Merry Christmas from Venezuela

Merry Christmas from Conuco Colibrí, our little farm in the northern tip of Venezuela’s Andes Mountains. I hope that where ever you may be that you find a moment of peace, stillness and beauty in unexpected places, much a few shepherds did on this night two thousand years ago.

This year my own Christmas was guided - quite literally - by shepherds and stars. For the traditional nine nights of caroling I traipsed the steep and rocky hills of my village in the pitch black darkness caused by electrical outages, led by Nani and Heiner - shepherds by day, drummers by night.

Undaunted by our nightly power cuts, these musicians and their companions insisted that we visit each and every of the 100+nativity scene in town. With only a tiny sliver of moon in the night sky, the stars were our guide. Fortunately, these young shepherds have 20-20 starlight vision and we managed to serenade every pesebre in town. I strummed the cuatro until my fingers literally bled, and the kids played their drums till their hands were calloused, Venezuelan Christmas aguinaldos are not the solemn Silent-Night-type but rather: Shoot the cannons! Bang the drums! Baby Jesus is born! Let’s dance!

Those nine nights felt a lot like the past few years in Venezuela. In the dark, on the edge, searching for hope, realizing that all we had to keep from falling was each other. We had been looking in all the wrong places for the Messiah, we had been cursed with plagues of modern-day emperors and scattered and exiled to the far ends of the earth. Yet, here we are, today, gathered in song, awed by new life in this pesebre that is Venezuela. It’s still mighty dark, but maybe, there is a faint light of a dawn in the distance.

My path in this long night has been forged by my obsession with planting food, provoked by

food shortages and nourished by a self-formed group of young farmers.Thanks to the very generous help of many of you, we took our grow-and-raise-your-own-food passion to the homes of each of the kids, planting fruit trees, vegetable gardens, banana circles, potato tires,and lately making adobe bricks to build chicken coops for each home. 

My prime sidekick in this amazing adventure has been my life partner Ledys, who set aside his drums to pick up a hoe and shovel with the kids, learning from them and offering bear hugs and unwavering support.

The love and support of my own kids has also been essential to staying on this path of hope, even as they are so busy forging paths of their own, Mikel and Nancy keep their hearth at Heritage Lane forever filled with great food,music,tiaras, soccer balls and books for the brilliant Oliver and the fabulously original Juniper. Maia and Malick are growing a radiant sunflower , the tri-lingual Simara who lights the world with her smile and pirouettes and world-class hugs. Pachi and Oriana turned a US visa refusal into two Master’s degrees from Spain, thanks to the extraordinary solidarity of a dear friend. Gogo spread his creative wings of photography and the world is a much more beautiful place because of it.

Life in this pariah state is no picnic. But I have acquired a life-time degree in human resilience from our collective survival over the past few years. Each and every day feels like an unfolding poem, my heart is broken open over and over and over again as I witness the solidarity of my neighbors, the resilience of those who choose to stay, the spark of life in the least exulted corners of this world. Kind of like that little child whose birth in a remote dark corner of the world never fails to take our breath away. What a privilege these years, I wouldn’t trade them for anything.

Thanks to so many of you who have been there for me, both through your concrete support and solidarity for our project, for understanding how hard it is, for giving me your hand just as my shepherd friends Nani and Heiner do on dark moonless nights. I am forever grateful.

On a final note, many of you have asked if we need more seeds of tools or help with the project. At this point, our biggest need is to replace the motor of a 40-year old vehicle that was kindly donated to us by an anonymous donor. It will allow these intrepid fabulous farming kids to reach other communities who have asked for their spark. Any donations can be made via Pay Pal to conucocolibri@gmail.com

But mostly, please keep Venezuela in your prayers. May our dawn draw near, in spite of vultures that circle near and far, may that tiny small life in the most unexpected of all places ignite our strength and our hope.

