August 17th, 2006

I’m sitting in NY. Yes! in NY. At my mother’s PC and dreading the last few posts that I’m sort off supposed to write to document the end of our South American experience.

I left you in Manaus, at the end of our five day journey up the Amazon, but what came after that completely and utterly frustrated me with this continent and even though the next few weeks included an awesome six day hike to a table top mountain, Sloth (the animal, not the sin), and petting river dolphins, the troubles that intertwined leave me here, back in the States, if only for two weeks, tired, angry, and with burning desire to reeducate some South Americans on the current events in the Middle East.

Our plan was to carry on from Brazil to Venezuela, as we already had a flight from Caracas on the 12th of August. We had three weeks left for Venezuela, so we headed straight to the Venezuelan Consulate to get me a visa. Shurik, on his US passport, didn’t need one. As luck would have it, the Consulate was closed to celebrate Simon Bolivar’s birthday. Bolivar is the George Washington of South America, who freed Venezuela, Ecuador, Columbia, Peru and Bolivia from the Spanish oppression and is revered by all Venezuelans. Even the official name of the country is Republica Bolivariana de Venezuela. We had to return the next day, and were met by the guard at the gate:

-Yes?
-I would like to speak to the Consul
-Visa?
-Yes.
The guard opened the gate and let us in while asking:
-What country?
-Israel
We were already on the other side of the gate but the guard kept his hand on it in a you-are-not-staying-long gesture.
-We are giving visas only to residents of the Amazon area.

I will spare you now the details of this long and frustrating conversation, but the gist of it was that with my Israeli passport, even though this was never told to us straight forward, I will not get a visa even though I had a flight from Caracas. My only hope, the guard said, would be to get a transit visa that is given for three days only and exclusively to those who can present a paper ticket issued by the airline. My ticket, an electronic one the print proof of which I had, was not sufficient. We asked to speak with the consul but the guard refused to let us go a step further from where we were standing.

We left the office, and I was nearly in tears. Shurik couldn’t understand why was I taking it so hard, but neither could I. Just frustrated I guess. On the way back to the hostel we met two other Israelis, Natalie and Gilly, who came on the same boat from Belem to Manaus. They were too denied even the chance to make their case to the consul. Natalie and Gilly gave up right away. It is not in the Israeli spirit to do so, but I guess it is much like a Jew not to waste any time on morons and find other, better, places to spend their time. Right then and there they decided to change their route and head for Columbia. I, on the other hand had a non refundable flight and Shurik, who was very excited about climbing Roraima – a table top mountain right on the tri-border of Brazil, Venezuela, and British Guiana.

Is it three stages of grief that they say people have? Denial, anger, and acceptance? Well I have only two. Acceptance and denial not being either one of them. My two, are anger and refusal. As soon as we came back to our hostel, I bitched a bit to the other residents, but then took out my growing anger on the already beat up pots and pans in the hostel’s kitchen. Who knew that I would be the kind of woman who spills her frustrations in cooking? And after I fed practically the whole house it was time for refusal. I refuse this sort of treatment! One way or another I’m taking that flight from Caracas and, time permitting, climbing that god forsaken mountain which is unfortunate enough to be most accessible from Venezuela.

In the course of next week we wrote and called everybody. The Israeli Embassy in Venezuela, the Israeli Embassy in Brazil, the Venezuelan Consulate in Israel, and a different Venezuelan Consulate in Brazil in a nearby town. We LIVED on the internet, as it was the only place cheap enough to call from. For a week we were insulted, reassured, disappointed and promised help over and over. A tour company in a town eight hours away was promising (not very convincingly) to get me a visa, if I came there. I don’t remember such fluctuations in my emotions for a while. I felt manic, being happy and hopeful one second, and without a smidge of optimism the next. The only thing that kept us sane were spontaneous excursions into the jungle. Our unavoidable food shopping and inquiries as to transportation to places around Manaus often led us to the pier and there were small, private tour operators with nothing but a motor boat and a little photo album with pictures of what we might see on their half day trip.

It happened to be that we started our crusade for a visa on Monday, so by the time for the weekend we were completely sick of it all and escaped, like normal people do, from the mundane troubles of the big city, to the country, to Novo Airao, where we petted river dolphins and watched Ciranda, a judged colorful festival with amazing costumes and very loud music.

Right before we left for Novo Airao I also posted a cry for help on Lonely Planet’s forum – Thorn Tree, and got a private reply with a contact in Manaus, who in his turn gave me a name of a woman in the Venezuelan Consulate that I should ask to speak with and might help influence the consul. Or may be she was the consul herself? I’ll never know. In any case, we set off for the Consulate again. This time I was not going to take “No” for an answer, at least to the question of seeing the consul. All the Israeli Embassies that I’ve spoken to have assured me that the guard had no right denying me access and will issue formal complains with their international relations departments. Whoopdy-doo.

