By Gustavo Borges
The beginning of the week seems to indicate a truce. Although everything is unpredictable in Venezuela. But outdoors, in the street there is no truce with the prices of food, the speculation that drives us crazy, crazy. “What price is that laundry soap?” “One year of paychecks, ma’am.” “What if I do not work?”
Even the normal days seem like something out of a magical Caribbean novel. Cono, even a meteor can fall on the roof of a rancho. “Chacho get out, there are meteorites falling” in some barrios, or some show on the TV is interrupted by the sudden announcement of the discovery of the largest reserve of any strange mineral super necessary for humanity, that bad luck for us, does not exist anywhere else but in some mountain of our country, even a national radio and television broadcast before an eminent declaration of war of any distant world power simply because they want to brag they are better than us.
That’s how we are. What are we going to do? Meanwhile, chavista and opposition dream of leaving for the beach. So be it for Camuri Chico. Coño, carnivals are about to start. Our beaches are worth it. Sometimes I think that the real reason for some countries wanting to invade us is not oil, nor Maduro, nor the revolution, or anything like that, but because of our beaches. What to say about Medina Beach, ufff. Playa Guacuco, Quetepe Beach, Manare, Playa Blanca, San Luis Beach, Las Maritas, Arapo Beach, Arapito, Patilla Beach.
But the week seems to move “relax”, like we say here in the barrio. With the emotional guayabo of anxiety and pressure from the extreme end of the previous days where we almost saw the bombs fall on the barrio’s houses. Of the neighbor, not of ours. Shit, we are awesome hahaha. In the distance, from my ranch, as towards the barrio 23 de Enero or Av. Sucre is heard at this time, “Yankee go home” in some speaker at full volume.
Through the streets of the barrio (Lidice) a unit of the Presidential Honor Guard walk with civilians down the hill, militiamen and militiawomen with rifles on their shoulders chanting: “Always loyal, traitors never”.
The radio on the refrigerator of my house broadcast reports of the traffic situation in Caracas, indicating how to escape from the queues of traffic or shortcuts that can be used. I asked myself why one listens to that show in the barrio kitchen, while one is supposed to be cooking, not driving. In short, this is Venezuela today.
Translated by JRE/EF