me. For
me, this is a great honor.
We leave the lobby and turn
left into the shadows of the hotel. A security guard watches
us. I subtly wave him away. As we begin to walk, Gala gathers
her strength. She shows me the CD and tells me that Vladimir
Vysotsky was a famous folk singer in the Sixties and Seventies.
She feels in her heart that Chavez is right, but, she says,
"Indians, like Russians, are naïve." She is talking
about the song, "Hunting Wolves".
Russian is a musical and melodic
language, and Gala has a beautiful voice. We are deep in the
shadows now, and she begins to recite the song, soulfully. Her
voice is strong, ethereal. The words to "Okhota Na Volkovgo"
go something like this:
I am running, hurtling through
the night,
And my heart is bursting, because the hunters
Have cornered me! They have driven me
Toward other huntsmen who wait for their prey!
From the fir-trees the rifle-shots come quickly,
And the wolves are falling in the snow.
They are hunting wolves! They
are pursuing the predators.
The beaters shout, the dogs howl and bare their teeth!
The flags on the snow are red, as red as the blood.
We are outnumbered, and the
huntsmen are merciless.
They enclose us with the red flags on their ropes.
They shoot us at point blank range.
But a wolf cannot change his nature.
With milk sucked from the she-wolfs, the cubs
Learn never, never to cross the red flags!
We are swift and our jaws are
ready.
Why then, pack leader, must we rush at the guns?
A wolf cannot change the old story.
The end is near, my time is almost done.
Now the huntsman smiles as he raises his gun.
They are hunting wolves! They
are pursuing the predators.
The beaters shout, the dogs howl and bare their teeth!
The flags on the snow are red, as red as the blood.
But revolution and the life-force
are stronger
Than the fear that the red flags instill.
From behind come dismayed cries of anger
As I cheat them, with joy, of their kill.
In my flight, my heart bursting, I hurtle,
But the outcome is different today!
I was cornered! They had me encircled!
But the huntsmen were foiled of their |