Blessing to all of you on your journeys, know that you have a refuge of beauty and peace at Conuco Colibrí if ever you may be near, Keep in touch via whatsapp at +58-424-564-0759 or see photos of our project at our instagram account @conucocolibri. Abrazos, Lisa

Darkness and Light in Venezuela

Coco is indifferent to the electrical blackouts we suffer daily in our village of Palo Verde. Blind since birth, he navigates the world guided by his inner light. A musician since I took his small hands in mine some 15 year ago to strum the cuatro, he has no need for electricity to power a radio. The chords of his piano or cuatro grace our village each evening, carried by the sweeping winds of the Fumarola mountain.

Our little mountain village seems built especially for this plague of darkness and silence. When phone lines go down with the electricity, we only need to shout a message over the hills and it will arrive. Ely is going to spend the night here, tell her mom! I holler into the darkness, sure someone will pass it on to Elida, a half kilometer away. Five minutes later the return message is relayed: Elida says ok.

The full moon, though, is my finest ally. It lights my path as I spend hours each night watering our fields and orchards and gardens. As we enter a year of darkness, dominoes has evolved as the prime evening recreation and sitting around the fire has replaced telenovelas as a way of closing the day together as a family.

All this is the poetic part. But there is no lovely verse for my goddaughter Enderly who arrives at the hospital in her mother’s arms to find  its nebulizer – the lifeline for her chronic asthmatic attacks - shut down with the electricity. Or the panic Dinoskar knows that at any minute the respirator that keeps the lungs of her 8-month old nephew pumping may shut down.

Gradually, though, we have all become a bit like Coco. Adapting to the darkness that that shrouds much of Venezuela daily. At the beginning of the year, with each power outage, people banged pots and pans. Or took the streets. That rarely happens now,  even as the rest of Latin America seems to be rising up collectively. Morocho of the Calle La Paz is testimony to that.

An engineering student, Moro lies in jail tonight trying to keep his convulsions at bay. As a student protest came to a close last week, a riot policeman grabbed his cell phone, telling him: it’s mine now. Moro tried to grab the phone back, was beaten, forced to  swallow deodorant, causing convulsions. Accused now of terrorism, he is slated to be sent to overcrowded Uribana prison. Protest is not an option here in Venezuela.

The government provided numerous explanations for our power outages when they began. It was Donald Trump’s personal henchmen sitting in towers in St. Louis and Chicago, strategically plunging large portions of Venezuela into darkness. Then it was a random guy – now in jail - whose bullet was supposedly retrieved from the river and was said to cause a five day, nation-wide power outage.

But, after some 100,000 power outages in the country, it’s rather hard to keep spinning new stories. The truth that all Venezuelans know is that the outages come from neglecting repairs to the public electrical system caused, yes - in part - by brutal US economic sanctions that keep repair parts from reaching Venezuelan shores. And - in part - by the massive mismanagement of the government coupled with endemic corruption.

But adaptation and resilience is what we do daily here in Venezuela. And we do it well.

Because in truth, we are not only surviving. Poco a poco, we are thriving. That, perhaps, is the greatest measure of our resistance. Increasing, there are twinkles and rays and flashes that are lighting up our dark night. 

I am grateful for the moon that guides my steps and for the human lights that illuminate my soul on this journey. For the light of Bebe as he stomps mud late into the night, even after an exhausting day in the fields, to build a sturdy wattle and daub home for this small daughter.

For the light of Crisberlys as she waltzed her quinceanos last Saturday in borrowed clothes and bartered food, and a glow that we all need.

For the daily flow of food over the fence from my neighbor Jenny. For the wisdom of Cristian who corrals my chickens on evenings when I am away, and patiently teaches me in the ways of my brood. We help each other daily to survive, to celebrate, to thrive.

Little by little, a subtle dawn is breaking in Venezuela. In  comes from the resilience of those who stayed and the hard work of those who left (over 5 million) and who send money home.And from the generosity of Latin American countries who have  taken in Venezuelan migrants, by the millions, just as Venezuela took them in for decades. They have thrown open their doors just as the US has closed theirs. 

