Ok, this is kind of a hard fact for me to reckon with but I am jobless. I have been since I left Colombia because that job wasn't giving me what I wanted. I felt I was putting a lot in and not getting much in return. And now I'm just around, living in Venezuela, learning about people and myself. My journey up until this point has been relatively fulfilling, first school and working in the summers, then working at the lab, reffing, tutoring, coaching, and then teaching. But the truth is that I haven't been this "free" since I was 17; and further, I haven't been this poor since then either. So my next job will most definitely not be something I can be picky about, if it puts money in the hands of my loans and debts, then it works for me. However, what I want to focus on today is WORK in general. What thoughts people have on its purpose in our lives as both Americans and Venezuelans (and people of the world). How do I view work in my life and what do I hope to find in it and give to the world through it?
I had a very enlightening converstaion with a good friend the other day about working and money. They gave me a great perspective on what they find important about work and also what they leave at work and really live. We had been talking about why it is important to them to work, their reason being money, the ability to pay for things around their house and to buy things when they wanted without asking their partner for money. Basically, they worked out of necessity to bring in income to provide for the family. They don't especially like or dislike their job, and they dislike bringing work home or talking to people at parties about their work or answering questions about work matters during social events. They work standard hours and hardly ever stay later than necessary at work. Sounds like plenty of people we know right? Work doesn't form part of their identity (or any giant part). They live, and identify themselves (for the most part, it seems) by their other relationships, family, likes, and accomplishments of their life and their kids' lives. I like that, I get that. But what about me?
It seems to me that during the early adult years of our lives, we spend a lot of time, energy, and money educating ourselves (or not), trying to attain something better than minimum wage, whether it's from social pressure, parental pressure, or just a drive to do something satisfying for 40 hours a week to put money in our bank accounts. We do internships, presentations, interviews, and standardized tests to get into positions that lead to promotions which, part by part, give us a CV full of experiences; something to show. And after all that work that we put in, is that a big part of who we are? I think so, but I can't be sure. There is a lot of time in there spent with others, relationships and spirituality and dreams and goals not pertaining to great careers.
This question is haunting me particularly right now because I'm in limbo. In response to the question "what do you do?" my answer is honestly, "try to learn Spanish and enjoy Venezuelan culture." I'm not ashamed, I feel young and limitless (though less limitless than when I was in college, as the post college realization that every choice made in one direction cuts off other paths or specializations and in the end, I can't actually be ANYTHING). I feel excited, though it's speckled with realizations of the need to really work for the things that make me excited. And I feel like identity is more than a job. I am more than what I do or don't do to make money. I am more than just some schlub on a couch in Venezuela living out an extended vacation. I am a learner, an adventurer, a listener, an understander, a dreamer, a wonderer, and a writer.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Living History
Caracas Country Club. One of the oldest golf clubs in Venezuela, born in 1918 and named so in 1922. It sits in the middle of the city of Caracas in segments, separated by houses and streets. A player passes through tall fences topped by razorwire and guarded by police in order to move onto the next hole. The view of the mountains on most of the holes is spectacular. The price of joining is spectacular. In addition to its history and beauty, it's also a source of controversy, according to an article published in the NYTimes in December. Many private companies have been seized by Hugo Chavez's government in the name of its Socialist Revolution, and Chavez is quoted saying something along the lines of "if the Country Club doesn't help out the poor by giving up land or helping to house those displaced in floods earlier this year, the government will force it." (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/12/28/world/americas/28venez.html). However, lucky for me, nothing like this has been done so far and I got to walk the 18 gorgeous holes today in a practice round of golf with Jose, Pedro, and Yoni as they prepared to play in a tournement at this prestigious establishment beginning tomorrow.
As we drove back from the beach city of Rio Chico on Sunday (or rather as the chauffer drove), I was told that the barrio of Caracas is the largest in South America. Ranchos (shacks) cover the sides of 2 or 3 mountains, one upon the other with a stairway leading from the bottom as the only noticable means of scaling the impoverished dwellings. The brightly colored squares blanket the natural beauty of Caracas' mountains and seem to occupy a square of the city, looking down on central Caracas in the valley (Country Club included) and facing the other mountains where the houses are much bigger, much more expensive (I don't think you have to pay to live in a rancho), and much more secure (walls, fences, electric fences, razorwire etc). It's compelling to look out across the valley and see the other. They're so close, but really so far, physically, socioeconomically, and I think ideally. I'm not sure the emphasis that is put on education in barrios, or the availability of good education, but I do know someone who rose out of one of the worst barrios in Rio de Janiero, so I like to think that hard work, perserverence, and intelligence can get a person out of poverty. What's funny also is that many billboards displaying Chavez's "Socialist feats" and propaganda are located here including Chavez-philic graffiti.
