Dharma and Automatic Weapons For Breakfast: The Reality of Venezuelan Island Life

(A little over four years ago, I moved with my then-husband and two young children to an island off the coast of his home country, Venezuela. To try a different way of life. Fast forward to today.)

As a cheerleader of transparency, I feel more and more like a fake lately. When people–friends and family from the States, readers too–ask me, “How are you? How are things going? What’s it like there?”, this internal trick door slides shut and redirects me into the default “fine, kids are well, [insert enjoyable thing we did recently], [redirect conversation back to them]” response. Why? Because although the good parts are very true and real, the full reality–the WHOLE truth–has become utterly unbelievable to most people. Even myself.

As my best friend here says, “Nobody on the outside could understand our conversations.”

“You cannot simply explain a typical day.”

And while our conversations overall contain an admirable level of acceptance, creativity and humor, he’s right: there’s a complex (and nowadays deeply depressing) context underlying them:

Venezuela has rapidly developed its own brand of tit-kicking insanity far beyond typical third world inconveniences or cultural quirks.

Here’s why I have avoided the subject for so long:

I loathe the idea that it will come across as a complaint.

I deeply despise complaining. Yes, it’s healthy to vent once in a while. (See Cattywhompus Exhale, below.) But to talk about something that’s difficult or makes you feel bad with no angle on solution or growth just sits like stink on a dead carcass with me. I’ve never complained about this place. I’ve accepted everything, but fact is, it has gotten to a point where it is severely, adversely affecting my life, my kids’ lives, and our possibilities. “Up-and-moving-away” isn’t a quick or easy solution–I have to start laying it out to see how or where I can work around it while I also work on some major changes. As well, I have a growing readership that I want to give an honest explanation of why there are extended periods of silence from here.

I don’t want sympathy.

I’m afraid to say the truth because I feel like people will believe that’s what I’m poking around for. Why solicit sympathy? What does that do? So, nope.

Because I get a glassy-eyed stare.

Or “That’s crazy” followed by radio silence. There is simply a wall of incomprehension there; people have no friggin’ clue how to respond. I get it.

People want to know what life is like here, and I’ve had an increasingly difficult time to start a piece on it, because I haven’t been able to figure out how to gracefully sew the picture together. It has so many incredibly good parts, but it’s difficult to unstitch them from the bad. When you see my beautiful pictures: pics of my smiling kids surfing in the clear blue Caribbean waters, of the land, sea, colors and all things South American that I love, it’s dishonest to not share the behind-the-scenes, the struggle behind the smiles: the full-contact sport we call basic daily functioning, and the injustice and decline of human welfare we are surrounded by.

The gracefully-sewn holistic patchwork quilt of this story is book length, so I’m unsticking myself from that idea for now to throw the turd on the table.

Life here has run amok too much to try to put lipstick on it.

On writing about it, my m.o. for this site, this project, is to always offer something of benefit: A way to shift perspective, to feel better, and thus, do better. I was stuck on what could possibly be beneficial from revealing all this until I got centered on the driving force compelling me to tell it:

To my great angst and concern, the increasing chaos this place has presented–the difficulties of basic day-to-day living–has almost entirely pulled me away from my work. (Literally. Anymore there are stretches of weeks that see maybe only 2–3 days–total (that’s pieced together)–to work.)

The very place, environment and experiences that were critical in helping me shed the fear and start to do what I do best and live a life of harmony and purpose seem to now be telling me to get the fuck out.

It feels like life is chewing up my Dharma and spitting it in my face.

And that can be very confusing.

Dharma is a Sanskrit word that translates loosely to “righteous living”; inner wisdom, our purpose, our unique mission in life; the reason we are here. It is our individual gift we were born to share, and it’s scripted into our souls.

We begin to understand what our Dharma is when we pay attention to what brings us real joy (not from ego)–books, food, athletics, children, the elderly, art, cleanliness–whatever brings you to life, makes time disappear and serves the world–somehow, somewhere in there is where your Dharma lies. Then there’s a lot of listening to your inner voice and refinement to nail its specifics. I’m not 100% yet myself on exactly which platforms or through which materials or practices my voice and ideas will ultimately find their full stride and wider connection, but I have a deep knowing there’s no turning back at this point.

But just following your inner guidance is far from easy for most. Listening to your inner voice can get tricky when it’s being drowned out by so many other voices: the people around you, expectations, deeply ingrained cultures, and the voice of your own fears and beliefs. And, well, life.

So when I got to my breaking point of not only not being able to work, but also not understanding why or how I find myself in this situation (when it started off working well FOR me)–I took my own oft-given advice and wrote it out. Sometimes you have to say (or write) things out loud to understand the significance or severity of a problem.

I could skip everything I’m about to say and get straight to a “lesson”. But I’m going to tell the actual story. Stories are life. Well, this isn’t a story so much as a glimpse. An aspect. A blurb. A BLEAT. A goat bleat. A disturbing attention-getter that is making me turn around and move my ass before the seat of my pants gets eaten; and, a lot of people asked me what it’s like. Here is a facet of your answer.

So.

When I get asked “Why are you there?” naturally followed by “Why don’t you leave?”, the answer isn’t short or easy. To start in a nutshell:

• I married a Venezuelan. Two kids, full time career and exhaustion later, we decided to try moving to this island in his country. At that time, things were pretty good by third world standards and the economy here was such that you could stretch a U.S. dollar unbelievably. We were going to start a little business or two doing things we loved and that would allow us more control over our lives with our children, and to try an environment that was less live-to-work and more work-to-live.
   We got divorced instead.
• As soon as I moved out of the house (that’s right, he got the house) to get my head together and figure out next steps, I discovered I had cancer. Insert year following of many tests, three surgeries, and most savings gone on medical and living expenses through the process.

Shit just didn’t work out. And that’s ok. One can always start over. In fact, I was enjoying the prospect.

Then, nobody could have guessed what was next. Let’s leave that nutshell.

The country fell apart. I’m not talking about a Donald Trump circus on TV; I’m talking very real, massive food, medicine and basic product shortages, water and electricity supply problems, and failing infrastructure that have brought us to this:

Basic life function is an almost full-time job in Venezuela.

In fact, I came up with a slogan for a bumper sticker:

Function is Unicorn

Aside from normal and expected third world inefficiencies and rustic-ness–which was understood and acceptable, at least to us “special breeds” that kind of like that sort of thing–it was really OK when we arrived. In the course of four years, things have spun out of control so quickly that I (and many people) didn’t have or take time to feel it out. It was too surreal.

This weird survival/denial thing kicked in.

Camaraderie strengthened, and we pulled up our skirts thinking surely this shit flood will soon subside.

Now it’s up our noses. Nobody signed up for this.

