Beans and Bananas
A Rutgers Study Abroad Poetry and Prose Journal from
The Bolivarian
Republic of Venezuela
By Joseph Smalley
This travel journal consists of a series of observations that I made while participating in a Rutgers Study Abroad trip to the Northwest of Venezuela. The purpose of our trip was to study agricultural reform in the country.
In the year 2002 there was a controversial land reform law. The government decided to take measures to retrieve public land, controlled by private individuals, and redistribute it to normal farmers who previously either lived in towns or cities or worked as hired hands for low wages.
We visited a number of fundos or farms that were created as a result of these actions. Despite having legal protection, these farmers still experience difficulties that are not simply related to the variability of rainfall or the prevalence of pests. In many cases the people who previously controlled the land are still angry over the redistribution. In some cases, they employ armed guards who will shoot encroachers. Over one hundred farmers have been murdered by such guards and further, justice is not served because of a strong tie between the judicial branch of the government and the old political power (made up largely of land owners).
Also, the land is in many cases, in poor condition, left fallow for decades, over-treated with chemicals, or used to grow soil-depleting sugarcane. Farmers are trying to reinvigorate the land by using organic, agro-ecological methods. In Venezuela, organic food is not merely a dietary fad as it may seem in the U.S. Venezuelans are highly distrustful of large corporations that push chemicals that have resulted in death by poisoning. The perception is that these corporations are only superficially interested in the welfare of people around the world. Companies have genetically engineered crops to respond efficiently to chemicals, but in so doing they have alienated small-scale farmers who cannot afford expensive seeds, which are in some cases modified so as to not reproduce, thus making costly seasonal re-purchase necessary. Previously, there were myriad strains of different crops, each uniquely suited to microclimates and regional soils. Now, we can see that diversity is way down, and still more chemicals are needed to modify the soil.
Resisting such pressures, Venezuelans are re-learning tried and true practices while at the same time drawing from the knowledge of scientists. We visited “agro-ecological” schools that grant scholarships to poor young students throughout Latin America. We visited a laboratory that experiments in harvesting worm manure as a fertilizer. There was another laboratory that was raising predatory butterflies that eat maize loving pests. A farmer talked about a regional seed-exchange and donation program that aims to increase diversification and buffer seasonal budgets.
Beyond agriculture, we visited orphanages, retirement clubs, health clinics, and maternity houses. We also met with mayors, senators, organizers, ministers, and revolutionaries.
Anybody can have his or her own opinion on the Venezuelan government. The leader, Hugo Chavez, is given constant negative press in the popular media. We should not be surprised that he is so popular in his county though, especially among the marginalized because he roots for the common people and bad-mouths people who are unpopular in the third world.
La Avila Resort
After awakening to our first morning in Venezuela, we experienced unconstrained rain-clouds and heard thunder over the sound of the hotel fountain. Rare birds (to us) and moths added wonder and flowers revealed colors hidden within the black soil.
Hummingbird samples the delicate white.
Sparkling with raindrops,
We’re in a cloud!
Caracas
In the afternoon, we took part in a demonstration that was held in support of the president. Thousands attended – all wearing red. The mood swallowed our hearts and naturally, we danced and celebrated the revolution in solidarity. I too donned a Socialism cap. It read, “!el puello sigue en la calle ahora rumbo al socialismo!” All of the students were impressed by the democratic show.
Waiting in the bus after the demonstration,
A song echoes in our ears:
!Uh Ah!
Chavez no se va.
Hosteria Colonial, Yaracuy State
After a five-hour drive through the highlands, we stopped for the night in a small town at a classy inn. My companions went to check out the nightclub, but I stayed behind to meditate and watch a thunderstorm negotiate its way through unseen mountains. Falling asleep to the melodic and soothing sound of rain, I awakened to the harsh call of a rooster.
Chewed up dirt and grass,
Horses fight off flies.
Hot day,
Chicken in the shade.
The Farm: Fundo Zamorano Aracal
Later, we visited a cooperative farm that feeds one hundred and fifty families. The workers there made no fuss over the arrival of us Americans (gringos). A squall line rushed through the valley and the banana trees danced salsa.
Workers relaxing out of the rain,
Eager for it to pass,
Eager to resume the revolution.
Yaracuy State
In Yaracuy, we visited a processing facility and the manager demonstrated a bean-packaging machine. After the lesson, all were standing around talking, killing time. My legs began to tell me to sit down, so I took a spot on the floor against stockpiles that seemed to reach the ceiling. A person caught me in an act of poetry, licking my finger and tasting the dust on the ground.
Cross-legged sitting,
Precipitously perched above my head,
Forty-pound
bag – carahotas!