When we got to the gate, it was open. We didn’t really know how to act, but entered anyway. It would be unwise to anger the people that have any power over you, but our philosophy was: when in doubt, act dumb. And so we did. The people inside gestured us into a waiting room – a picture of Chavez, a desk, and some sofas. A man entered. It was the same guard who turned us away a week ago. I am not sure if he recognized us. I was wearing pretty mush the same thing. Easy enough of a thing to do with the limited wardrobe we have. The only differences were earrings and lipstick. I was trying to look as presentable as possible.
-I want to speak with the consul. Please.
- One moment.
Human treatment? To what do owe such privileges? Either the man didn’t recognize us, or maybe today’s policy or the consul was different from last week? In five minutes we were in the consul’s office and pleading our case. For a second there things were hopeful, but here it was again: “We only give out visas to Amazon area residence.” I tried to mention the Israeli Embassies and the recommendation letter the one from Brasilia wrote in my behalf, but she knew nothing of it. The only thing that was able to save me was my electronic plane ticket, and it actually finally did.
-Please, all I want is to see a bit of your beautiful country and climb Roraima. I have a plane ticket twelve days from now. Could I please have a tourist visa?
The things I was saying in broken Spanish were not untrue, but still I felt a sort of repulsion to this country that I was calling beautiful. Should I be thinking of the fact that I am here and begging for the opportunity to contribute among other things to the economy of people who were yet to say one nice thing to me? I chased this thought out of my head. I only wanted to do what we planned and get out. It wasn’t a complete victory, but I got what I came for. They gave me a transit visa that was magically transformed from a three day bust, to a twelve day wonder. I don’t see what is the difference, but I guess in a country with a president like Chavez you better not be responsible for letting Jews in unless it is completely necessary.

Our time was running out. By the time the visa was ready and the bus tickets were bought, we had ten days left. That, plus the trip across the border and finding a company to trek Roraima with, left us with nine.
- Can we trek Roraina and see Angel Falls in nine days?
The tour companies were laughing at us, but said if we really want to do it, it was just about possible. Eventually we decided against it. Dale, a thirty year old renounced Mormon who was one of the people going with us to Roraima, dissuaded us from going on to Angel Falls after this trek saying it was the single most touristy and unpleasant experience he had in his nearly year of travel. Therefore, we decided to concentrate on the task at hand.

Our Guide was Balbina. Unusual to have a woman guide, but we welcomed it. She was knowledgeable and an indigenous. In fact, she was feeding me and Shurik a mixture of garlic, lemon and salt as we were a bit sick, but due to the time constraint could not afford waiting out the flu. Our group included a couple from Germany – Stephan and Judith, he – a carpenter/musician, she – a puppeteer. This profession we haven’t encountered yet. Jesus – a Basque cop. Masajiru – a Japanese bus salesman who claimed to know English but to this day we have no proof of that. And the most colorful character: Jeronimo – a Venezuelan school teacher from that very area who brought along his seven year old son and, as it turned out, Chavez’s biggest fan. On the way to the small village of Paratepuy, from where the trek began, Jesus and Jeronimo head a heated discussion on the Middle Eastern conflict. The speech was fast and loud but it was clear who was on which side. That day Jeronimo asked me where I was from.
-”Originally from Ukraine, but I lived in Israel for nine years.”
-”You are Jewish.” I wouldn’t know whether put a question mark here or take it as it is. This sentence sounded sort of like an accusation, but it might have been just an excited inquiry, and I answered that I was.
-”What do you think about Israel’s invasion of Lebanon?”
-”You mean after the Hezbollah kidnapped two soldiers?”
-”One.”
-”Two.”
-”Soldiers know that they are going into danger, they are ready, children are not.”
Everybody knew what this conversation was leading to, and Jeronimo was called away.
“You want to talk about children?” I wanted to reply. “Have you any idea how many friends, when we were not even close to the age of soldiers, do I have dead or maimed? How many parents of friends do I have dead inside?” This man had no idea what crap he is being fed by his country’s media. We’ve seen this around in Brazil too, and I comented on it in yelya’s post on the subject when in Manaus we saw the front page of a newspaper where grandly featured was a photo of rescue workers holding on outstretched up hands a dead three ear old, with a bright blue pacifier hanging off him on a flimsy plastic chain, and the title read “Israel kills 37 children”. I can’t shake that image off. It’s doing its job.

The tone is set for something else than describing our short of amazing trek, but I will still include the photos which are also the links to the full gallery. These were amazing six days. It was the longest trek we’ve done so far and the wettest by far. Five minutes into it and the constantly fluctuating climate of the area soaked us to our underwear. Luckily, EMS has a life time guarantee, because now I will be forced to retire my hiking boots that I’ve grown much attached to.

I must say this. I loved our time (well, most of it) in South America, but I feel that its end is quite anticlimactic. It could be the feeling of hating eyes on us, the fact that we were searched more then others upon our departure, or maybe it’s all just in my head and the reason for this feeling is the fact we moved slowly and uneventfully towards our plane. Twelve hours on a bus instead of the promised eight with the constant dread that we will be stopped and serched. We have nothing to hide, but I didn’t feel like flashing around my Israeli passport. We were stopped only once, apparently a record low, but my heart still sunk when the soldier was checking my documents. The bus was followed by a taxi ride to the airport where the driver received a phone call from his wife who either said she saw somebody getting robbed at gun point, or was robbed herself. That night we spent in the airport and were cheered up only by finding an old acquaintance there – a German girl named Sonja who fell in love with a Japanese guy and dreamed of following him to the way-out-of-her-pocket Japan. She showed us their charming drunken kiss on our laptop which by some miracle was receiving a free wi-fi internet connection from somewhere.

Search, flight, search (TSA took my lighter), flight. A bafflement to the subject of how people are able to travel for as long as we do by the immigration officer, and a reprimand to me on not staying in the country and cherishing my greencard. A bus, a train, and a short hike to my mother’s house complete with curious stares from Brooklyners. “Bouillon,” I said to my grandma when I saw her, “Bouillon i nalistniki”. Some local food for a change.

Tags: festival
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