Even the gruff, lovable James McMurtry can be coaxed into a church ( St. David’s, in Austin) by Strings Attached, a quartet bringing excellent musicians together with jazz-influenced backsound.
Just a quick note that the Alamo Drafthouse and Foleyvision are showing 
Darna, the Filipina Wonder Woman with all sound produced live in the theater. A great experience in bad cinema, and not to be missed.
I was trepidacious about heading off to Venezuela. I trepidated frequently and rapidly, often ten times in a few minutes, making the laundry, dishes, and cleaning up as impossible as possible.
But the trip would mean seeing an old friend: Clint Rickards, an Australian who had been giving unreputable degrees of shame to many parts of South America for the better part of a year. He had taught English in Ecuador, went Crabbing in Columbia, Pissed all over Peru, and now was Vaulting through Venezuela. I bought my ticket and packed my bags lightly — we would be travelling far and fast, with no time for delays, dilly-dallying, or even Dale Evans.
Late on the 30th of January, I arrived in Marquieta airport on the outskirts of Caracas. Marquieta is famous for two things — getting mugged at the airport fresh off the plane, and having the world’s most unlikely shaped potato as it’s mascot. Okay, actually, it’s not famous for the second. I made that up.
After passing through customs, there Clint was, smiling, trim, and a bit out of place — like a merino sheep in a telenova. But it was good to see him. Clint Rickards is a smart, funny man with a criminal mind, a masterful sense of direction, and perhaps the second best cribbage player in the Western Hemisphere.
He’s also invaluable on my trip. My Spanish is inexcusably bad, and not having been to South America before, I don’t know my way around. Clint is a pro: he can lead us, find a place to stay, and haggle with the cabbies. He can’t haggle successfully, just haggle. But that’s okay, the cabbies in Caracas are all a bunch of corrupt assholes anyway.
In Henri Pittier National Park, we hit our stride. Henri Pittier National Park is a lovely stretch of mountain rain-forests, where the Andes meet the Carribbean. It’s named after the famous Venezuelan explorer and ornithologist, Henri Pittier National Park. Originially, the President wanted to call it Henri Pittier National Park National Park, but that would be rediculous.
After a two-hour, reggaeton bus ride of death over switchback mountains on one-lane roads, we end up in Puerto Columbia, a tiny seaside town that swells with (mostly Venezuelan) tourists over the holidays. Clint finds us a reasonable (but overpriced) posada to stay out, and I dub our host “Nuestra Abuella” which is Spanish for little-old-lady-who-farts-a-lot.
We celebrate New Years Venezuelan-style: with lots of fireworks in the hands of underaged kids in a crowded plaza with no visible safety devices anywhere around. But that’s okay, this is, after all, a Catholic country, and any children killed as a result of improper pyrotecnics will be replaced shortly. We saw a few fingers and thumbs lying around, but nothing that justifies stopping the fun.
At night, the plaza by the bay swells with people, drinking, dancing, drumming, and buying henna tattoos. Our friend Chona gives Rachel a free Che Guevara tattoo. Rachel and Caroline are a lovely couple from Newtown (Sydney), and Rachel is a devout communist, and she’s fallen madly (and platonically) in love with Hugo Chavez. But more on that later. The important thing to know is that Rachel’s first questions to you are likely to be “Do they allow gay marriage in your country?” and “What’s the state of the communist party in your country?”
I also chat with a Russian geographer studying in California … I’ve forgotten his name, so let’s call him Ted. A chatty Venezuelan woman comes over and tells me her life story, and I meet her nephew, who is much more interested in the women in tight skirts and fireworks than anything I have to say. Can’t say that I blame him.
Philadelphia, an American traveller from Pennsylvania, and James, an English English teacher, round out the group.
The actual New Years moment actually happened about 4 times between 11:30 and 12:30… because none of us had a proper watch. But what better way to celebrate a new year, a new chance to fix the wrongs and grievances of the past? Of course, I said a brief ‘thank you’ to 2005, which, after all, wasn’t that bad of a year. I’ve always been upset by the ‘what-have-you-done-for-me-lately?’ attitude that new years bring, so why not temper our new year with the sepia-colored memories of the past?
After 2am, Clint and I return to battle over cribbage. I don’t remember exactly who won… well, what the hell, it was me.
The next day, or rather, later that day, James, Rachel, Caroline, Clint and myself gather our wits at breakfast over deayuna criollo and rent a fishing boat to a remote beach. It’s sunny, perfect weather. The water is warm, the beer is cold, and the fish is fresh, a crispy feller with plantains and questionable cole slaw.
James, I should say, is a great person, an interesting guy to talk to, and someone who has a firm grasp on Caracas and Caraquenos. It also happened that Jan 2 is his 33rd birthday, so under much celebration, we went to Mango, a fancy new restaurant with loads of good food. Then, with piles of cake and ice cream, the poor boy was forced to dine under the unwilling duress of one of my poems, appropriately titled, “James”:
Who is twice as humble as he claims?
James!Who never got to play any reindeer games?
James!Who made the Titanic go down in flames?
James!Who heals the sick and cures the… lames?
James!And, on this we all agree,
you’re turning 33,
so have a happy birthday!James!
The next morning, Clint and I straddled a poor taxi back to Maracay, and then found dubious other transport to Valencia, Barquisimeto, and the over night to Merida.