The Farm: Fundo Zamorano Aracal
Since we were all sitting around the lunch table in a rare moment of anti-scheduling, a few people decided to venture off along a dirty tractor route that led to the mountains. Maize was growing all around, barely four inches high. Jorge, a greasy machinist who makes repairs at the cooperative, happily walked along with us, talking in Spanish along the way to my wonderment. Our t-shirts were off and we were intent on making it to a nearby water hole – a promised land in the afternoon sun. Suddenly, Jorge whistled loudly and disappeared into a banana grove. The six of us wondered after
several minutes, where he had gone. Curious, we followed his path a bit into the grove, where the leaves were so big it was impossible to see ten feet around. We chewed on some ripe bananas that we had stumbled upon and took a few pictures of ourselves munching beneath the canopy. Finally, we heard another whistle, emerged from the grove, and walked a few yards down the path. There was Jorge, sitting in the shade, forty bananas beside him.
Ant emerges,
Overripe fruit brown spots,
American consumer pickiness.
Braulio’s[i] House
Driving at night expecting a hotel, the students became confused as our bus pulled off of the highway onto a dirt road and into the midst of a nighttime party at a shack, our unanticipated shelter for the night. Once settled in, many companions played hacky-sack with the Venezuelans who were there. Each had varying degrees of experience, but despite our skill, all laughed merrily. Soon though, hammocks were raised in our light. A couple of steps into a dark field, two friends and I gazed at the stars. We wondered about paranormal life. Strange noises persuaded us to move back to the group where we discovered some clamor over an errant frog, caught resting amongst our dirty mattresses. Though I was tired, I could not sleep so I walked back outside, feeling a bit melancholy, to view the heavens alone.
Moon slips behind a beautiful cloud,
Distant mountain.
On the other side -
the long way.
I realized how the days had been just flying by when two days later I found myself contemplating at a restaurant. There was a stage and a band that played American soft rock sung in Spanish. A new bride was called to the stage to sing a romance song to her beloved. A few of the students at our table complained because the group was mediocre. We had expected traditional Venezuelan salsa! I tried to talk to one of our guides, William, in Spanish over the loud noise. Faces looked tired around our table and I rubbed my eyes. I thought, “Before we know it, the trip will be over.”
Plateful of meat
Mustard on the side
“Yo
soy vegetariano.”
On the second to last morning, arising with the sun and wearily boarding the bus, we headed north – leaving the peasant country for a city in Carabobo province. It was a perilous drive, because our driver was so impatient. The students laughed nervously at every close call. When the bus stopped halfway through at a roadside Areperia or eatery, I stopped and joked with the driver: “Tu eres un conductor muy loco,” I said, beating at my heart with my open hand and brushing imaginary sweat off of my brow. Most on board ordered café negro grande from the stands, so when we got back on the bus, the collective mood was elevated and we all became exited. Another day in Venezuela!
Horn honking;
On-coming traffic!
Barreling through,
Do we have enough room?
Happy to have survived our drive north, our professor informed us that we would be visiting an orphanage. When we entered the happy compound, which was equipped with playthings, swings, and bright wall decorations, a worker there suggested that I sit on a couch, between a little boy and a little girl, both probably six or seven years old. I took out my paper and prepared to take notes based on the translation of the director’s introductory presentation. The kids both bent over and watched as I scribbled. Eager to interact with them, I stopped writing about the bureaucracy and drew a tree. Immediately, they snatched my book and began drawing their own trees while chatting with me in Spanish. I used whatever words I could, but tried to explain to them that I mostly speak English. Until it was time to leave, we played and shared words and I failed to follow along with the group as they toured the grounds and discussed the program. While walking back to the bus to continue our drive around, the children ran off to their swings laughing, useless to say goodbye.
Flying home
Tired and sick from the local germs, we all stumbled upon our flight back to el Estados Unidos. I chatted with a Pentecostal minister and his daughter on the plane.
“Chavez is the greatest president that Venezuela has ever had,” he exclaimed without reservation.
Seeing so many interesting social programs for myself, I could not really disagree. The plane ride was smooth. Crossing over the Caribbean, I smiled and thought about home.
30,000 feet below the window,
Towering waves, reduced.
Through the clouds.
People at Rutgers are thinking about expanding their study abroad options to undeveloped nations. You do not even have to be an enrolled student to attend. The organizer of this trip is planning other trips to Latin America. If anyone is interested, they can contact:
William Kramer:
Look at our pictures:
http://public.fotki.com/rutgersvenezuela/
Contact me:
fyshlbi@yahoo.com
iv Braulio is the equivalent of a Congressman in Venezuela, representing Yaracuy state. A true revolutionary, opposition conspirators have attempted his assassination twice. His bullet scars, including one concealed by his beard, prove it.
v Black beans.
iii I am a vegetarian. It was difficult for the five out of eleven of us who don’t eat meat. Many Venezuelans now think that fifty percent of Americans are vegetarian.