COVID’s Cover for a Collapsing Venezuela

For Sebastian, 7 and Christian, 15, the sudden decree of Venezuela’s COVID-19 quarantine sucked. It was ordered just as their single mom, who works as a maid in another town, was heading home with food. The order included a halt to all inter-municipal travel. La Gorda was stuck.  

Almost three months into their mother-less lives, the brothers are a well-rehearsed solo team in their tiny, tidy adobe home. Cristian awakes at 1am on Saturdays to get in line at the local coop. Sometimes he is able to buy rice, flour and oil. Sebastian sweeps the dirt floor and makes arepas when there is still corn flour. Otherwise, he awaits his brother with a pot of boiled green mangoes.

Their mutual love and respect both fills and breaks my heart. I watch through the bamboo fence as they race to get one of the rare calls from their mom, when cell lines open momentarily. Often, by the time they get to their aunt’s phone, the call has dropped.

I resonate with the disappointed look in their eyes. I have been unable to talk to my own kids for weeks, and messages come only middle of the night. With cell phone coverage dimmer by the day, and internet only available in the wee morning hours, we rise by 4 am to maintain a sliver of contact with the outside world.

What was bad timing for Christian and Sebastan has been sheer gift for Venezuela’s President Nicolas Maduro. The COVID crisis hit precisely when the nation was grinding to a halt and the population’s patience was at breaking point. Gasoline – the latest in the long line of severe shortages of basic necessities – had all but disappeared.

Since Venezuela sits atop the world’s biggest pot of petroleum, this is quite an achievement. But it has been a team effort. Team 1, the Venezuelan government, has plundered its own oil industry for two decades to fund social programs and appease the military. Team 2 -Donald Trump and company - has pounded brutal sanctiones on Venezuelan, further bringing its oil industry to its knees.

As lack of transportation began to break food supply chains, tempers were heating up. And then, COVID -19 arrived, at a most convenient time for Maduro. Before any cases were detected, the government ordered a rigid quarantine and curfew. Poof, social explosion deterred.

Without doubt, the government’s swift action saved lives. Its early mandate of closures of borders, flights, schools and businesses slowed the virus’s spread. (Although, as Latin America becomes COVID’s new hot spot, let’s hope that holds.) But, the crisis also provided the perfect cover to keep an angering population off the streets.

To add to the government’s good luck, as gasoline was running out, the Rambo Boys arrived. The recent Bay of Piglets, consisted of a tiny group of U.S., Colombian and Venezuelan mercenaries landing on Venezuela’s shores and straight into the arms of Maduro’s military. Funded partially by Juan Guaido’s team, the almost comical “invasion” was orchestrated by a former US Green Beret, who claimed responsibility for the fiasco, while sitting the action out in his Florida living room. Maduro’s mantra that all of Venezuela’s problems are made in the USA gained a lot of ground that day.

One of the unlucky boats of self-appointed liberators ran out of gas close to shore (confirming that God does have a sense of humor) and washed up to the town of Chuao. I happen to have visited this charming coastal town several times and can tell you that it was precisely THE most wrong place to land. The Afro-Venezuelan fishermen and cacao farmers who had been showered with concrete love by Chavez in the form of new homes, school, clinic, and library, had no problem rounding up the Rambo Boys with their boats’ ropes. Formerly invisible to previous governments, Chuao will remain faithful to the Bolivarian project for some time, no matter how completely that project unravels.

Last week President Maduro announced the extension of the quarantine for another month. Christian is too busy to complain. After breakfast he tidies his kitchen - half of his one-room house -stacking recycled mayonnaise jars with corn flour and black beans on shelves he made. His prize quarantine accomplishment is the new chicken coop he built from adobe and bamboo. His brood has gone from 2 to 13 chicks in the time his mom has been gone. That will please her.

In the afternoons Christian sits in the shade of the mango tree to do his homework. He worries how he will keep up his top grades with no computer or smart phone to research distance-mandated projects.

Recently I asked Christian through the fence how he was feeling with his mom gone so long. Bien, he said, looking squarely at me with his calm eyes. And, I don’t doubt it, given his extraordinarily mature character and the fact that he is surrounded by extended family and neighbors who would never let him go hungry. But as evening falls I hear Christian calling his chicks to the the coop, pio pio pio pio, I know that he wishes he had a mom calling him and Sebastian home.

And I know that I wish I could heed my own daughter’s call to come home before she delivers her second baby. By then – September, this quarantine , and border closures, should have lifted. But since it’s the perfect cover for a collapsing nation, I won’t be surprised if it remains indefinitely.