One last thing that's caught my attention, and made me sort of glad that I don't have a working phone: in the car yesterday Pedro's mom warned us to hide our phones at one of the stoplights. "Here they rob phones" she said. And in the car no one puts their phone or purse in plain sight and especially not with a window down. One must always be on their guard, and if I had anything of value I would be so tired of keeping my things close to me. Even when I carry a bag I'm reminded not to put it behind me because someone could easily grab it. I suppose being a gringa makes me even more of a target, but I haven't gotten any second glances yet. Such a strange mindset, I'm still getting used to it. I think it's part Big City, and part Caracas. Maybe 70-30 (Caracas 70). Anyway, it's so beautiful. And who needs a phone anyway? ;)
As we drove back from the beach city of Rio Chico on Sunday (or rather as the chauffer drove), I was told that the barrio of Caracas is the largest in South America. Ranchos (shacks) cover the sides of 2 or 3 mountains, one upon the other with a stairway leading from the bottom as the only noticable means of scaling the impoverished dwellings. The brightly colored squares blanket the natural beauty of Caracas' mountains and seem to occupy a square of the city, looking down on central Caracas in the valley (Country Club included) and facing the other mountains where the houses are much bigger, much more expensive (I don't think you have to pay to live in a rancho), and much more secure (walls, fences, electric fences, razorwire etc). It's compelling to look out across the valley and see the other. They're so close, but really so far, physically, socioeconomically, and I think ideally. I'm not sure the emphasis that is put on education in barrios, or the availability of good education, but I do know someone who rose out of one of the worst barrios in Rio de Janiero, so I like to think that hard work, perserverence, and intelligence can get a person out of poverty. What's funny also is that many billboards displaying Chavez's "Socialist feats" and propaganda are located here including Chavez-philic graffiti.
One last thing that's caught my attention, and made me sort of glad that I don't have a working phone: in the car yesterday Pedro's mom warned us to hide our phones at one of the stoplights. "Here they rob phones" she said. And in the car no one puts their phone or purse in plain sight and especially not with a window down. One must always be on their guard, and if I had anything of value I would be so tired of keeping my things close to me. Even when I carry a bag I'm reminded not to put it behind me because someone could easily grab it. I suppose being a gringa makes me even more of a target, but I haven't gotten any second glances yet. Such a strange mindset, I'm still getting used to it. I think it's part Big City, and part Caracas. Maybe 70-30 (Caracas 70). Anyway, it's so beautiful. And who needs a phone anyway? ;)
Friday, July 15, 2011
Not Fact, Not Fiction
Disclaimer: the things that come out of my mind through my fingers aren't researched pieces of scientific evidence and have not been read and corrected by a panel of peer experts. They're just things that I think about, bad and good and crazy and weird, and I am unsure if you'll like all of them. Or any of them. But that's the way things go.
The past few days I've spent quite a bit of time at La Lagunita Golf Club in Caracas, walking and watching golf, taking pictures, eating, sitting by the pool, and talking to people who happen to want to talk to me. The golf community is pretty small in this mammoth city and most of the players know each other from other tournements. The tournement staff (at least the man that I talked to) even knows which country clubs whose parents belong to and their families. At least a few of all of the people either playing or running the tournement have spent significant amounts of time abroad (a year of highschool, a university education, or a stint in the LPGA) and plenty of them are willing to say hi to me in English. :) A funny but warm novelty for me, words I don't have to conciously open my ears to understand.
Over the past week I have been feeling ENLIGHTENED with the gift of tongues. I have been able to understand about 60% of things said, sometimes more, and sometimes less when I turn my ears off. If the Spanish is clear and without too much slang I can understand (now only to RESPOND!). Despite my one-sided conversational ability, it feels good to not be searching in the dark with a keychain flashlight for meaning anymore. Now I have a stadium sized light, and I feel much more confident in my presence with a group. It's a strange thing to be sitting with people who are talking to each other and have no idea what's going on; there's a feeling of helplessness and stupidity. I'm feeling that less and less. Plus, when I don't understand I just ask. This way there's no question of my intention, I'm here to learn and I want to communicate. I refuse to be one of those foreigners who wants everyone to speak to them in English, though honestly sometimes it's hard not to feel like this, espceially when that helpless feeling sets in.
This weekend we're headed to the beach, I think for another golf extravaganza and some sun. I'm told I need to protect myself from two things: UV rays and friendly strangers wanting to steal my things. I am truly enjoying Venezuela.