I have stayed until now because:

• $.
• Custody issues around my children.
• For what they have been through over the past couple of years–divorce, my medical hoo-ha, plus dad also started a new family right away–I didn’t want to embark on any legal conflict or additional major life changes for my kids any time soon. (I kept believing I could somehow push through this.)
• I do love the culture around children here, it’s protective and loving. The kids are greeted with hugs at the school entrance, and the attention to their well-being or challenges is a source of solace.
• We have a close-knit group of makeshift family.
• There is a culture of openness, non-political-correctness, acceptance and kindness here that has been a gift for my kids and me (!) to grow comfortable and confident with being who we are, in our own skin.
• I value what I am learning here: about self-reliance, patience, faith, street-smarts, caring for yourself* (especially when the world seems to be kicking the ever-loving shit out of you), figuring out what’s truly important in life. I somehow wasn’t able to do that fully in the path and environment I chose earlier in life. For some reason only the universe knows, this was the experience I had to have to get it.
• I love the life of fresh fruits, rickety vegetable stands, beach vibe and the distance from uber-materialistic consumer culture; the land is stunning and the spirit of creativity, perseverance and maintaining a sense of humor continues to inspire me.
• And honestly I believe this experience is pushing me into the growth and perspective to be the person, mother, writer and artist that I love.

* When you walk, drive or otherwise move through the life and energy in a foreign land–especially one that is physically hot, raw; at times aggressive, and always with an undercurrent of chaos (whether it be of joy or conflict)–and you feel a part of it yet alone; you are without home, a foreigner even in your home country, because everything you love, hate, dream and do has become boundary-less…

These are the moments you grow to realize you don’t belong anywhere except everywhere.

Your only home is in your heart, with your children, and of the dreams you are creating. So you start paying real special attention to yourself.

Now that that’s cleared up, let’s look at the other side of life in Venezuela.

Imagine life in a way that you can’t count on anything except the air you breathe for basic daily function. And I mean ANYTHING. I’ll break it down by topic or area of function.

The core cause of most of this crazy is the economy, so I’ll start with a quickie explanation of that:

Economy (or, the lives of its people near-fully embezzled and the 2,000% inflation that supposedly doesn’t exist)

One could write a book on why Venezuela’s economy is a horrible goat fuck. My focus is on what life is like: living in the results of said economy. But in a super-basic, high-level, non-economist-fluency-speak way, here’s what happened:

Years ago Venezuela was super-rich. President Chavez came into power about 20 years ago and funneled all the oil money into an incredibly corrupt welfare state: Spending on massive social programs and subsidies secured party loyalty from the nation’s poor as the government embezzled billions. The deterioration was mask-able as long as the oil money flowed; but the collapse of oil prices and continuing corruption under current President Maduro now have Venezuela in quite the pickle. It keeps spending declining oil money (its main source of income) plus borrowing from the central bank to fund irrelevant and backwards social programs and line their pockets while basic function and human welfare is disappearing.

It won’t work with outside countries to receive investment in technology and development, so everything is breaking. Government seizure of private businesses and inability to manage them ran production into the ground. Speculative bidding on scarce goods, price controls, and [insert web of economics that I don’t have the ability to fully comprehend or explain] have rendered the local currency virtually worthless. Inflation was “officially” somewhere around 275% last year (on the street it was realistically 2,000% in some instances); expected to (“officially”) hit 700+% this year. (Not typos.)

As it is a closed currency, businesses have to obtain U.S. dollars through the government to buy / import materials and goods to run their businesses, presumably at legal, government rates aligned with the country’s economy. As oil income has dropped, there is hardly any money to go around. To stay remotely alive, many businesses have to buy dollars on the black market (to get the materials to function or products to sell), which means they have to sell the products at prices totally out of line with the country’s standard of living.

Not all businesses can do it, or are severely limited. Importation has plummeted, and many things the country COULD produce (at least partially) have disappeared because they can’t even get the portion of materials needed from outside (i.e., let’s say, bottles in which to put the liquid, or parts to fix the machinery to run the plant).

The disparity between which prices are still regulated (to remain “affordable” according to standard of living) and which are not is wild. (I’ll speak in dollar equivalents.) As you read, keep this in mind:

The salary of an average school teacher is approximately $30 per month. Around $24 of that is in money; the remaining is in food tickets.

(And that was after being raised 30% last year to “keep up” with inflation–something that one of the nation’s finance deputies (or whatever they call them) declares “doesn’t exist.” True story.)

You can have a consultation with a medical specialist (i.e. a urologist or mastologist) for the equivalent of $5, but a battery for your car–if you can “meet” the right people who can get one (probably stolen) for you–is $50 or more. (They’re no longer readily available for purchase. See Product Shortages, below.)The exact same plastic piece needed to repair your 1980 toilet is $6 in one place and $12 across the street.

An afternoon at the movies with my two kids–popcorn and drinks included–is a grand total of $5. My electricity bill is 15 cents per month. But a poorly made tshirt or pair of school uniform pants for kids is $10. A small window-unit air conditioner is $150.

Let’s go back to the average school teacher. Thirty percent of her month’s pay for a pair of school pants for her kid. (I give our outgrown stuff to their school.) It would take a solid five months of of her salary to replace a small air conditioning unit in her bedroom. You know, to sleep comfortably in the tropics. Or 70% of her month’s salary to buy a basic fan. Or something like 6% of her monthly salary to buy a carton of eggs. That’s like if you made $30,000 per year salary in the States and it cost you over $100 to buy a carton of eggs.

Apply this idea to most all other basic goods and necessities and you can start to understand: we are surrounded by frustration and hopelessness of really good, intelligent and creative people ever making a life for themselves. The majority of people have stopped talking about ideas. Hog-tied.

Electricity (or, that trickster always lurking around the corner. “You were doing something? Psych! Not anymore.”)

Due to failing infrastructure (due to incomprehensible corruption and embezzlement instead of investment in maintenance, repair and upgrade of the country), we have electrical outages. Sometimes it’s daily–could be 1–2 hours, could be eight. There may be weeks or even a month with no outages. As soon as you get comfortable, they start again. You can’t EVER depend on being able to work (i.e. with a computer or internet), finish homework, dinner or a shower. A day when all of those are completed seamlessly is noticeable and calls for wine.

Without electricity you can’t run water either, as each house has its own individual water pump that brings it in from your tank. Pumps run on electricity. We keep a bucket of water in the shower in case it goes out mid-shampoo, and another bucket on the porch in case we need to clean dishes in the dark. It’s not uncommon to plan a morning of errands only to have half of them rendered not do-able because an area of town doesn’t have electricity.

Between this, Product Shortages (see below) and Protests (see below), heading out to “take care of a few things” is never a sure thing.

