At Play in the Fields of the Warao

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I turn down the poker game at the Lodge that night to prepare for the reason we’re here - a weeklong jungle adventure deep into the heart of the Orinoco Delta. We’d be leaving at 5am, packing light into dry bags. Accommodation would consist of hammocks, meals of camping basics, or whatever we can catch. The second largest river drainage system after the Amazon, the Orinoco has an average temperature of 27C degrees, and is 25,000 square kilometres of unspoilt, undeveloped eco-system, protected, owned and inhabited by the indigenous Warao people. But first, we’d have to get there, and in hot-blooded Latin America, this can become an adventure unto itself. All is well racing along the highway, until suddenly, the cars in front stop moving, which is never a healthy sign for a highway. Chris pulls the Land Cruiser across into the oncoming lanes and makes his way at a steady pace into oncoming traffic, passing hundreds of stationery cars on the right. But then, this lane becomes choked too. There is a demonstration up ahead, a village has blocked the road to protest lack of civil services. Apparently, this is quite normal. Since the car isn’t going anywhere, now’s the perfect time to drive into the world of the continent’s most controversial political leader, the outspoken never-a-dull-moment Venezuelan president, Hugo Chavez.

You may have heard of him. He’s the guy who waved a Noam Chomsky book in front of the UN and compared George W. Bush to the Devil himself. He’s best buds of Fidel Castro, a huge critic of the US hegemony, the rare meeting of a left wing radical with pockets so full of oil he can put his money where his mouth is. All around the country, large billboards of Chavez shadow the streets, graffiti and T-shirts comparing Chavez to Che Guevara, the ultimate symbol of the radical revolutionary. With one of the richest oil reserves in the world, Chavez is not dependant on the US business to float his empire, and is not afraid to say so. With Morales from Bolivia and Lula in Brazil, he’s the spark behind the leftwing nationalistic fire that is sweeping Latin America, much to the horror of US business interests, which would prefer everyone just stay at home, watch Friends, and buy a new blender. Instead, Hugo’s channelling massive oil profits back into the country, which explains why a litre of gas in Venezuela costs a staggering 5c, or 2.5c if you use blackmarket prices. Chris fills up the 50litre Land Cruiser and it costs $3. Go Hugo!
Except, wait, what’s this, Hugo shuts down the largest and most popular independently run TV station in the country for criticising his policies. And now he wants to be El Presidente for life. These are not the signs of healthy democratic regime, which might explain why intellectuals and students are peacefully protesting in their thousands, and world media (with a wee bit of help from US business interests) is slowly but surely painting Chavez into a fruit and nut bar past its sell by date. So what’s the word on the streets in the country itself?
“I hate Chavez,” one guy tells me. “He’s tricked us all and has become power-mad. He’s going to ruin this country.”
“Chavez has done amazing things for this country,” says another. “He has given the poor a voice, improved the lives of the masses, and is putting the wealth back into the country, and not into his foreign owned bank account.”
A nation divided, the anti-Bush. Everyone has an opinion, but everyone agrees that if a vote were held tomorrow, Chavez would win by a landslide. A populist, a voice for the silent masses, no wonder the small, wealthy elite are threatened, and the Church is convulsing over Chavez’s goal to permanently split the Church and State in this Roman Catholic country. He’s pissing off the people who are benefitting from the status quo, in which millions live without running water or electricity, and dozens of people get murdered in the slums that border Caracas every weekend. Chris is on the fence, but has definitely seen improvement from Chavez’s policies on the local villages around him. So very few of the right people step onto the historical political stage at the right time. Mandela, Ghandi, Churchill. Most arrive with good intentions, and leave bloated with fat bank accounts. Chavez, a military man, who spent time in jail after a previously failed coup, who had his own TV show, who is cozying up the enemies of the USA because the enemy of my enemy is my friend - well, we’re going to have to wait and see what becomes of him. In the meantime, there seemed little he could do to get us into the jungle, and the local governor wasn’t worth a fart in a frat house since his wife busted him in bed with his male bodyguard. Ah, Latin America.

We could try drive the old route, but with the heavy rains of late, it might be a little dicey. We fly along a cracked path until we hit a bridge, washed out in muddy brown water. Chris shifts the Cruiser in to 4×4, and decides to take a chance. Have you ever heard the sound of a sinking car? Or seen water rise above the windows? He’s revving it and we’re screaming and God-Help-Us if somehow we don’t find the smallest chunk of road for the tire to grip and the car lurches forward to reach the other side. Shouts of victory! High fives all round! No other cars dare attempt this sort of madness. The roads will be clear for miles! Feeling well proud of ourselves, we gun down the old road, only to find the flood had done more than wash out the bridge. Villagers were crossing the river chest high in water, saving what possessions they could as the flood wrecked havoc on their homes. We stop on the side of the highway, a family sits with a TV, a couch, a chair or two. Their homes are destroyed. Now we continue into the jungle, less proud of ourselves. Past military checkpoints, giant gas plants burning the fires of the apocalypse from tall metal chimneys, stopping to watch a family rescue an armadillo. The road is flat and unrelenting; the journey has already delivered enough action for one day. When. The car begins to throb, the engine groans, the iPod goes dead, the battery fails, and the Land Cruiser comes to a hopeless halt. The alternator has been flooded by the bridge crossing, we are stuck in the middle of nowhere, the mid-day sun is batting us hard over the head. We hail down a pick-up, and within minutes they’ve tied a piece of rope to our cruiser and are pulling us along, about two metres separating the two cars. Well and good, sure, except these guys decide to hit about 120 km/hr, overtaking big trucks on a narrow highway, and then, oh, yes, and then it starts to hail.

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