I was going to begin this blog by writing about Fabi. She is the one who inspired me to grow food. 

After helping me dig yet another hole for yet another tree on my  little farm, she asked me why I didn’t get down to business and plant black beans  and corn.  Or something whose turn-around time to becoming food was a bit quicker than another mango or orange tree.  

My excuse was that the only remaining empty land was a sad, scruffy, sandy patch that didn’t even produce weeds.  But Fabi was unconvinced. This is a ten year old who frequently skips school to catch fish for lunch for her family (of ten), while somehow topping the class achievement roster. She manages to DO things.

So, I wasn’t surprised when Fabi showed up the next day at 6 am with a sack of goat manure.  I pulled on my rubber boots and donned my straw hat. And I knew there was no looking back.

Fast forward six months and Fabi and I were knee deep in a mini food forest of bananas, black beans, passion fruit, papaya, broccoli, lemon grass, spinach, pigeon peas, yucca , and much more.  Our two pairs of hands had multiplied by 20, many of them smaller than hers.  Club Conuco Colibri  (Hummingbird Farm Club) was birthed in kind of a natural evolution, a group of kids who just showed up to garden by our side.  Kind of a ragtag 4H club and CSA all wrapped into one. (check out the video of our kids' food garden project in this link.  Although we already met our goal (in one day) the story will inspire you I hope)

 But, Fabi won’t be the protagonist of my first blog post, because well, Fabi has left.  A month ago her mom farmed her out to a godmother in another village.  In spite of the growing harvest of our own mini food forest and Fabi’s fish, there just wasn’t enough food for a family of ten.  How I miss those 80 pounds of sheer determination!

Fortunately, ten-year-old Franger has stepped up to that role, in his usual unassuming way, tens parts action, one part words.  This Sunday afternoon he called me to the chicken wire fence dividing our two yards, as I was planting squash among the pigeon peas. He offered me a spoonful of what he was eating from a well-worn plastic cup: a powder of roasted grated corn with a splash of cinnamon (because, he told me, there is no sugar anywhere). Surprisingly delicious.

Franger is a member of our kids gardening club (somehow that term smacks of white gloves and pink lemonade, but the reality is a bit more ragged and colorful )  That same morning we had poured sweat and muscle into deep-digging a new vegetable bed and hoeing the hills for corn.  We had each eaten a small bowl of soup at midday, made smaller than usual since 40 instead of 30 showed up to garden. I knew that Franger was returning home to slim pickings, like all the kids, and the small bowl of soup wouldn’t go far.

As the late afternoon wore on, all I could think about was the corn gruel. It was so tasty and I felt my body craving the calories it packed after a full day of physical activity. My own cupboard was bare, although the garden had lots of tomatoes :) 

 As the sun dipped low, sending crimson rays over the Fumarola volcano, Franger called me over again, and unceremoniously passed me a little bag of the gruel. Knowing that it came from his tiny share, I was moved. 

I went into my house and mixed the gruel with water and it boiled and thickened. I sat on my front porch and devoured the steaming treat,watching the sunset close the curtain on my mountain backdrop. How good it is to eat when you are hungry.  

Never was there a finer feast, nor a more gracious giver. And that is the story I want to share as I open this blog.

There are numerous political and economic groups who have staked their interest in Venezuela’s hunger. In Franger’s hunger. In Fabi’s hunger. Even in my hunger. Among these groups are unscrupulous elements in the Venezuelan opposition, the US government, the Venezuelan government,  U.S. Southern Command,  armed forces in Venezuela, the IMF, the OAS, ExxonMobil and Wall Street, just to name a few. It is in the interest of many in these powerful groups, that we go hungry here in Venezuela.

In Venezuela, a nation of enormous commodities, hunger has become the commodity that trumps all . In this land that holds the world’s largest oil reserves. That contains a large share of the continent’s fresh water supply and untold pristine reserves of precious minerals.  In this the land that inspired democratic people’s movements throughout the South, In this land of waterfalls and liberators and classical music and beautiful people. In this land that covers my hands and boots at the end of each day.

Hunger is the Queen of Hearts, the Ace of Spades, the all-powerful god that promises to bring people to their knees and drink from their cup. Whether that cup be the overthrow of socialism. The savior of an entrenched political elite. The rise of a new political elite. The enriching of mining companies. Billion dollar drilling rights.  Scandalously lucrative loans. Bursting bank accounts for black marketeers. And so on.   

Except that – so far – the Venezuelan people haven’t bent at the knee to drink from anyone’s trough. At least not yet. Against all odds. Against a battery of State Department staffers, oil and mining company accountants, writers and editors from the mass media (the same ones who were silent when Venezuela was producing more affordable homes and college students and community doctors per capita than anywhere in the Americas ).  

 And the reason this hasn’t happened, well….. it’s all Franger’s fault.

Franger and several million Frangers here in Venezuela. Who grind dried corn to mix with water when there is nothing in the store. Who use and reuse a cinnamon stick instead of sugar. Who pass scarce amounts of food over the fence to a neighbor.  Who rise before the dawn to plant something to eat in the most inhospitable of soils.

I don’t want to deny the many shoulders on which lie the blame for this hunger. That’s for another story. Right now, I’ll offer Franger’s and my shoulders: some 50 years apart in age, but both trying our best to carry what we can in this strange new journey.

Stay tuned for more. abrazos, Lisa