We don’t freak out about it. If we did, the entire country would die off of strokes and heart attacks. You simply develop this mechanism to move into another form of productivity or relaxation. Working on the computer turns to planning or writing on paper. TV or homework time at night turns into storytelling or playing cards by candlelight. If you’re out running errands and a store in which you needed to do something is out–well yes that was a grand waste of an hour round trip (plus a new day’s plans changed to attempt it again), but you try to find something else in another part of town you can knock out, or at the very least focus your return home on a new creative idea. Anything to try to make something of the waste.

The plants are hydro-powered and backup provisions (like, for drought) were never made. So in this moment, after a long-running El Nino, we are running dangerously low on electricity-generation capability. Instead of fixing the problem, all government offices were just mandated closed on Fridays to further cut electrical use. Large commercial centers aren’t allowed to open until noon, and even then most of the day is mandated without air conditioning. (Yes we live about four feet from the equator.) The president of the country just asked that women stop drying their hair with hair dryers. He said he prefers women that “tousle their hair dry with their fingers anyway.”

True story.

Drinking Water (or, thankful to have arms)

This is procured in 5-gallon containers. Filtration systems and components are no longer available to make tank (house) water an option to drink out of the faucet. You put the container in your car and stop by any local bodega, hardware shop, or bakery that has a rack of water bottles they sell on the side. You must trade your used one. Yet another annoying detail to load onto your brain as you’re trying to get kids organized for school; even more annoying when you stop at the bodega and realize your empty container is still sitting next to the driveway, as you forgot to load it into the car with said kids. This was part of the original way of life, but has become noticeably annoying when sandwiched in with the really big stuff going wrong. Had to throw it in there.

House Water (or, thankful I am a people-person with a good water-truck-guy rapport)

Every house has a tank built underground; your individual, self-maintained pump pumps it into your house. If you live in an area that receives water from the street (in better times it arrived maybe twice a week), you have a pipe connecting your tank to the street pipe. The tank also has an opening with a large, heavy, metal top you open to put water in via hose from a water truck if you are not connected to street service or when there is no water service period. Like now.

We have been in drought here for three years. Reservoirs are drying up. Water coming in from the mainland is minimal (drought + failing systems). The costs of water delivered via truck (they get it from reservoirs) (or other questionable resources nowadays. Seems stomach parasites have increased lately. Remember you still have to use this to wash your food and self.) has more than doubled in the past 6 weeks alone. And you better be damn nice to your water truck guy–they’re getting paid extra by hotels and larger businesses so unless they have a soft spot in their heart for you, your calls may be ignored.

Schedule-wise, this means someone has to be at the house to receive the water on the water guy’s time frame. They usually give you a rough window, but shit happens. So this is average two days out of your month that’s up in the air just for water. And the constant checking tank level, gauging how far ahead of time to start hunting down your water guy, etc. is always floating around your mind. (Pardon the pun.)

Apartment living has become a nightmare here (thank god I’m not in that category!): As their pumps and tanks are controlled on a larger scale, many have been limited to water service for anywhere from 30 minutes to 2 hours per day. In areas of Caracas and other large cities, they only get water for a couple of hours 3 days per week.

The cost of the kids’ swim classes goes up at least 120% per month to keep the pool full.

My kids are now mentally damaged about conserving water. To watch someone water a plant gives me heart palpitations. I use leftover spaghetti water for my flowers. In theory, this environmental friendliness is beautiful, but when it’s so starkly real (when you’ve experienced literally no water for days) it doesn’t seem so cute anymore.

Cooking gas (or how I’ve learned to always keep a stock of raw-friendly eats)

Procured in portable canisters that you hook up to the hose connected to the stove. They’re called bombas, which is also the word used locally for bus stop, firetruck, firecrackers and light bulbs. Context is important when speaking. I digress.

In the good ol’ days you had two: When, in the middle of cooking, you hit the end of the gas in one canister, you switch it out to your backup. Over the next days or weeks (depending on how much cooking you do, a canister can last up to 6–10 weeks), you put the bomba in the car and go to a local supplier and change it out for a full one.

In current times, you don’t simply go to a local supplier. You chase a gas truck. That’s right. The bombas are in such short supply–as they degrade and are put out of service, no new ones are being produced–there’s not enough to stock at formerly typical brick-and-mortar locations to just walk in and trade it out.

You write off the majority of your morning to a stakeout, not unlike CSI agent.

The trucks come rambling in at various hours in the morning. You park in a spot with a quick entry onto the road. When they finally pass, you follow it until it stops at a restaurant or other commercial service account, run out with canister in hand and trade for your new one. Always tip.

These days many people are down to one if an old one finally died, or if you were setting up house “new”. They don’t even sell you a “new” one officially anymore. How did I get mine? I grabbed a friend and drove out to the facility (45 minutes away). Asked to buy one and was refused (knew this would happen). Asked again to buy one for more money. Nope. Made eye contact with a driver who overheard the conversation. In an unspoken agreement way, we met outside as he prepared for his daily rounds. We asked if he could help me out. In short, he “procured” a tank for me for triple the fair price plus a case of beer. It was delivered late that afternoon.

Haven’t had that kind of luck getting a backup canister, so when we run out of gas, sometimes dinner plans change to bananas. And whatever plans I had for the next morning are totally off the table as the focus has to be: bomba stakeout. If your one bomba empties on a weekend or holiday, then you’re on a raw diet for a few days.

Internet (and the strange way its failure both opened and closed a path)

Infrastructure issues mean internet is also unreliable (a kind word). As companies aren’t able to obtain the dollars necessary to upgrade equipment or service, maintenance and repair are on a bubble gum / paper clip / emergency basis. Sometimes internet is stable for a few months; other times it fails daily. Some areas go for months with zero service waiting for repair.

I didn’t move here to become a local banana farmer. If I had wanted to live a life cut off from the outside world, I would have moved to the jungle to work with medicinal herbs, or started a beach bar. (Thank god we didn’t go that direction. It was a consideration for about 5 minutes–2 years later, we would see the bar we entertained bulldozed by the government (along with hundreds of others whose livelihoods had depended on them for many years) with no compensation.) I moved here ensuring beforehand that internet was solid, knowing that was a key tool to support my plans.

When we moved here, service was fine. But as of about two years ago, the decline forced me to give up the option of taking outside client work (copywriting, content development, etc.) because it depends on scheduled interactions via internet or delivery deadlines–to which I could no longer commit due to unreliability of internet as well as electricity. I thought, well, it’s a push or a message from the universe to focus on my personal work: particular writing and art projects, something I had put off even after moving here out of fear and shame. I could still use internet mostly, but didn’t have to fear getting cut off of client calls or missing a paid deadline. I started a little jewelry business (exporting to the US and Europe) to sustain the basics while I started development of the writing projects on the side. That was going OK until about a year ago when the only shipping option (we have no postal service) increased their prices 5x overnight (not a typo), making shipping more expensive than the pieces themselves. In one day I had to close up shop on my only source of income.