La Lagunita as described by Yahoo!Travel:
The past few days I've spent quite a bit of time at La Lagunita Golf Club in Caracas, walking and watching golf, taking pictures, eating, sitting by the pool, and talking to people who happen to want to talk to me. The golf community is pretty small in this mammoth city and most of the players know each other from other tournements. The tournement staff (at least the man that I talked to) even knows which country clubs whose parents belong to and their families. At least a few of all of the people either playing or running the tournement have spent significant amounts of time abroad (a year of highschool, a university education, or a stint in the LPGA) and plenty of them are willing to say hi to me in English. :) A funny but warm novelty for me, words I don't have to conciously open my ears to understand.
Over the past week I have been feeling ENLIGHTENED with the gift of tongues. I have been able to understand about 60% of things said, sometimes more, and sometimes less when I turn my ears off. If the Spanish is clear and without too much slang I can understand (now only to RESPOND!). Despite my one-sided conversational ability, it feels good to not be searching in the dark with a keychain flashlight for meaning anymore. Now I have a stadium sized light, and I feel much more confident in my presence with a group. It's a strange thing to be sitting with people who are talking to each other and have no idea what's going on; there's a feeling of helplessness and stupidity. I'm feeling that less and less. Plus, when I don't understand I just ask. This way there's no question of my intention, I'm here to learn and I want to communicate. I refuse to be one of those foreigners who wants everyone to speak to them in English, though honestly sometimes it's hard not to feel like this, espceially when that helpless feeling sets in.
This weekend we're headed to the beach, I think for another golf extravaganza and some sun. I'm told I need to protect myself from two things: UV rays and friendly strangers wanting to steal my things. I am truly enjoying Venezuela.
La Lagunita as described by Yahoo!Travel:
La Lagunita Country Club is basically a golf, tennis and swimming club. It is the most ambitiously designed golf club in Caracas. It was built at the same time as La Lagunita, a housing project aimed at the successful businessmen, TV actors and so on who make up the city´s noveau riche. You can also practice paragliding and rock climbing at the club. It is located near El Hatillo, a little colonial town that has become part of outer Caracas.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Una vaina loca
I'm sitting on a terrace overlooking a city of multi-colored apartments tucked into a valley surrounded by tall, green mountains. I see the mountains to my left, closest to the airport, blanketed with ranchos, small, vibrantly colored shacks, stacked one upon the next. How do the people living there even find their own houses with so much chaos and stacking? The sky in front of me is clear and things look clean and beautiful from this height and then I see the fences surround the house, and the next house, and the one after that. I see the circles of barbed wire and electric fences lining the beautiful houses of this mountain that is so close, but obviously so far from the mountain of poverty. Welcome to Caracas.
With me on the terrace are two people, Jose and Mrs. Oviedo (the dona of the house). We begin talking about Mrs. O's son's trip to the US embassy tomorrow in order to get his visa to study in California this upcoming fall. The paperwork, she says, is two inches thick, and in order to get money out of the country of Venezuela, Venezuelan citizens need to go through an office called Cadivi. Cadivi restrics the amount of money leaving Venezuela by setting requirments depending on destination. On a trip to the US, a Venezuelan can take around $1,500. To Colombia, $3,000. To Iran, maybe up to $5,000. In this way, Venezuelan's are forced to keep their money in Venezuela. Even credit card charges are restricted by Venezuelan banks according to the mandates of Cadivi. In addition to these Venezuelan rules, in order to gain entrance into the university, the family must show evidence of available funds, meaning income statements, bank statements, titles to houses, businesses, and property. Tomorrow, her son will leave the house at 8:30am to make sure traffic doesn't make him late to his 11:00am appointment at the US embassy where he will wait in line and then go over the paperwork with an official. He is hoping to leave the embassy by 3pm.
I am stuck by the difficulty of things that I have never thought twice about in Minnesota. I have never questioned whether or not my credit card would work in Europe, China, or South America. I have never been so struck by poverty nor so overwhelmed by beauty and garbage at the same time. I have never thought about paying hundreds of dollars to compile papers, make dates with an embassy, translate documents, in order to get an education. And at the same time, while I feel so lucky that those things are easy in my country, so straightforward and transparent, I feel like there is something in the spirit of the people here that I haven't seen before. The knowledge and the acceptance and the experience of poverty and inequality and frustration and shadow and perserverence is something not many of my American counterparts have ever experienced outside a National Geographic commercial or news report. It's difficult to step back and realize that my sheltered existence in the US, China, Europe, Mexico, Dominican Republic, the world, my life in a bubble, has never given me the wariness, distrust, determination, or fire that many people here have. And this is the real world. Or part of it. Because Rochester is the real world too. Now the question is how do I exist in both?