It is a dawn that spites the dark machinations of many within and without Venezuela whose eyes are only on the prize of oil and gold, at any price, including the destruction of a nation. 

But, theirs is not be the final word. As I water my kale and corn by the moon, Coco is singing a gaita now, to the beat of Ledy's drums, and the wind carries it and wraps me in its rhythm and verse.  Venezuela estrella vas galopante por grandes caminos. Vamos adelante, siempre pa’lante…. (Venezuela star you are galloping on great paths. We go forward, always forward.

Running Uphill in Venezuela

I am not a natural runner. I can wield a hoe or push a wheelbarrow for hours, but somehow a trot around the block always winded me.

In Venezuela we don't really need to run anyway. All of us are trying to conserve hard-earned pounds, not shed them in vain by racing around. Mothers in my village often get angry at their children when they run, because it makes them hungrier and wears out their shoes.

Walking, however, is definitely in vogue in Venezuela. Many of the four million people who have emigrated have literally walked their way to other countries.

For those of us who remain, walking is our main transportation mode. With an oil change costing a month's salary, and a set of tires worth a year's wages, cars and buses are left to collect dust (and in our case, a family of homeless snakes). Even if a vehicle does run, finding gasoline is a major challenge.

Running short of gas in a nation that sits atop the world's largest oil reserves is quite a feat, and the credit goes to the Maduro-Trump Alliance. Ok, I guess alliance isn’t the right word, since both leaders intensely hate one another and actively wish each other off their respective thrones.

But, this is a relationship that seem to me to serve both sides extremely well. Trump's economic sanctions give him political brownie points (and create scarcities of almost everything essential in Venezuela, including chemicals to refine gasoline). For his part, Maduro gets to blame all of his nation's woes on Trump, and thus stay firmly in power.

So, back to my running. Why on earth do I do it? God knows I get enough exercise walking everywhere and growing much of my food. I have no natural running talent. There is not one square meter of flat ground in my entire town.

Maybe it's the temporary release from this sadness as I watch my adopted nation implode. Maybe it clears my mind as I struggle to see the way out. Maybe it’s a break from hauling water, splitting firewood, grinding corn, searching for the food I can’t grow. Maybe it's just a.way of being momentarily alone, in this society that craves togetherness.

As I exit my farm for a run I head left, down a steep dirt road, nothing but mountains around me. Running downhill is actually a cop-out since gravity does most of the work. However, that does leave going uphill to the last, when you are already exhausted. I solved that problem brilliantly by deciding to return always at a walk.

My turn around point is Amadeus's gate, after which steep becomes vertical all the way to the river. I used to linger there before turning back. The sun setting over the mountain is lovely. Amadeus's farm, though, is uninspiring - a jumble of tumbleweeds like most farms around me. I pause there to wonder how such a hungry (and fertile) nation has managed to almost completely stop growing food (with the tiny exception of some such as our group of intrepid farming kids).  I know the answer of course, a toxic combo of sanctions, corruption, ineptitude, indifference. Plus greed: it is way more lucrative for government insiders to distribute food boxes than to actually help farmers grow food.

One evening I lingered too long, and as night began to fall, I was several miles from home. Darkness comes fast near the equator, leaving only the moon as a guide over the mountains. (Electricity is mostly a memory now, so no hope of seeing twinkling house lights in my village ahead). That day, my faithful four-legged running companion Cocoa had stayed behind to nurse her pups, And so I realized that if I didn’t want to be trapped in darkness with steep ledges around me, I should probably run back home, steeply uphill.

And so I did, sweating and panting, the encroaching darkness pulling me forward, fear trumping exhaustion. Looking back,I realize that if I had not returned, my partner Ledys would have simply grabbed a flashlight,rallied the dogs and found me in a jiffy, But at the moment I envisioned sharing a rocky bed with  snakes and scorpions.