I thought, well, it’s a harder push from the universe to focus more strongly on the project, so I made provisions to devote approximately the next couple of years, living super duper…duper…lean, in full concentrated efforts to lift it off the ground. (At this point, I had no options for a “day job” anyway. Due to the “new economy” here, even if I worked full time in, let’s say, tourism (non-existent anymore anyway) or teaching (using my English language asset–about the only options here), I would not bring in enough to even feed us. So that’s a fast track to death.)

As of this writing, I haven’t had internet in my house for some months now. The thing that closed (just enough) to push me to kind of take the time-out to develop my gift is oddly the same thing I need to get it back out into the world. I have spent time jumping between internet cafes and a friend’s house here or there, but even this is becoming unsustainable. Keep reading.

Banks and Cash (Deep project management experience required.)

We actually have bank accounts with debit cards. Which is half meaningless when you consider how many businesses don’t have a point of sale system. (Or, if they do have POS, the line is down at any random time.) Vegetable stands (main source of food when you’re locked out of supermarkets because of ration lines (see Food Shortages, below), mechanics, kids’ school lunch, water truck–most small businesses can’t afford or navigate the seven mirrored layers of hell to procure a point of sale system. As there is no such thing as Target, Home Depot, etc., we rely on small businesses for many things. Sometimes, after you develop a relationship with the owner, they will allow you to pay them via online bank transfer. Until then, it’s cash. Which, four years ago, was not that big of a deal. You went to the bank maybe once per month, along with an occasional pass by an ATM, and that was enough to function.

Now. The banks set limits on how much you can pull from an ATM machine or cash a check at the bank. It is set for security purposes (see Crime, below) but the fact is it doesn’t expand in a timely manner to keep pace with inflation. In this moment, the amount you can pull from an ATM is literally not enough to buy a pineapple. If you can find one that works. There are no dollars to procure the parts needed to fix them.

So the new circus goes something like this: To cash a check to have sufficient cash for a “normal” stretch of 1–2 weeks (remember, that’s still capped and out of line with inflation as well) goes as follows: The bank opens at 11:00 a.m. If you don’t queue the line by 10:00 a.m., you could face waiting an additional 1–2 hours after the opening bell, then risk not even being able to cash a check for a sufficient amount that you made this trip for because they decrease the amount allowed sometime in the early afternoon. So I wait outside for an hour for it to open (I’ve gotten good at being within the first 3 customers of the day); hopefully within 10–15 minutes I’ll have submitted my check to the teller. As I am a foreigner, it has to go through a verification. I sit back down and wait anywhere from 20–45 minutes for this to happen. On a perfect day, I am out by 11:30. I walk around for about 15 minutes to ensure I’m not being followed, then I can head home, arriving around 12:30–1:00 after stopping for the day’s food (see Food Shortages, below). Boom. Half a day. On a less than perfect day, I’m out of the bank by 12–12:30. And more often than I care to think about, I go, do the wait, and…the system is down. No cash. Try again another day.

When you consider my days end promptly around 4:00 to start the kids’ after-school / dinner / bath / bed phase, the discipline to twist your brain onto work within these 2–3 hour time blocks (if electricity holds out!) is becoming a serious mental feat, especially factoring in losing hope you’ll be able to gain any momentum and complete an actual anything given all the other show-stoppers and distractions.

It used to be you could pretty well count on only needing 1 day per month at the bank to function smoothly. Now it’s average 3–5 days per month. I’ve established a backup cash hustle with a couple of local small business owners that deal largely in cash — I take their cash and make an online transfer to their account. But this isn’t always a sure thing as sometimes they have to turn around and use more cash than normal.

Surprises.

One recent example: In my efforts for efficiency, I save up as many errands or purchases to be tackled in one day instead of breaking up every day with trips, distractions, etc. On a fairly normal errand day, I used my debit card 6 times (no outrageous purchases, just a series of regular stuff.) My card was blocked and required half a day at the bank to sort (after being disabled for the entire weekend). When I asked why this time when this has been my pattern for quite a while, well, they had to add new flags due to increasing crime. *sigh*.

Another recent example: The other day I went online to make a payment via transfer for a car part I need (I had to buy the part on a website as I couldn’t find it locally. It’s the South American version of eBay on which you can’t pay via debit card). After logging in to the bank site, you then have to use a different security card that emits a constantly changing secret code to input to do any further functions like transfers.

“The old security card has been disabled. There is a new way to perform all your transactions now.”

Good morning.

You had to solicit a new type of card via their website, and you had to be connected to a printer to print it out. I was in a location that didn’t have a printer, and based on experience I could guess that the file would go straight to print without being visible first. Given how inefficient and user unfriendly the systems are designed, I was afraid if I tried to save the file perhaps it wouldn’t allow that and would bung up my account and force me to go to the bank to unblock. I’ve been blocked out of my account for lesser offenses that took half a day of physical presence to get back to functioning.

So I spent a total of 8 hours over two days between driving to various internet cafes and a friend’s house with a printer to get this thing done. The bank’s website simply was not working properly. I am not a potato. I used to work in technology. The site could not process the request.

Finally on day 3 I had to go to the bank. After waiting the hour in line outside, I was able to speak with a customer service woman. I explained everything, asked if she could please help me by putting my new card request through her system? “You have to do it on the website.” “But the website doesn’t work.” “You have to do it on the website.”

I politely sat down to restrategize while I waited also to cash a check, which I couldn’t do because the system was down. So at the point where I’m not even sure why I’m still sitting in the bank, the goofy, fat, bucktoothed security guard comes over. I’m a regular and clearly a standout, and I’m always super nice to him and my main teller chick. He quietly tells me the “trick” to getting around the system and not blocking my account in order to procure the card.

Totally worked.

He’s getting a bottle of whiskey from me this Christmas.

Black Market Money (or, I’m just a regular girl but I feel like a high-stakes drug dealer)

Oh, but what about the money in the account to start with? Since I don’t earn in local currency, I have to trade US dollars for it. But if you traded dollars at one of the official rates through the bank (currently around 200 Bolivares to the dollar), I think that translates to something like $8 for a basic package of pasta or $18 for a small bottle of not-fancy olive oil or $15 for a tiny bundle of 5 ponytail elastics. So obviously, no.

How does a delicate foreign flower like myself get immersed in the underbelly of illegal currency trading? If you work on a cash basis–like many foreigners that don’t have a bank account — you start with the dealers on the beach. If you’ve just landed here, these are the easiest to hook up with. Anyone in any hotel or posada can direct you to one. You take your cash, meet up with them in their bodega or whatever shop front they have; they tell you the current rate, you exchange bundles and off you go with more spending power. (Currently around 1,000 Bolivares to the dollar. Makes more sense, no?)

