Pride makes a strange
meal
Greetings all,
Responsibility once
again rears its dragon-like head and causes me delays in my writing. I am two
hours behind my usual starting time and still juggling "have-to's"
and "want-to's". Such is life, you just deal with it.
Like the sun's defiant
rays jabbing through the clouds, however briefly... For the Win! They cause a
smile.
The weather will be
almost wintery today with a high of 40 icy little Fahrenheits, under icky
(technical weather jargon) overcast skies and a cold and sloppy mixture of rain
and snow. Winds will blow up your skirt from the North at a gusty 40 mph. This
is NOT bikinis in the kiddy pool weather!
All of this winter
talk makes me want to think of something warmer, like heading south; Venezuela
perhaps.
While in the U.S. Navy
I did have occasion to visit the city of Santiago de Leon de Caracas, or
as we know it in our country, Caracas, Venezuela.
Pride makes a strange
meal
It was the spring of
1984 and I was an air traffic controller aboard the USS America. We were
participating in "Exercise Ocean Venture" in
the Caribbean Sea in preparation for our departure across the
Atlantic for duty in the Mediterranean Sea and beyond.
This phase of the big
exercise was over and we were scheduled to go to Cartagena, Columbia for a port
visit. At least we were, until just a few hours before we dropped anchor. It
was a purposeful ruse; there were groups who wanted to cause us trouble waiting
for us in Cartagena and we needed to fool them.
I knew that we didn't
want to have a repeat of what happened in Greece in 1982 where 10,000 members
of their communist party met us at the port city of Piraeus. That was a very
ugly and dangerous time for both the American military crew, and the local
Greek citizens who were just trying to make a living.
Along with a few other
members of the CATCC (Carrier Air Traffic Control Center) crew, I had decided
to risk the local bus trip through the mountains from the port of La
Guaira to Caracas. It was only seven miles or so, but had
been known to have bandit problems, (or so our Lieutenant claimed). There was
also the concern about being able to catch the right bus coming back, which was
always a concern in any port visit.
Being the only person
in the group who had any knowledge of South America at all, I was looked at as
the "local expert" and questioned on the dangers.
My first caution to
them (knowing this group as well as I did) was to tell them, "ALL of the hookers
in Caracas have diseases!" After visiting the port of Mombasa, Kenya in
1983, and witnessing one of our own lose his manly bits to disease, you would
think that they would listen to advice. Would hearing it from me make a
difference to them? Probably not, they had their “sailor image” to live up to.
I had also warned my
friends to heed the well published, “don’t drink the water” instructions,
taking it further telling them to not drink any water that wasn’t from a bottle
opened in front of them. It was common practice in many areas to "refill
and serve" bottles of water from the local tap. This gave the illusion to
tourists that they were drinking purified water, while saving the vendor money.
I stressed to them
that it was vitally important to stay out of the water, be it
swimming, wading, crossing, or splashing. The local rivers and streams were
known to harbor blood parasites and they were serious business. You couldn’t
see them, or feel them, but within twenty-four hours or so they would make
their presence known in most unpleasant ways.
The waters were also
rumored to host a tiny fish called the “toothpick fish” or more properly candiru.
This tiny fish is well known to the indigenous people of the Amazon Basin
(farther south) and you do not want to be introduced to it. If you want to know
more about it, just search for "candiru" and I promise that you will
have your legs crossed by the time you finish reading.
Today the area has
efficient buses and even a subway in the city. At the time of our visit in 1984
everything was perpetually under construction, (according to the locals.) Many of
the projects were started in 1983 and with the usual politics and conflicts
delaying progress; it took years to finish them.
The motorway (similar
in appearance to USA Interstates) from Guairá to Caracas had multiple lanes for
traffic, but at that time (due to construction) only one lane each way was open
for business.
Our bus was barely a
step up from the rural "chicken bus" that you see in movies (and is a
very real thing, I have ridden them.) Fortunately we didn't have to share our
seats with livestock on that trip, but it was still a smelly experience. I don’t
think the bus had been cleaned in a long time.
Because we had learned
our lessons the hard way in other countries, we questioned the bus driver
before we got off, about the where and when to catch a return bus.
We got the Venezuelan
version of a definite maybe, "Quiza.” Which translated meant,
perhaps. OK, so “maybe” we could find a bus back, and maybe we could catch a
cab. Quiza indeed!
Not letting minor details
stop you is something I learned early on in my travels. We scattered out across
the city with a plan to meet back at the location where we "debarked"
(got off the bus), at a set hour. We did have enough experience in wandering
about in strange places to always travel in pairs or more. There truly is
safety in numbers, it isn’t just a saying.
My amigo and I set off
for the Las Mercedes district, known for its shops and galleries
and the newly constructed Paseo Las Mercedes shopping mall.
That's right, a shopping mall, American capitalism had invaded Caracas!
We walked for hours up
and down city streets, talking with those people who easily recognized us as
Americans and were willing to speak English to us. We both spoke a bit of
Spanish, but I was very hesitant to give up my "edge" by making it
known that I understood their words. It had served me well all over the world
to operate this way. My companion on the other hand, was sure that he knew a
lot more Spanish than he actually did.
Along the way we
picked up an "escort" of sorts, two gentlemen in dark suits (in 90F+ heat)
who stayed well back, but went everywhere that we went. They also spoke to
everyone that we did. Given my former life in the army, this made alarm bells
go off for me. I found myself looking for exits and things to use as weapons
everywhere we went.