.That uphill run was a turning point. It filled me with a sense of heady victory .When everything else around me is not working, at least my body can. Poco a poco I began to run uphill a tiny bit more each day, my lungs burning, my heart pounding, my sweat pouring, my mind clearing

When I finally reach my gate after these runs, I fall onto the grass, and catch my breath as the Fumarola mountain gently disappears. I feel such peace.

I need that peace, I need that hope, I need that cleansing, I need that solitude. Those of us who have stayed in Venezuela are running uphill every single day. 

Venezuela's ragtag rebels take on the enemy

I might as well confess upfront. I have created a band of young Venezuelan rebels. As a matter of fact, some of you have helped me to arm them. With hoes and shovels, wheelbarrows and chicken wire, pitchforks and rakes.

Their entire arsenal of weapons is being directed at the heart of the Trump Blitzkrieg on Venezuela and simultaneously against the the Maduro Madness. How, you may ask, are they able to do this especially given that most of these rebels are around 14 years old  Quite simply, by unleashing the full force of their powerful  Operation Grow Food.

This strategy is extremely dangerous. It specifically targets the  lethal weapon used  by both Trump and Maduro: WEAPON HUNGER! The hunger weapon seeks to control the population, vilify the enemy (by  blaming them for causing the hunger),while turning you into a superhero as you pretend to combat it. 

As Operation Grow Food confronts Weapon Hunger, it is becoming increasingly clear that this band of rebels must be controlled, before it catches on! 

One of the fiercest rebels is Nazareth, known by her nom de guerre: Naza. Don't be fooled by the fact that she weighs a mere 80 pounds. She can wield a pick ax like Serena Williams with a tennis racket, and can plant a mango tree as fast as it takes you to check your Facebook. 

Let Interpol be warned. I am openly training these rebels in the powerful art of permaculture. Once they learn this art, there is no turning back. Ok, I know, I'm a repeat offender. You would think that after being detained at the Maiquetia Airport for the crime of bringing bok choy and kohlrabi seeds into the country, I should have learnt my lesson. But no, I'm at it again. 

Now, it's quite likely that the mere threat of these rebels might push Guaido-Trump and Maduro-Putin to acquiesce to the idea of elections. After two months of talks in Barbados both sides have told the kindly King of Norway that they are getting a bit bored of pina coladas and shark empanadas and midnight tussles on the beach.

If so, I've got the line up for elections. Ok, so we may have to slide the electoral age down to 12, but hey, it's time to get creative in Venezuela. Here is my slate:

Vivi president. Vivi's platform is simple, based on a skill he has finely tuned during his 14 years: laughter.  And, after five years of Maduro's Collective Crying strategy, Cellective Laughter just might be a winning formula.

Mamari. Minister of Planning. Mamari is my choice to gather the scarce resources left in Venezuela. She is known to get a raging cook fire going even after a rainstorm, whip up a pot of delicious soup from no apparent source, and make sure that every one gets the exact same serving with no one leaving the table until they fall in a food-induced stupor. I think it would be a clever antidote to the 20-pound-weight-loss Maduro diet implemented by him and his ministers.

Heiner, Minister of Defense. Until two years ago, Heiner was cross eyed, and teased mercilessly by many. This situation led him to load up with a powerful weapon that he skillfully unleashes unexpectedly, unarming his assailant immediately : a smile. The great thing is that this weapon can instantly be loaded to all citizens of Venezuelans. Even if Trump does send the Marines, with 20 million smiles, we should be in pretty good shape.

Fabi, Director of the Central Bank. Knowing how quick Fabi is to the draw, she would immediately have us convert to our currency from the worthless bolivar to the highly valued banana. We could store our money in everyone's front yard, and grow our economy daily. By pegging its value to its calorie content, I'm pretty sure the banana currency (BN) would soon dip below the current ten million percent inflation of the bolivar (BS).

I'm all for reducing bureaucracy, so let's leave it at that.

If after reading this highly classified report, any of you feel called to support these food-growing rebels, please send ammunition (in the cleverly disguised form of vegetable seeds.) You will be rewarded with abundant smiles and laughter.