More seasoned local foreigners work with the Columbians. They have a “souvenir shop” a little ways inland. It’s a bit more discreet, less exposed. Plus they’re pretty badass. Last year someone went in to rob them. The robber tied up the son and clocked him over the head with the handle of the gun to knock him out. He directed “the old man” to get the cash. Old man / Quickdraw came out with a gun and shot the robber before he knew what happened. It is for this reason I prefer working with the Columbians: they are a bit more protective of their customers. But really, I of course avoid if possible working in cash exchange at all, because it is known what they do in there and can be a target for crime (ok, on top of the crime that is already in progress, but this country’s economy is a crime so, really…)

All that being said, I’m to the point where I rarely have cash in US dollars anyway–I work almost entirely in electronic transfers. There are plenty of Venezuelans or foreigners with US bank accounts that are buying dollars: You hustle through friends of friends to make contact, agree on the amount they will buy and the rate you will receive. You make the wire transfer of dollars from your US account to theirs, then they transfer the local currency from their Venezuelan bank account to your Venezuelan bank account. This is about a week process overall. It can be unnerving if you’re working with someone you don’t know or who has little frame of reference. If they never transfer the local money to you, there’s nothing you can do about it. So it’s better to find someone who does it as a business–of course they can be trusted because it’s their business they’re keeping afloat, by taking a commission on the trade.

My guy is an Austrian. He came through a solid reference. I’ve never met him but we have a trusted relationship now. As soon as I’ve alerted him I’ve made my transfer, he doesn’t even wait the 3 business days for my money to land in his account, he just goes straight away to make a deposit to me. Regardless, you have to keep your attention on how your money is flowing:

1) You don’t want to trade too much at a time as rates fluctuate daily. For as quickly as prices rise, you want to make sure your spending power is on track.

2) As prices can literally double overnight, what you thought would last a month only lasts surprise! two weeks–you’d better be prepared ahead of time, otherwise you’re going to be living on bread and bananas from the neighbor’s tree while you wait to receive money to function again.

One exchange every 1–2 months used to be the norm, and that was an expected known. Now, with inflation, you have to keep it in constant check weekly. So that’s another slice of your mental pie always diverted to basic function that in a “normal” life would be near-mindless auto-pilot.

Food Shortages (or, how I ROFL when I see someone on Facebook pout because they couldn’t stick to the dinner plan chart they laid out for the week)

In the Economy section I noted how importation has almost ground to a halt as has national production. At last count I think the news mentioned there were over 500 food production companies gone dark here. Combined with lack of imports, here is a running sample list of food products that either:

…Have disappeared off supermarket shelves altogether

…Fluctuate in availability (i.e. may not be around for months, come back for a couple of months then disappear again)

…Are available through small who-you-know back-of-the-store networks (I call them mafias) which sell them at inflated prices

….Or are available only in rations–sometimes–to be obtained by standing in hours-long lines on the day designated for the last two corresponding numbers of your national ID card. (This is not an option available to foreigners for security reasons, and, just, no. We get by on vegetables and meats from the meat-erias (well, not me but the meatatarians) and can at least afford some of the inflated-price items.)

• “Arena Pan” — This is a cornmeal-type thing, the most basic, traditional base food element of Venezuela, used for arepas (patties stuffed with cheese, meats, eggs, tuna — whatever your poison) and empanadas. It is cheap, filling and not too horrible for you in the non-fried version. This is a staple for all Venezuelans, but most especially those in poverty. This is now obtained by hours-long queues or the food mafia. I only have some hoarded because my ex-husband’s sister owns two restaurants in the mainland. She has to be in the food mafia network, obviously. She drove her truck over on the ferry to visit recently and brought us a good load of hard-to-find or unavailable items.
• Milk
• Butter
• Cereal — found in one bodega recently. Eaten as a dry finger-food treat because no milk.
• Oatmeal
• Sugar — only available to bakery mafias. Luckily I only use raw sugarcane or honey.
• Coffee — available in short runs and inflated prices
• Rice
• Pasta — short runs and inflated prices
• Beans — back-of-store mafia (after a long disappearance)
• Eggs — This was a cute one recently. The government decided — because they don’t have bigger fish to fry? — to put a price control on eggs. This meant it cost more to produce them than what they could be sold for. So they went away entirely for months–sellers violating the price control supposedly could get up to 10 years in prison. They are starting to come back in small amounts only at local vegetable stands, and of course at inflated prices. (Remember the school teacher: For them, it’s like paying $100 for a carton of eggs.) This happened with chicken last year.
• Cooking oil — rations for locals only
• Bread — there are periods of time when even the bakeries can’t get flour. So there’s no bread in the bakery. Not even a source of astonishment anymore.
• Baby food and formula
• Ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise — random appearances in small quantities
• Olive oil — small quantities at inflated prices

Plus dozens of little things that, while not critical, add to the frustration, like not being able to find basic black pepper and various common spices, nuts, former little luxuries like sesame oil (used to be essential in my vegetable stir-fries) or…frozen waffles. (Ok, that’s me being a princess.)

At this point though, really, it’s not even frustration. It’s just acceptance, and that familiar despondent feeling as you walk up and down the supermarket aisles that are either empty or fronted with rows and rows of the same products, intended to trick the eye into abundance:

canned sardines
 canned tomatoes
 salt
 soy sauce
 canned peas
 chocolate drink mix
 jelly (sometimes)
 nationally-produced cookies that suck
 …um, yeah. Those are the highlights.

I’ve never seen a shortage of whiskey or Doritos. Ever.

I’ve learned to only try the supermarket about once per month, for a couple of things you can’t get at fruit stands or local bakeries or bodegas, like salad dressing (maybe, and only because it’s still difficult to get the kids to eat grown-up style olive-oil-and-red-wine-vinegar-dressed salad) (and if available, maybe two flavors to choose from), olive oil, and luxury treats like ginger (sometimes), mushrooms (maybe).

Why avoid it? National Guard-manned queues for “regulated” products (for, say, a package of arena pan, a bottle of cooking oil and a roll of toilet paper) are done in the morning which keeps you locked out of most of the bigger supermarkets until around noon, so a supermarket visit is usually scheduled to be consolidated on a bank day when I’m not finished until mid-day anyway. As well, systems have become so slow that checkout times can be at least 30 minutes, often closer to an hour.

Restaurant menus are written in chalk and even then you ask if it’s available, and you don’t get mad if it’s not. It’s not their fault. We all laugh together when the pizzeria has no pizza.

To collect enough food for a week is not simply one supermarket run and a side vegetable stand stop anymore. It’s an almost-daily excursion between any combination of 2–3 sources.

I know it’s super great to eat so healthy (mainly fruits and veggies) but dammit it’d be nice to “count on” throwing together a basic sandwich with mayonnaise when the day has strung you out such that you can’t imagine another hour of vegetable-prep at home.