With me on the terrace are two people, Jose and Mrs. Oviedo (the dona of the house). We begin talking about Mrs. O's son's trip to the US embassy tomorrow in order to get his visa to study in California this upcoming fall. The paperwork, she says, is two inches thick, and in order to get money out of the country of Venezuela, Venezuelan citizens need to go through an office called Cadivi. Cadivi restrics the amount of money leaving Venezuela by setting requirments depending on destination. On a trip to the US, a Venezuelan can take around $1,500. To Colombia, $3,000. To Iran, maybe up to $5,000. In this way, Venezuelan's are forced to keep their money in Venezuela. Even credit card charges are restricted by Venezuelan banks according to the mandates of Cadivi. In addition to these Venezuelan rules, in order to gain entrance into the university, the family must show evidence of available funds, meaning income statements, bank statements, titles to houses, businesses, and property. Tomorrow, her son will leave the house at 8:30am to make sure traffic doesn't make him late to his 11:00am appointment at the US embassy where he will wait in line and then go over the paperwork with an official. He is hoping to leave the embassy by 3pm.
I am stuck by the difficulty of things that I have never thought twice about in Minnesota. I have never questioned whether or not my credit card would work in Europe, China, or South America. I have never been so struck by poverty nor so overwhelmed by beauty and garbage at the same time. I have never thought about paying hundreds of dollars to compile papers, make dates with an embassy, translate documents, in order to get an education. And at the same time, while I feel so lucky that those things are easy in my country, so straightforward and transparent, I feel like there is something in the spirit of the people here that I haven't seen before. The knowledge and the acceptance and the experience of poverty and inequality and frustration and shadow and perserverence is something not many of my American counterparts have ever experienced outside a National Geographic commercial or news report. It's difficult to step back and realize that my sheltered existence in the US, China, Europe, Mexico, Dominican Republic, the world, my life in a bubble, has never given me the wariness, distrust, determination, or fire that many people here have. And this is the real world. Or part of it. Because Rochester is the real world too. Now the question is how do I exist in both?
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Step by Step
Sometimes I think about exactly what I'm doing, and I get really scared. I compare my choices and my skills with those of others I deem successful and I wonder how I missed the boat. I wonder how I got here, how I'm staying afloat, how I can make something from what I have. And I just don't know. So I don't think about it. But sometimes I do.
I am staying with a lovely family in Venezuela. They listen to my slow stories speckled with the wrong verb tenses and heavily accented. They cook me food and genuinely care if I like it, at least they always ask. They like that I have opinions (though, as I've already conceeded, I know hardly anything), and they like showing me their world. But I'm still trying to figure out my role in that world. I'm still trying to figure out how to live and learn and listen without being pushy, indignant, and tired. I'm trying to be appreciative and helpful. I'm trying to tell them that I love that they're taking care of me like their child without turning into a child and expecting to be taken care of. I'm trying to love in Spanish; I'm trying to understand love in Spanish.
It was a full weekend with Jose winning a golf tournament, playing golf again Sunday and going to the pool, visiting a national park and one of the largest caves in South America, seeing a coffee farm, drinking homemade amaretto, playing word games and waiting a whole morning for some guys in tee-shirts (unofficial workers) to put some power-lines up so we could get electricity again. Today, it looks rainy, but I'm sure we'll get to the golf course if not just to hit a few balls and exercise (aka stairmaster). The next few weeks are going to be jam packed with travel and excitement and new words and foods and sights and sounds. I only hope I can find time to write, time to think, time to find a place in all the ruckus.
I am staying with a lovely family in Venezuela. They listen to my slow stories speckled with the wrong verb tenses and heavily accented. They cook me food and genuinely care if I like it, at least they always ask. They like that I have opinions (though, as I've already conceeded, I know hardly anything), and they like showing me their world. But I'm still trying to figure out my role in that world. I'm still trying to figure out how to live and learn and listen without being pushy, indignant, and tired. I'm trying to be appreciative and helpful. I'm trying to tell them that I love that they're taking care of me like their child without turning into a child and expecting to be taken care of. I'm trying to love in Spanish; I'm trying to understand love in Spanish.
It was a full weekend with Jose winning a golf tournament, playing golf again Sunday and going to the pool, visiting a national park and one of the largest caves in South America, seeing a coffee farm, drinking homemade amaretto, playing word games and waiting a whole morning for some guys in tee-shirts (unofficial workers) to put some power-lines up so we could get electricity again. Today, it looks rainy, but I'm sure we'll get to the golf course if not just to hit a few balls and exercise (aka stairmaster). The next few weeks are going to be jam packed with travel and excitement and new words and foods and sights and sounds. I only hope I can find time to write, time to think, time to find a place in all the ruckus.
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