Saving Venezuela: A Lesson from Cocoa

Last Tuesday, as Juan Guaidó was trying to liberate Venezuela via a military coup, my dog Cocoa went into labor. The kids from our farming group noticed that she was restless, shuffling in and out of the shed, pawing at the dirt. The liberation of her pups was imminent.

As Guaidó called on generals and citizens to join him in the streets, Jose Manuel helped me make a cozy den for Cocoa. We laid cardboard on the dirt floor of the shed, covered it with an old blanket, and set out fresh water. But as the afternoon wore on with a flurry of tree-planting, we kind of forgot about Cocoa.

Night fell and the stars lit up the night (gone is the time when light bulbs lit up the night). I noted that Cocoa was still very pregnant, still very restless. She refused her evening meal. The following day was the same. Her pups seemed reluctant to heed the call of liberation.

And so it seemed with Venezuelans. Few responded to call of Guaidó to “liberation”. The generals – those to whom is call was primarily directed – remained snug in their barracks (although they did send out some soldiers in tanks to plow down the few souls who headed the call).

The few young people remaining in the country mostly opted out. In their short lives they had seen too many end up behind bars or in a coffin for taking to the streets.

Older folks knew too well. They were spooked by the serpentine smiles of of Elliott Abrams and Donald Trump peeking right behind the shoulder of Guaidó.

Everyone else was too busy standing in gas lines, chopping firewood or hauling water to even notice. Within a few hours the coup leaders had slipped into embassies and the streets were calm. Maduro was dancing in front of his presidential palace. Two liberation efforts seemed stalled: that of Cocoa and of Guaidó.

The following morning I awoke to soft squeals. I raced outside to find Cocoa atop my rocking chair, a rather unusual birthing center. Two pups next to her were dead, and a third barely alive. Within an hour two more arrived lifeless.

Cocoa and I valiantly struggled to revive the lone survivor. As Cocoa licked the pup’s face I coaxed her on. Wakú - Cocoa’s mother - checked on us from time to time, offering silent support. She was busy with her own set of five puppies, three weeks old, fat, happy and always hungry.

Finally, an exhausted Cocoa gave me the saddest look possible on the face of a dog. It was also a look of permission. Her eyes told me: Take her too and bury her with the rest.

As I laid the pups into the ground I felt the weight of an immense sadness. Two failed liberation efforts in two days.

Wait a minute! Obviously, I wanted the puppies to live. But, I couldn’t possibly have wanted a US-backed military coup to succeed. Could I? My entire life has been built around standing up to violence. A pillar of my 40 years in Latin America has been that of calling out the horrific legacy of US intervention.

But on some crazy irrational momentary emotional level I just wanted an immediate out to the situation for my beloved Venezuela. I wanted new life for a dying nation. A quick and magical end to this hunger, violence, mass migration, disease and despair. I wanted my adopted nation back again, not this ugly, desperate shadow of a country, a frightening no-man’s-land where contraband and corruption are king. I gave my cheek a slap, and slowly, my rational mind struggled to regain control.

I didn’t see Cocoa for the rest of the evening or the next morning. To distract my worry, I decided to go check on Wakú and her pups in the gazebo. To my surprise, there was Cocoa! She was regally wrapped around three of Wakú´s plump pups, happily nursing and vigorously cleaning them, as though she had done this her entire life. She radiated purpose and passion. Next to her was Wakú, nursing the other two, looking delighted with this new arrangement.

And so the following days passed. Both birth-mom and adopted-mom took the pups to romp in the grass. Sometimes one gave the other a break, to sneak out to eat a fallen mango. The grossly fat pups fell into a heap under the acacia tree, nursing randomly from either mom, often double dipping before falling into a drunken slumber.

As I watched an idea hit me. Here we are in a country with two (male) presidents. Each spends enormous effort and grotesque sums of money to blame the other for the suffering of the Venezuelan people. Each seems willing to do anything. Not for the good of the Venezuelan people, but for power.

