I
hadn’t noticed that I lost some fifteen pounds last winter until my pants
starting slipping south as I rushed between chores on my little farm
in Venezuela. Between planting bananas and yucca and yams, collecting
my horse’s manure, grazing sheep and chickens, picking weeds and
putting in seeds, I found myself constantly pausing mid-chore to hike
up my jeans.
Over
the past three years I had morphed from hobby gardener to novice
farmer, joining the majority of Venezuelan in dedicating the bulk of
my
day
to sourcing food. The
lucky ones
with land
- like me - pound the ground to produce it, while the majority of
this mostly
urban
nation pound the pavement in search of this ever-disappearing
commodity. Meanwhile,
all
of
us have
all fine-tuned the art of bartering and scavenger hunting.
I
considered myself lucky that I had dropped only fifteen pounds or so.
My neighbor Juan Carlos says he is now hast lost some 60 pounds over
these three years of crisis, somedays eating what he calls a baby’s
portion of food, just to survive, when food is really scarce, passing
the rest to his kids.
It’s
the lost pounds of the kids that hurts the most. Even those in our
little farming collective (who at least bring some healthy extra
calories home each week) seem to be shrinking before my eyes, their
limbs as thin as twigs. Still, their willowy strength on our
Wednesday and Sunday farming days always surprises me.
Sometimes
I find myself amazed to remember that it only a few short years ago
feeding ourselves meant only a drive to he supermarket, followed by a
few minutes at the gas stove to whip it into a meal.
Just
driving own’s own car has feels like a thing of the past, something
like flip-top cell phones. Batteries, motor oil, and tires just
aren’t to be found. My neighbor uses his sedan as a chicken coop,
and our lifeless jeep provides shade for our dogs to nap. My son’s
abandoned Honda lends support to the recently planted fig tree.
Even
if we could get the car to go, the supermarkets in our town have long
ago closed shop. At this point, almost all of the nation’s food
distribution is in the hands of the military, and our little town
appears not to be on their favorite list.
Then
there is the problem of cooking the food, once you do actually
find it. Cooking gas is needle in the haystack. Sometimes - after
days in line starting at 4 am - we get lucky. But we always need
other options. Last December we gave our little electric burners away
to my partner’s nephew who left the country for Peru, joining a
stream of exiting Venezuelans that today has become a rushing river.
The stove is not really missed, since these days electricity has
become another hit-or-miss affair.
I’m
glad that I have planted a lot of trees since their trimings make a
decent fire. But, yikes, it takes a long time to cook this way, and
makes a sooty mess of pots and pans. My young neighbor Carly taught
me to rub blue soap and oil on the outside of the pan before putting
it on the fire, but first all soap disappeared from stores shelves,
then the oil, then the stores themselves.
Last
February I lay aside my sooty pans and adopted country, scrounged up
an old belt from the bottom of my drawer, and boarded a flight to
Washington, to visit my family.
My
favorite hangout soon became the local Trader Joe’s.There is just
something so incredibly comforting walking around all these aisles
bursting with tasty food and filled with people calmly filling their
carts with it. Not a single person seems desperate. I imagine
strolling the aisles with Carly. Thanks to this new hobby, I have
easily regained the vanished pounds in these three months, and am
ready to head home, to Venezuela.
I
will be returning just in time for the presidential elections. You
might think that with food so scarce, wages averaging less than $5 a
month and inflation breaking world records, it would be a slam-dunk
for any candidate opposing the current government to win.
But
remember what the slam-dunk election mindset brought us recently?
While
Venezuela might be short on Russian trolls, Fox News or James Comey, we do have one thing that trumps all. Hunger. Hunger
is the Ace of Spades in the hands of all the major players in this
poker game for control of Venezuela.
Our
hunger just may be what allows the government to stay in power.
Their small subsidized bags of food keep us dancing on a string, to
say nothing of giving a vote. Our hunger gives the political
opposition a pass. They need not even bother to organize an effective
political campaign, relying instead on our lost pounds to justify any
method for regime change. Our hunger even provides the Trump
Adminiation with a faux moral flag, their “concern” for our lost
pounds poorly cloaking lust for a strategic political foothold and
all that lovely oil.
I
used to think that Venezuela’s prize commodity was oil. We do,
after all, have the world’s largest supply under our soil. But as I
cram my suitcase with oatmeal, honey and peanut butter, all the while
wondering in what condition I will find Carly, Mamari, the Morocha, Vivi, Sebastian and all the others, I realize, that has
now changed.
In
Venezuela, hunger is the new oil.
