Last year close to today
I was preparing to go to Venezuela to be a part of the 10mo Festival Mundial de Poesia: canto comÚn (10th Annual World Festival of Poetry). Hugo Chavez had died that year and much of the nation was still in mourning at his passing and extremely thankful for what he was able to accomplish for the masses of Venezuelans. The festival was being held in homage to him as the statesman, as a poet and lover of poetry, as a visionary. I knew none of this.
What I knew was that I was going to South America for the first time in my life to share my work, my world view, my passion with words and to meet poets who came from across the world as well as around the corner and hear their words and learn of their sprit and purpose. What I knew was that I was off to another international adventure, this time in a country I not only wanted to visit, but also found intriguing because of the Bolivarian Revolution which aimed to bring justice and empowerment to not just an economic elite but to the many peoples of Venezuela. (For some insights into the realities of Venezuela please read Arlene Eisen’s insightful piece in Venezuela analysis)
Barely married a year I was for the first time ambivalent at leaving. It was not that long a time of absence, but at that time our marriage was fragile and we were still really learning each other and defining boundaries and showing each other bridges and gateways. My mother, although totally supportive of my trip was in a skilled nursing facility recovering from a heart attack and intestinal hemorrhaging of a few weeks earlier. So I boarded the plane full of hopes and also tinged with concerns that I hoped daily phone calls and regular emails would alleviate.
After a long and uncomfortable journey
After midnight, with two layovers and one delay after close to 24 hours I arrived in Caracas. I was met by Luis Bracho and Pedro López Adorno a Puerto Rican poet based in New York. Entering the center of the city we had to go through a checkpoint with assault rifle carrying soldiers looking into the car and waving us on.
I have a deep rooted suspicion of police and soldiers. Just as many of them see so many Black and brown people as possible adversary, enemy, or simply criminal, I see them as armed officials wielding their limited power, often with utter disregard for the people they should be serving.
But when I asked about it Luis pointed to two young women walking down the midnight narrow lane and told me that now they were safe. They would not be harmed on their way home. It was safer now he told me, but there were still many problems. And, I thought, it is true everywhere that poverty breeds its own kinds of violence from the egg of scarcity and the seed of ignorance.
The hotel was quite nice although somewhat frayed echo of another age when corporations ran the country and its elegance was not available for events such as hosting the festival. I photographed the statue of the “queen of the hotel” because I thought it an apt image for it.
I unpacked, bathed got into bed, called my husband, and ran through my Spanish language tutorials. I knew already that this would be a most satisfying adventure.
Writing Prompt
Take a trip in your mind. Where do you go? How do you get there. What do you see, hear, embrace or push away? This can be an actual or imagined place.