So, maybe what Venezuela needs is not two presidents, but two moms. After all, the total focus of moms - the ilk of Cocoa and Wakú – is the well being of their pups - or people, as you may have it. What a dream that would be…...

But in all seriousness, as I watched Cocoa and Wakú work long hours together, day after day, to raise five gloriously healthy and happy pups, I thought, maybe they have a solution of how to save Venezuela.

The very survival of Venezuelans, of this nation itself, requires - demands - working together. This prolonged battle of winner-take-all is strangling us. There are no winners this way, only losers. Even if power flips, the winners will soon become the losers, because the losers will not let the winners in peace.

The only real solution for this Venezuelan disaster is for all major actors to come to the table and nurse this country back to life instead of collectively smothering our final breaths.

So….come to the table. Come Maduro. Come Guaidó. Come others who represent a much broader swath than either of you. Dissident chavistas. Moderate opposition. Churches. Civic groups. Farmers. Workers. Business. Come together to facilitate a way in which all Venezuelans can choose, in peace and transparency, their path forward, to life.

This new transitory authority can call itself whatever: Transition Government. National Pact. Interim Authority. Provisional Power. Constitutional Committee. Shared Space. Viva Venezuela. Go by whatever name you want.

But just do it! Because THIS is what Venezuelans want.

Food as Bullets in Venezuela

As the Humanitarian Aid Battle revved its engines on Saturday morning on the Venezuela/Colombia border, our group of young conuqueros (farmers)was gathering for our weekly work day.

The morocha arrived with a kilo of rice to share, generating some excitement. Her mom is in the militia, so her family receives two boxes of food a month versus the one box every four months the rest of us are allowed to buy.

On conuco days we eat what we grow. Our greens and fruit are delicious, but these young growing bodies yearn for calories. In this thin mountain soil the main calorie crop we can coax in abundance is plantains. The kids try multiple ways of preparing them - as soup and arepas, in caraotas and quinchonchos, but sometimes we yearn for a change.

Juan Carlos had also brought a pumpkin. It was so ripe that it had split open, its fragrant orange flesh distracting.

Chairs gathered into a circle to begin our work day - as always, with a song and reflection. The chorus of the day’s song seemed fitting for the moment. Venezuela, por haberme dado tanto, estoy contigo en la risa y en el llanto (Venezuela , for having given me so much, I am with you, in laughter and tears.)

In the reflection that followed, each person was asked to think of a word that expressed what Venezuela had given them, then write the word on an a heart-shaped piece of banana leaf (one of our many substitutes for un-affordable paper).

When planning the reflection, Ledys and I had wondered what these kids, ages 11-14, would be have to say in their brief, isolated, difficult lives. A lot, as it turned out. 

As each spoke their word, I had to squeeze my eyes to keep the tears from falling. Conuco. Family. Tradition. Solidarity. Humility. Strength. Community. Beauty.

We ended the reflection in an embrace. It lasted a long time. Venezuelans have no problem expressing their affection. I knew however, that this hug was for Venezuela.

I couldn't help but wonder if that same passion for Venezuela was in the hearts of those who were pushing this aid into Venezuela like bullets. Or those who were defending Venezuela from this aid with real bullets. Or those who threatened to make sure this was aid accepted. OR ELSE! Or those who stood on the world’s stage with false smiles, defending Venezuela’s sovereignty, while stuffing their pockets with its oil and gold.

As Team Humanitarian Aid (the Opposition) and Team Defend the Homeland (the Maduro government) and Team Invade (The US) and Team Rape the Nation (China and Russia) lined up on their respective sides, our conuqueros divided into the day’s teams. One team to gather firewood and cook. One team to turn the compost piles. One team to weed and fertilize the banana plants.