*Random mindfuck: That you sit on the beach, here in the Caribbean, and have a fresh fish / salad / plantain meal for, like, $3. Isn’t that everyone’s vision of paradise? While all of that ^ is happening?

Product Shortages (or, wouldn’t it be nice to brush our teeth without “how will this happen next time?” swirling in your mental background)

In the same vein as food shortages, here is what we juggle, mafia, hoard and bribe to get (maybe):

• Toothpaste. The country’s minister of health actually stated that it’s the people’s fault there is a toothpaste shortage, because the dentists tell us to brush our teeth 3 times a day, which is a capitalist conspiracy designed to trick us into using more of their product. She said to brush your teeth once per day is more than enough. True story.
  (Add baking soda to the list, so even the backup isn’t an option.)
• Feminine products — I have purchased pantyliners from the guy at the cauchero (tire repair shop) because whatever, he got a hold of some from the back of a store somehow and wanted to make a little extra money. Lucky for me my awesome aunt and other friends ship me care packages of tampons.
• Diapers
• Sunscreen
• Shampoo — I got by for a year on a stock from a stateside care package, which was still expensive to bring in due to weight. Some shampoo is reappearing–at inflated prices and from countries I’ve never imagined you would get shampoo from, and who clearly do not have advanced shampoo technology, said her head of straw, I mean, hair.
• Soap — body, dish, hand
• Dog food
• Toilet paper — Hasn’t been on the shelf in well over a year. Glory be to the heavens I have been able to hoard baby wipes, but even they were gone for a while.
• Car tires and batteries — Absolutely none have been readily available for public purchase for at least two years now. For a little while, you could buy them online on our version of eBay (at way inflated prices), but the government blocked the sale of batteries and tires online last year. I had to search physically for tires for months until I was getting down to threads; finally had to order them from the States and have them shipped in. The shipping cost was as much as the tires themselves.
• Many car parts. Taxi drivers and buses often have to find another means to make a living because they’re parked for total lack of or can’t afford the parts due to black market pricing.
• Auto oil and other fluids (oil change time always dreaded)
• Paper — printer, drawing pads, construction paper
• Parts for computers, cameras and mobile phones (i.e. batteries), printers, etc.
• Cleaning products were a problem for a huge stretch; starting to reappear. I used vinegar + water + essential oil I’ve had stashed from the States for a long time. Then vinegar goes away periodically.
• Bug spray. It’s the tropics. (Though there is still wildlife for which you need a machete, and thankfully those are still available.)
• Building supplies — Cement and rebar. All construction and repairs are done with cement (it’s the tropics). These products are actually illegal to have in this moment unless you have a ream of paperwork with the government. Imagine if wood and drywall were illegal?

My friend is building a house. Every pallet of cement is found through connections of connections and delivered under the cover of darkness, usually in a bus so as not to call attention to the police or National Guard (they stop and inspect every kind of delivery truck in certain areas.) Once he had a delivery team being chased by the police; they called ahead, he open the gate (most houses have tall cement walls and sliding solid metal gates into the drive, for security), the delivery vehicle sped in (almost hitting the house), the door flew shut and all lights off until the police finished cruising up and down their street numerous times. It’s at least better than the times you transfer money to an unknown connection and they disappear.

…My shower needs a repair that would call for knocking out a chunk of the wall (to replace a full connection for a new handle because the old kind is no longer available.) Until there is cement, we continue to screw our shower on and off with a big set of pliers.

*Random mindfuck: Walking through a shopping mall filled with high-end designer stores. But the air is stagnant because air conditioning usage in large commercial centers is turned off to save electricity, and there’s no toilet paper in the bathrooms.

And the most nerve-wracking shortage of all:

MEDICINES

Basic stuff: Ibuprofen, antibiotics, seizure meds, Prednisone — you name it. I had a severe kidney infection a few weeks back. Multiple pharmacies–no antibiotics. I laid in bed for 4 days waiting for antibiotics until a friend of a friend, who works in a laboratory, was able to get a hold of them on the down-low. People are using animal meds in some instances, though I even had to put my dog down because he contracted an illness for which the medicine simply was unavailable and he was failing for what could have been fixed.

If a med is available in one city but not another, the government has blocked sending the medicine through delivery services.

This is getting way too real. Because what if that was my child lying there for 4 days while we ran all from hell to breakfast and back for a simple antibiotic?

Add to that things like MRIs and bone scans are either intermittently or no longer available here because they can’t obtain the dollars for the materials needed to run the equipment, and you’re looking at a two-day flight + hotel excursion for some fairly basic medical tests….

No Hay (pronounced “No Eye”) = There is no [ ]

This is the answer we get on a daily or weekly basis for a common product or service that cannot be had. And there are new surprises every time.

Car Maintenance (like a nation of trailer trash with cars on blocks)

The only new cars making it into the country anymore are on an individual basis: people who have the resources from the States or Europe to buy one abroad and bring it over. Cars were starting to become scarce four years ago; now you keep what you have, period. There is a huge population with cars that are creeping into the 8–9–10 year old phase–that time of life when things need to be replaced. (Add to it the rough roads, tropical climate and salt air and the degradation is even rougher.) This has become the bane of many people’s existence: It is a new at-least-monthly project that more often than not is a surprise.

(Let’s not address the even larger population of vehicles more than 30 years old.)

Mechanics work from their individual shops or homes–there’s no such thing anymore as a dealer mechanic. In and of itself not so bad, but now layer on the combination of product shortages, economy and lack of technology, and you see many of them no longer even have a car of their own because the cost of parts and tires is prohibitive. Sometimes they wait for months to obtain a tool or piece of equipment to do their job. So, finding parts? If they can be found locally you have to go get it yourself–a) the carless mechanic, and b) even if they can venture out themselves, they can no longer afford nor put a system in place to front the parts purchases. You’re on your own. This is where a simple car repair can rob you of days of your time.

Sometimes your mechanic knows a shop owner and can call ahead to see if they have a part; other times it’s a wide open search. I remember one day traversing ten shops in one day. TEN. But you do it because you hold on to the chance you can get the problem resolved instead of your car being parked for weeks waiting for a part to come from the U.S. But sometimes it comes down to that anyway. Either way, you’re still on your own to go get it, and many of these shops are in areas that blond white girl should not venture alone. So I have to arrange a local male or taxi driver to go with me. At least this usually lends lively conversation and funny stories to tuck away.

Needless to say, when something starts to sound funny, sheer dread sets in. You fist-fight it because there have been miracles that give you something to believe in, but you know the reality that is all too possible.

Our cars have become part of our daily prayers and blessings. A friend and I recently commiserated how every morning we take a deep breath before we start our cars. (I didn’t know anyone else did this.)