My buddy Frank was
oblivious to our “tail” and far more interested in trying the local beer. I
knew that the local government "suits" (government and/or police) at
least had sense enough to wear light colored clothing and hats. So that begged
the question, “Who were these clowns?”
There is much more to
tell about this adventure than I can put in a short daily blog, so I will cut
to the title event and perhaps if there is sufficient interest I will write a
longer, more complete version.
We were hungry and in
search of a meal, preferably one that we could sit down to enjoy and had
reasonable expectations of being safe to consume. To that I end I suggested the
restaurant inside a big hotel that served international guests, the
Intercontinental.
Our dining attire was a
bit "understated" shall we say, being blue jeans and sneakers. At
least we had button up collared shirts on, which helped soften the look "a
little". I was just glad that we were not there at evening meal
time.
Americans feel that
they can go anywhere looking like they just stepped off of the ball field, or
the beach and that should be good enough. The common gringo attitude being, "Hey,
you want my money, or what?" Never mind, it would take too long to
explain.
The gentleman who
greeted and seated us was tre elegant! He was the Maitre d', and
superbly dressed in a tuxedo with not a speck of dust on it, and not a hair on
his head out of place. His manners were impeccable, and his accent barely
perceptible as he spoke perfect American English (there is a
difference) to us as he held our chairs and handed us menus.
Frank never heard a
word that either of us said as he was lost in his own world, gawking at the décolletage
of a beautiful woman seated at the next table. Our host deftly maneuvered himself
around to hand Frank his menu and blocked the view, as much for the young
lady's comfort as to bring my companion back to earth.
I ordered two
bottles of agua con gas (carbonated water) for us to
drink, as it was apparent that Frank had had enough beer already. The menu had
different sections with different languages in it, the primary being Spanish,
as that was the majority of their clientele's language.
My friend took my
ordering of the water in that way, (agua
con gas) as a requirement for speaking Spanish, and proceeded to ONLY speak
his version of the language. A version which I am afraid would make his teacher
want to issue a retroactive failing grade. I was embarrassed, but a little
stuck too. So I ordered a carne dish and smiled my apology to
the waiter as Frank took over.
I looked around at the
fabulous decor when Frank was speaking, really trying to look anywhere but at
the waiter to hide my embarrassment. That was, until I heard the word anguila spoken
as my friend read it off of the menu. "Medallones de Anguila",
the waiter read back questioningly, and Frank nodded his silly head like a
bobble-head doll.
I asked Frank if he was
sure that he knew what he had ordered. He loudly said, "Hell yeah,
Steak!" Frank then pointed to the listing under "Pescado",
which generally meant fish, but also related to other things from the sea which
are caught and served. I debated trying to point out that beef steak entries
would not be found listed under a seafood or fish heading, but it just didn’t
seem worth the effort at that point.
A few minutes more and
the Maitre d' came to our table and speaking in beautiful English (one of the seven
languages that he spoke fluently), asked us again if my friend knew what he
ordered, as he did not want us to be unhappy with our meal. Frank puffed up
like a peacock and got indignant at the idea, asking if our host thought that
we were ignorant and could only speak "American." The gentleman,
obviously never one to get ruffled smiled graciously and said, "As you
wish senor," and walked away.
And so it was a far
greater surprise for Frank than it was for me, when his plate of eels (anguila)
arrived, on fire and being escorted by the Maitre d', along with most of the
other waiters, and a couple of guests who had heard about the order and wanted
to see what happened.
With great ceremony
the creatures were expertly beheaded, split in half lengthwise, and served
onto a plate of noodles in front of my, to use a British slang term, "gob
smacked" friend. His mouth was completely opened as if in a scream that
wouldn't quite come out, and his eyes were fixed in that "deer-in-the-headlights"
stare. My world for a camera!
Being an American and
never willing to admit defeat in any circumstance, my friend took up knife and
fork and stabbed a piece of anguila and cut off a big chunk and plopped it in
his mouth like he meant to do this all along.
The crowd around us
cheered him on and walked away to go back to what they were doing. Frank chewed
that piece of eel for a few minutes and finally got it swallowed. His eyes told
the story that his mouth would not.
I ate my quite
excellent meal in silence, and tried not to look at the ghastly eel mess on my
dining companion’s plate. After letting Frank push his meal around the plate
for a while I asked him if he was ready to go. The boy nearly turned his chair
over in his haste to depart.
We paid the bill,
which was very little money by American standards (less than two meals at
McDonald’s.) I also left a generous tip on the table which is seldom done there
I am told (not the custom), and we left the building. Around the very first
corner that we turned my friend lost his lunch in an alley, and a lot of beer
with it. Ah, the joys of traveling with sailors!
I guess anguila didn't
agree with him.
We have all heard the
saying that it is tough to swallow your pride.
It appears that pride
truly does make for a strange meal and is very tough to swallow, and
apparently, it’s even harder to keep down.
Epilogue
The return trip to our
rendezvous point was largely uneventful and mostly required dragging a now lethargic
Frank along by the jacket. He “decorated” the bus floor with more foul smelling
eel and beer on the way back to port, just to add to the ambiance. I truly felt
sorry for whoever had to clean that bus, assuming that they ever did so.
There were other
things about that trip that could be written, but that would require a “reader’s
request” to get me to tell the rest of the story. The tale about being too
proud to admit that you don’t know something has been told.
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