By mid-morning one compost pile had been turned, the rice and pumpkin were boiling on a hearty fire, half the banana plants had their weeds cleared, stomachs that had no breakfast in them were rumbling. I went into my house and found the one piece of birthday cake sent to me two nights ago from Chichila and divided it into 16. one-square-inch pieces for each. I took the grounds of the mornings coffee, added water and reboiled, with a few teaspoons of precious sugar. Then I brought the meager fare to the shade of the siempre verde tree and called the kids to the log benches. By the look on their faces, Julia Child could not have laid a finer table.

As the kids feasted, laughed, teased, laughed, drank, laughed, collected cups and laughed, I felt their joy lift me up. Every single time we gather these kids of skin and bones, of strength and spirit, Ledys and I receive what we call our vaccination of joy. Against all logic and reason, the laughter never ceases.

As we were about to return to our posts my phone buzzed. Cell coverage had been coming in and out for days, lasting often only seconds at a time. I read a message saying that one truck of aid had crossed the border. As I read the message to Ledys the kids overheard and cheered. When will it reach Palo Verde? (our town) asked Alexibel excitedly.

By the time the few trucks of aid that managed to pass the border had been set ablaze in a massive plume of black smoke, the kids had returned home, stomachs filled with rice, pumpkin, a tiny piece of cake and a sip of coffee.

I needed their ever-present laughter to slop the flow of my tears as I looked at the image of those trucks loaded with food, burning black at the border. As much as I knew the motives of those trying to ram the aid through, I couldn't help myself. This hunger has lasted too long. I have worked too hard to grow just enough food. All I could feel was a visceral sense of rage upon seeing so much food go up in flames. The opposition blamed the government. The government blamed the opposition. No matter who lit the match, the result was the same.

Four days later, I remain haunted by that image of that burning food. And all I can feel is this: Basta! Enough food as bullets. From all sides.

Enough food as bullets from the government. Food has been withheld, stolen, resold, converted to massive wealth for a few, doled out as favor and taken away as punishment for too long,

Enough food as bullets from the opposition. The hunger of Venezuelans has been abused for their political gain. And it has been used to obtain US sanctions causing more hunger. And now as justification for the unspeakable threat of military action.

Enough food as bullets from the US. While what lies in those boxes at the border is likely some version of food, its real contents are the desire to overthrow Venezuela’s government and install one favorable to them. To regain a foothold in this land of oil and gold.

Enough food as bullets from Russia and China. While from one side of their mouths they speak out against US aggression, on the other side they are plundering Venezuela’s wealth.

Enough food as bullets. They rain down on us from all sides. Enough.

I am well aware that food bullets  may soon turn to steel bullets. The drums of war are real. I have traveled up and down Latin American listening to horror stories of the legacy left by US intervention. 

So many people have written to ask me: Lisa, what can I do. As US citizens, our greatest gesture of support for the people of Venezuela is to tell our country to back off.  Even for those who long to see Maduro go, the threat of US intervention has given only him the gift of oxygen. The rivers of blood carved by U.S. throughout Latin America still run red. 

I"m not sure what next week will look like. Or even tomorrow. But today I'll join Ledys in planting one more banana tree. 

Lisa's Lemons for a New Venezuela

Last Thursday, as Nicolas Maduro was being inaugurated to six more years as Venezuela’s president, I was busy climbing up and down my many lemon trees with friend Fabi, collecting scratches galore, along with 120 pounds of bright yellow fruit. We filled two burlap sacks and I glowed knowing that their sale would provide for necessary items we can neither grow nor barter: oil, salt, flour, toilet paper.

I never cease to be amazed at the beauty of what nature and I working together can produce. And I never cease to be amazed at the ugliness of what self-interest in Venezuelan politics can produce. Lemons - bitterness, beauty, thorns and all, seemed a fitting image to accompany this particular inauguration day.

In our Venezuela of the past, lemons were used to make lemonade, to squeeze over fried fish, to give a twist to a rum and coke. All the ingredients needed for those combos are long gone now.