There is only one store left that receives batteries to sell (sometimes) within a huge-mile radius, and you have to stand in an overnight line (or pay someone to do it–a requirement if you are a foreigner, because it is totally unsafe despite being manned by the National Guard) to try your luck at getting a battery at a fair price. If enough are even available. Usually not. So when your battery goes (they have about a year life span here)…it’s stressful. You’re parked for a while, while the reality of actually finding a battery is transpiring: hustling down the line of the criminal friends of friends of friends who mysteriously have one to sell.

Remember that teacher? If she has a car (from the good ol’ days!), it might cost her a solid 10+ months of salary to replace two tires; a solid 3 months of salary to fix a basic air conditioning problem; a solid two month’s salary for a battery.

Protests (in the style of stabbing one’s eye out to make their stomach feel better)

When people get more pissed off than usual they form protests by blocking roads to piss everyone else off. And the people in charge of the things pissing people off are comfortable somewhere else. They don’t protest in front of government offices; they drag out old tires and mattresses and tree limbs and metal things and set fire to them in the middle of the road and fight amongst themselves. The more organized protests are so savvy that every possible alternate route is blocked. I’ve had days where I was late to pick the kids up from school because of it. (One time some kids sat at school until 7:00 pm it was so bad from one side of the island.) We’ve had plans for a day out on a weekend totally changed to be homebound. I’ve had people jump out in front of me as I was driving on the highway, throwing down tires and trash and gas and matches and boom there’s a fire 20 feet from my car.

And no I do not know what I’d do in case of a real emergency (i.e. had to get to the hospital) because the police or National Guard do nothing about the road blocks.

Crime

For as much as there is a culture of kindness and camaraderie, the other extreme of crime is powerful. It’s up to something like 70% poverty here and the gap between “have” and “have not” is intensifying rapidly. On the lighter end of things: You don’t stand on a busy street gabbing on your cell phone–it will likely get ripped out of your hand. You don’t hire a handyman that doesn’t have a frame of reference from people you know very well–you don’t want anyone unknown getting the lay of the land of your property or things. There are no car dealership mechanics, you have your individual guy–through heavy reference. Otherwise you’re getting parts pulled out of your car and replaced with older ones, or new things magically going wrong (that they can fix for you!) You take measures to ensure you’re not being followed after you cash a check at the bank. (My ex was robbed at gunpoint after leaving a bank one time.)

Outside of your standard infighting, gang crimes and rampant petty theft, foreigners are obviously increasingly targeted because the perception is that we have money. Even older people on a very modest pension (which would have them eating cat food in Europe) live decently here comparatively and so, yes, do have more money than someone at the local poverty level.

Which, “poverty” has now opened up like a black hole and sucked in what used to be the middle and even upper middle class. I digress. Anger moment.

Just because someone speaks English does not mean they’re cool in the slightest, and in fact, I’ve learned to avoid most foreigners anymore because they are here for bad reasons and they’re obnoxious to boot–nice, normal-ish people don’t come here much anymore. The little crowd that I’ve taken as my friends are mostly long-timers and locally savvy enough that they’re left alone. There are a few places we’ll venture out sometimes on an evening; there’s even a local square to go with the kids that is super family friendly, kind of a bubble (so far). But generally we’re inside after dark.

On the heavier end of things:
 People have a “lady of the house” (cleaning, cooking, etc.) for years and finally they’re broken into, tied up, held at gunpoint while their place is cleaned out. And the only one who could have known the logistics is… the lady of the house who never showed back up for work.

In a nicer part of town, about 25 people were enjoying a meal in a little burger restaurant (I know the owner) on a Saturday night. Robbers bombarded the place at gunpoint and stripped everyone of cash, phones, jewelry, etc. (Now the door is permanently locked and visitors are assessed before they are allowed to enter.)

A woman walking alone with her baby in a stroller (not an unpopulated area, but a quiet part of the day) was robbed at gunpoint in broad daylight for the equivalent of what was only enough to buy a bag of carrots.

A friend stops by to tell you “Remember that older retired couple, (the American guy) and (his Venezuelan wife)? They went missing a couple of days ago. Car stolen, house robbed; they were found burned and buried–along with their dog. The main suspect is the man who was their assistant for many years.”

People down the street from where my friend is building his house were robbed in the middle of the night as they slept. They came downstairs to see what that noise was, and the robbers ran out of house, climbed the ladder to jump the wall, and fired a couple of parting shots. No one was hurt. They suspect it was members of a family on the same street.

A friend of mine runs a cattle ranch in the mainland. He has a list of people he keeps on payroll to stay home: It became less expensive than everything they were swindling, and he can’t legally fire them.

A friend’s shop was robbed. She went to file a police report. They said they couldn’t do anything because she didn’t know who the robber was. True story.

Speaking of police:

Police bribery and automatic weapons for breakfast

Police checkpoints are common. Often I’m sure they’re honestly looking for drugs, etc., and that is valiant. However, it is fact that they target visitors and foreigners to try to harass and confuse about car or license paperwork, etc., hoping to get a please-just-leave-me-alone-and-let-me-go bribe out of you. Because imagine: they’re on that same teacher’s salary and have kids to feed too.

But, though I have friends that factor this bribery into their functioning–for example, one older guy that simply carries a $50 bill folded inside his car papers–this is where I have called bullshit. My personal ID card, car’s paperwork, etc. are all correct and valid. I’ve developed a system for the few police left around here (most recognize me by now) who try to insist that I need x y or z that I know I don’t in order to intimidate a bribe out of me: I pretend my grasp on Spanish is extremely minimal; I am calm and polite but I don’t budge. My “poor Spanish” doesn’t allow them any further complex interactions with me. I act innocent and apologetic with a smile that I’m so sorry I don’t understand, yet eke out enough to corner them into specifically stating what I “did wrong”. I ping-pong back and forth when they try to tell me I need “x” and I say “But the [official office] told me I didn’t” until they get so frustrated they send me off.

Usually having the kids in the car is a major bonus–they’ll wave you on through. But I’ve had the random ones that are not deterred by children. For example, one officer tried to get me to buy his kid an X-Box as my son watched on in confusion, as I repeatedly apologized for not understanding what he was asking for. My earnest little boy tried to pipe up to translate for me and I discreetly reached back and pinched his leg hard. Later I had to apologize to my son and explain to him what was happening and why (meaning I understood every word the policeman was saying but I pretended I didn’t so that he couldn’t get too far with me), and to never volunteer to translate for me unless I specifically ask him to. (It happens sometimes that my kids need to step in on a word or two for me.)

The route we take to set off to school from our house in the morning now has a permanent National Guard checkpoint set up. We have to creep by with the windows down as these young boys–zits and braces–cradling the automatic rifles slung over their chest, peer into the car. Again, most of them know us by now and some are even friendly; but is sharing space within 36 inches of youth-manned automatic weapons 2–4 times a day as we pass through what I want my kids to know as “normal”?