I can tell you one thing. I’m already looking into back routes. If nothing else, 35 years in Venezuela has taught me not to give up easily.

The Little Dead One

The road to the Little Dead One's tomb winds up and down the Fumarola mountain, so I made the ten-mile pilgrimage on my horse. The steep path is treacherous with slippery fine dust in this dry season, but with Bebe riding by my side, I felt no fear. His gentle commands worked magic on the spirited Mistico.  

Last year, his wife Yelimar joined us for this annual trek. But this year she walked, with tiny Tiffany in her arms, to repay the Muertico for curing their baby's whooping cough.  


Bebe is about the age of the Little Dead One when he was forced by soldiers to dig his own grave.  Bebe's handicap in life is being unable to read or write, and the Little's Dead One's handicap was being deaf and thus unable to answer the question of where he was going when asked by the soldiers patrolling the mountain road.

That was 60 years ago. Or 80. Or maybe a hundred. Everyone in my village is hazy on the dates but totally clear about what ensued. The Little Dead One, or El Muertico in Spanish, was shot by the soldiers for not having an answer to their questions, buried in his self-dug grave, to be forgotten. No one even knew his name.

Except that he wasn't forgotten. Farmers began to place a rock on his burial site as they passed, adding a prayer. Through the years the rock pile grew along with the list of miracles performed by the Muertico, until the town decided to build a small chapel on the spot and hold a yearly remembrance in late January. He even got a name: Jose Maria, but everyone still calls him El Muertico out of affection. 

During my first many years in Palo Verde, I paid little attention to the El Muertico. His story seemed grim and his name was magically evoked in almost everything done in town. May the soul of the Muertico help us to..... build a new bathroom  ....pass chemistry......cure my son's asthma......... win the refrigerator raffle.

Actually, it was that last wish that first led me to Muertico several years ago. Bebe's mom, Franzuly, had won a refrigerator, thanks - apparently - to her prayer to the Muertico. She needed to pay return the favor with a candle, and invited me along. I grabbed my cuatro and followed her and her 8 kids and their friends up and over the mountain. At the chapel in a cool bend of the mountain, the kids reverently took off their hats, and lit their candles in prayer. 

Then, we retreated to a clearing in front of the chapel, and spent the day eating rice, playing tag and telling stories.

As the sun dipped, the kids called me to the chapel to sing Christmas aguinaldos and I strummed my cuatro as they sang their hearts out.

As Fabi took my hand to leave she declared: This was the best day the Muertico has had in a long time. And, I'm pretty sure the same was also true for Fabi and her friends. 

And that, I realized, was the magic.  The miracle of the Muertico was that he brought people together, and brought out the best in everyone. I was hooked, and thereafter invoked his name with every fruit tree I planted, with every wattle and daub cabin I built,  with every one of my three children I sent off to build their future. I became a solid attendee of the Muertico's annual celebrations such as that of last Sunday. 

After Bebe and I arrived, we joined a procession to light our candles in the chapel, intoning chants that seemed to hail from the Middle Ages. We watched as young and old danced the ancient tamunangue, with passion and grace, sweeping babies and children into their arms to ask for the Muertico's blessing and cure. And then we sat in the shade and ate from Franzuly's enormous soup pot which fed the 300+ pilgrims lavishly. 

Here, there was no hunger. Here, there was no despair. Here, there was no loneliness. Here, only community, compassion, abundance, music, dance, tradition, pure magic.

A few days after my town invoked the powers of perhaps the world's least known saint - the Muertico - to heal their children and community, Venezuela's self-proclaimed President Juan Guaido invoked the powers of perhaps the world's most powerful person - Donald Trump - to save his nation.  Hmmm, I wonder whose super powers will do the trick.


So far, the Muertico seems to be ahead. Trump's sanctions and threats have only multiplied the economic disaster hurled onto the Venezuelan people by the Venezuelan government itself. Meanwhile, with little fanfare, four million Venezuelans have slipped away to almost everywhere on the globe, working in almost anything, sending home millions. And it is these millions of dollars in the hands of millions of family members here that is slowly restarting Venezuela's economic motor. It is not because of but in spite of Trump's actions that this minor miracle is happening. A miracle not unlike that worked by the Muertico of community, unity, sharing, caring, 

I'm betting that the Little Dead One will be of much more help to Tiffany than Donald Trump, but time will tell. 

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.