With lemons seeming superfluous now, Ledys and I decided to allow ourselves to sell them, our first fruit sale in two decades of planting trees. All the other fruit we grow – mangoes, avocados, oranges, guavas, etc - thousands of pounds yearly – is given away to neighbors in ourd small village of Palo Verde. Their calories help to fill in the missing blanks.

After we dropped off the two sacks of lemons at the mega-cooperative CECOSESOLA (one of the few remaining projects in Venezuela that actually works, very well) we were given a receipt for Bss 21,800. About $20. 

We had to wait until the next day to collect the lemon payment, which made us a bit anxious. With inflation now pegged at two million percent annually, prices can double in two to three days (or two hours). When we finally received the funds - in cash, in a sack - it felt like we had won the lottery. And, we knew we had to spend it fast.

As we crossed the city from end to end end in search of open stores and affordable prices, we discovered that few vendors would accept our Bss 10 bills. By next week - they told us - those bills will be obsolete. After two days of supply-hunting, the sum of our treasures fit into one small Trader Joe’s tote bag. Still, with my tote-sized supplies for a month, I felt like a queen, crowned by my lemons. 

For his new term of presidency that began on my lemon-picking day, Maduro received a sash. But perhaps a crown of lemons would have been more fitting.

Lemons are both beautiful and bitter. To those who believe that some day Maduro will resurrect Chavez’s dream of 21st socialism, it would be a bright beautiful golden crown. They remember the free doctors on almost every corner, the classrooms bursting with students - of all ages - day and night, the cheap and abundant food, the two million free houses. The seemingly indestructible hope of a people who have been excluded for generations, upon suddenly being included. Who doesn’t want to hold on to that dream?

To the two or three million Venezuelans who cast their vote with their (tired) feet – some literally walking to Colombia and beyond - Maduro’s lemon crown is a bitter one. To those who struggle in vain to find enough food for their families on a $6 minimum wage, or who furtively search through garbage bags at night, it is a crown of thorns. To those who believed that votes could bring about change - but whose candidates were nixed from the presidential race – this is a crown not to be honored.

To China and Russia who hoist Venezuela up as a counterweight to US interests in Latin America, Maduro’s crown is a glorious one. They promise to defend it to the bitter end (encouraged by all that fabulous oil and gold). To the Trump Administration, Maduro is not fit to wear any crown. They are desperately trying to find someone – anyone – to wear it. 

Yesterday I went to the procession of Barquisimeto's virgin, the Divina Pastora, along with two million others. January is citrus month in Venezuela (yeah lemons!). Each year the city buys truckloads of citrus fruit to throw into the thirsty crowd. Last year it was tangerines. Several hundred of them, however, ended up not in the mouths of devote, but on the pristine uniforms of the Military High Command, as they prepared to take their seats on a viewing platform. The top brass quickly exited, all that delicious tangerine juice flowing down their dress whites.

This year the fruit tossed to the crowd was oranges, and the target of all that citrus was our state governor, who bears the double X of being both a military officer and a politician. The wrath of so citizens coming face-to-face with those they perceive to be responsible for this disaster was a fuse. The power of numbers and safety of anonymity lit the match. The spontaneous unleashing of citrus power was a sight to be seen!

Part of me wanted to collect every lemon remaining on my trees to help fuel this citrus revolution. Lemon juice would definitely be the best collateral damage one could hope for in a political sea change here. But then again, I’m not sure who would would be the kingmaker and who would get the new crown.

So, I think I’ll keep the rest of the lemons on my trees, and dispense them, poco a poco. They might not be needed for lemonade or Cuba libres, but they are a great stand-in for deodorant or toothpaste, both impossible to find. Likewise, as disinfectant or cleanser, or with baking soda, a great criollo alka selzer. And they help keep colds abay and digestion chugging along.

So, I’ll leave my lemons as a my mini contribution to the healing of our nation, in hopes that maybe we’ll gain the strength – someday - to dig ourselves out of this hole. And start to build afresh. I guess I”m more of a bottom-up than top-down person anyway.

But, boy, a spontaneous citrus revolution definitely sounds like more fun.