Counterpoint: In other places, bullying and racism are the “normals”. School shootings. How do you decide?

Plate of Mental Mexican food

Normally if you look at the balance of life, you could imagine a pie chart divided between work, kids / home life, fun / hobbies / exercise, and a small slice devoted to “basic life functions”: food shopping, home and auto maintenance, maybe an occasional medical appointment and a 10-minute sit-down once a month to pay the bills.

Here that “basic life functions” isn’t a small slice anymore; it’s an entirely separate plate of Mexican food next to your normal life pie. It’s a set of the same things that in any day and guaranteed every week are mixed and matched to be served up hot and steaming:

One day it could be a quesadilla of bank and electricity.
 Next week a burrito of food shortage games, black market money and a medicine.
 The following, a full lunch special of car maintenance, water and internet with a side of product shortage.
 Another week things are going hauntingly fine until someone wings a bowl of protest from the kitchen.

Cattywhompus Exhale

The last weeks have been less a typical burrito and more like having a bucket of refried lunacy thrown all over. The past two weeks alone have seen 4 bank days, 2 car days (1 planned, 1 surprise), 1 full electricity day and night (plus a few hours scattered in between), a medicine search for a sick kid (thankfully was able to resolve the problem with strong natural intervention because, never found the medicine), a surprise two-day holiday mandated by the President late Friday for the kids to be out of school the following Monday and Tuesday, 2 days waiting for a refrigerator repairman, plus the now-standard jump-around-for-internet dance because still no service to my house after months.

These weekly minefields are becoming more common than not. As of this writing, due to being engaged in full-contact basic life function games, it has been over a month since I have been able to even make a post. The attention to the other areas of my work–clients, collaborations, longer-term projects–has degraded to inconsistent at best, totally-forgot-where-I-was-or-what-direction-I’m-taking-something-week-to-week by the time I can sit uninterrupted in the middle, and questioning my existence at worst. This does not a dream and career make.

I am not a disorganized or unmotivated person. I am bursting with material and ideas; in the fits and spurts I’ve been able to focus on it, I’ve made incredible discoveries and progress. I receive definite messages that I should pursue and continue, that my work is of meaningful benefit. So it is surreal and pokes me to ugly cry sometimes when I have to say: Life is becoming such that most days I literally have to choose whether to work or maneuver food/water/electricity/car function for myself and my kids. Life feels at peak chicken-or-egg status.

To maintain focus and momentum in this way is not do-able. The spirit of “it has to get better” we used to have is fading. It will get better one day, but I don’t have that much time to wait: presidential elections are 3 years away. The opposition party might be able to kick the ruling party out of office with a special referendum next year. But they might not. And in 3 years, we can’t imagine anymore what kind of trickery the ruling party may put in place to keep their claws dug in. Look at Cuba. Over 50 years.

I’ve tried to lower my expectations, adjust my goals; I’ve tried countless ways to open my mind to functioning differently. At the end of the day it’s plain to see: Though I’m making progress in the writing and projects that I am able to work on, the increasing instability here is pulling me more and more from the work.

And let’s just say god forbid my kids get sick. That’s a whole other trajectory.

Facing this in black and white–putting the mental Tetris outside of my brain to see–illustrates to me the stark fact that no matter how many measures, MacGyvers or methods I try, the environment has become utterly inhospitable to proper function and work. It’s like asking someone to build a boat. In a flood. With a box of Jell-O.

There is venting. There is constructive talking-it-out. There is deep breathing.

Then there’s the Cattywhompus Exhale.

Otherwise known as driving down the highway in your car alone and yelling from the core of your gut as loud as you can. And you like it. And you do it again. And again. And in between questioning God you kind of laugh at yourself. And you know that’s the end of the road and after that, all that is left to do is to do differently.

…

In the last weeks, I had to spend a lot of time out: waiting or otherwise disabled from reasonable amounts of time to write, from internet or [insert other expect-the-unexpected here]. My Moleskine and a single fine-point black pen became my constant companion. What started to come out was a different hand for me. It felt a bit mindless and free at the time. I had zero intentions with what I wanted to depict. I just started putting down elements that felt like cracks, openings, things hiding, growth, patterns, blockages, pushing, changes of flow, tiny bits of chaos and savagery as well as the lightness I’ve missed for a while:

They seem …complex.

Fitting, since life has felt pretty complex lately.

And on the day before I posted this, aimlessly flipping through Instagram, this came up from my favorite online yogi, @freedivegirl :

(She’s like an uber-cute, bendy Sherpa to your body and soul. She’s real, funny, and her observations are always spot-on. I highly suggest her for both movement and gratitude inspiration.)

“Complexity is a perception. Once understanding takes the place of confusion, the simple nature that is intrinsically embedded into all that we experience is able to be seen with the naked eyes. We like to say “It’s complicated”, assigning the reason for our lack of understanding to an external source, when we could say, “It’s simple, I am just not able to understand its simplicity yet” and own our limitations, knowing that someday, all will be revealed.”

So yes, maybe all the external things seem complex. But maybe I have been giving too much power to the “complexity”. Maybe it’s time to remember a simple and uncomfortable fact:

The Dharmic path isn’t linear.

It can be a spiral: just when you think you’ve got something settled, it can seem the exact same people, places, events or routines that got you to a place you wanted to be no longer serve you.

Instead of continuing to feed those complexities with my power as I stare at them slack-jawed like a deer in headlights, I can scoop my face off the floor and ACCEPT that though there are things here that still serve me very well, the balance of what no longer does–and in fact is working harshly against me–is way out of whack.

And on owning my limitations? One limitation I know I have to own is that I have no clue what can happen–a path I might cross, an opportunity I might get–when I turn to new approaches. As well, limitations–viewed from another angle–aren’t necessarily negative things. There are certain basic facts of life: a surgeon needs a sharp tool to cut open a body, an artist needs a liquid or staining substance to cover a canvas, a musician needs an instrument, a writer needs the support of peaceful time to weave words. Within those “limitations” can grow limitless life and beauty.

So it’s time to make a change. It’s time to turn and put power into establishing what I NEED in order to succeed.

They say everything is temporary. Feelings, ways of life–everything. It hurts because I do love it here, but life how we knew it four years ago is simply over. It took pain and suffering (resistance)–and saying / writing it out loud–to see the reality. Maybe there will be a way to maintain some form of existence and connection here; the other fact is that when you’re facing certain factors–financial, custody, etc.–you can’t just *voila* re-establish yourself and two children in another country.

You have to think differently.

You have to picture yourself in ways you’ve never pictured before. You have to drop all the “I would never’s” you previously muttered to see what that might open up.

…

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