jump to navigation

Naked Amongst the Guzerat June 26, 2008

Posted by dodo in : Caracas, South America, Venezuela , trackback

Juan turned on the generator at 3am. The slap of light catapulted me towards the obligatory shower. By three-thirty Senor Sanchez had arrived to take us on the long journey to Caracas. In air-conditioned blackness we drove past the fan- shaped traveller’s palms screening the swimming-pool, past the banana plantation where every day old Eduardo listlessly dribbled the hose over the tall leaves; through theiron gates of the hacienda to cross the wide, lush valley of African stargrass. The herds of Brahman cattle recently delivered from the Llanos plains for fattening stopped grazing momentarily to walk away from the assaulting headlamps. Already their vivid black noses glistened with good health, their silvery hides hanging in draped bands like velvet necklaces swaying gracefully as they munched.

Travel GuidebookThe immaculate Lina placed the bag of tangerines, gathered yesterday from the two big trees by the wash-house, on the seat between us. I decided that in a few minutes I would ask for one.

We shuddered over the cattle-grid onto the common land beside the lake. No grass here, just prickly shrubs and baked mud.

The dry season lasted from January to April, and at night threatening bush-fires lit the surrounding mountains to a fierce red. Don Juan and his herdsmen were skilled in the art of “back-firing”. They would light a strip of scrubland below the length of the bush-fire, so that on meeting the two fires exploded and burnt each other out. Sprawled over the track lay the cattle and horses belonging to the Indians. Juan shouted, drumming his palm against the door until the scraggy animals rose up and moved painfully aside. Lina, being used to this procedure, handed around the tangerines. But in the artificial light the look of hopelessness in the eyes of the animals became distressingly accentuated. It was a look I had witnessed constantly amongst human- and animal-kind during my weeks of travel in South America. And not least here in Venezuela, considered the most Americanised of Latin American cultures.

During my first evening Lina graciously asked, “What would you like to see in our country?”

“Angel Falls please.”

“But dat is just a long streak of white!”

I shrugged. “Then I shall walk to the mountains to paint.”

“No!”, wagging forefinger. “You do not go anywhere beyond de wire fencing. De Indians carry machetes and you with your little brush, what do you think you can do? You can get bitten by mapanari out dhere and dat snake-bite is lethal. This is not Kew Gardens, mydear.”

I was silenced into appreciating the black bean soup.

So, every morning I accompanied Juan to his offices by the breeding-pens and from there I walked, equipped with drinking-water and reeking in Autan, to look for pictures to paint. I learned not to sit on the track where passing vehicles whipped up dustclouds to smear my brilliant colours. Instead I braved the immensity of space, fighting to keep my brush steady when seven Nelore bulls encircled me, their combined tonnage an awesome counterpoint to the lightness of their tread. They disappeared mysteriously to drown in extensive pastures. I heeded Juan’s advice when three barefoot cowboys rode up swiftly, laughing in curiosity, and inclined my head in a formal nod of greeting. These tough Llaneros can write their names and are the fathers of schoolchildren, yet they feel excluded from the modern world. They assemble in their best suits on pay-day to see The Don Juan because he can explain what is written, otherwise the bank clerks may not honour their cheques. For it was he, the fair and courteous el mister, who had talked his way out of danger when the military, without notice or explanation, invaded his hacienda. The Don Juan ruled O.K.

Possibly related posts: (automatically generated)
Naked Amongst the Guzerat

Comments»

no comments yet - be the first?


LogoAlexa CounterFeedBurner Counter