After an emotionally and physically unpleasant couple of months I woke up this morning stoked. I had spent the last night until late out on a fruit truck with some guys I met here in Merida, Venezuela. I was excited to check out the photos I had snapped. I did that over a massive breakfast of rice, beans, plantains, arepas, eggs, papaya juice, coffee, and spicy fish sauce which cost me 10Bolivares, 2 Dollars. It is hot. Everyone is up early and I look up at the snowy peaks of the Andes and I think to myself, THIS is nice.
After that I hit the street with my camera and crutches. I make it only 10 metres before the first person stops me to ask about my leg, where I´m from, how I got so tall, etc.. I answer the questions, smile, get smiled at, and move on. A man is carrying a large amount of flowers. I ask him if I can photograph him. He is flattered. He gives me one. I am spotted by a group of men playing cards in the shade. They look at me suspiciously so I approach them and disarm them with a smile and a local greeting. They smile back and invite me to play. I don´t know how.
I buy a cigarette and smoke only half of it and give the remainder to a man who wants money but will accept about anything. I witness a bus brush up against a car in the street. A large argument ensues which ends, confusingly, with the owner of the car getting on the bus and driving off. I remind myself that I am in Venezuela.
I photograph some political grafiti and a large poster of Hugo Chavez. A man asks me what I am doing. A conversation about Chavez ensues. It is fascinating.
When we finish I wander into a smoky hole in a building which turns out to be a restaurant. I grunt to indicate my desire to eat. Thick chicken soup, fresh fruit juice, wild rice, beans, plantains, and a large, messy pile of tangled and fried pork parts topped with a spicy fruit jelly. It is unbelievably delicious. 12Bolivares, or 2.35USD.
After lunch I wander into a cemetary and am attacked by dogs. I employ the standard skills anybody who has lived in Morocco for a part of their lives has; rabid dog defense. The dogs are surprised by my proficiency, back down, and later pose for pictures by the grave they guard.
I find a spot to sit and read. I kill the afternoon reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Not Venezuelan but close enough. By the time I´m done it is time to eat again. I don´t want to sit and eat so I explore the various stands, carts and stalls of Merida and order the things that scare me and impress Venezuelans. This works and I am quickly full and tired. I pour myself a rum from the Posada owners´bottle and sit on the front step until the town falls asleep.
Tomorrow I will leave Merida and go do this same thing in San Cristobal.
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