This morning was a walk up to the corner, then hailing a cab for a ride out to Las Brisas.
This is a district out near the Navy Base, just over 9 kilometers from my place in Santiago. For my American friends, that’s almost six miles. Not a walk I want to do today.
I don’t know what inspired me to make the trip down to Las Brisas; the only thing out that way that’s of any interest to me are the Navy Base and a very well-stocked pet store.
Other than that, there’s nothing in particular that strikes my fancy: a smattering of upscale expat beachfront homes and condominiums, and some stylish restaurants. The exception might be a small café that I’ve patronized on occasion for their great coffee drinks and platanos con crema.
But one of the many things I’ve learned from my ‘walkabouts’ is that if you want to really know a place, you have to get off the main drag. Make a left or right turn and walk your way into the neighborhoods; go in deep with the intent of getting lost. That’s where life begins.
It’s the barrios where you’ll find the heart of a city. Everything you could possibly want or need. Every block will have its own ferretería, abarrotes, taco stand, or someone with a cart on the street, grilling beef and vegetables over a propane cooker. Maybe a few mismatched chairs and a plastic table. And if they’re flipping meat and chopping onions with a drywall knife, consider it a sign from heaven. This is the place you’re going to get the best comida economica.
And I’ve been out and about enough over the last couple of years that some of the locals are starting to know me. This morning, I heard my name; someone was hailing me. It was one of the Navy chaps I’d met a couple of years ago on a crocodile-spotting event. He was eager to share breakfast and conversation.
Being in the Navy, this young man was eager to know what was going to play out in Venezuela. Latin Americans are concerned about U.S. aggression, and for obvious reasons. They’ve been on the receiving end of Roosevelt’s ‘bully stick’ for a long time.
I didn’t want to talk about any of this. What would be the point? It would just be more opinion thrown at the mix of ‘podcast’ pundits, ‘Substack’ PHD’s, and Facebook ‘geniuses.’ The possibilities are all there in full view. End-stage empire, loss of power, and the once enjoyed financial immune system through global de-dollarization, how the old petro dollar system is faltering, and the desperate need to service the bill coming due on runaway debt. And how a military invasion of Venezuela would just end up being another war the United States will lose; another Afghanistan.
The old ‘Golden Age’ is breaking, and fools in Washington are running around ‘rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.’
So I told my acquaintance I did not know what was going to happen in Venezuela. I decided to play the role of ambassador/raconteur and tell him a sea story from years ago.
I had a boat in the Pacific Ocean, not far from the Date Line and the Equator, about this time of year, maybe closer to Christmas. It was a day of no wind and millpond flat water.
If we were making way, it was by set and drift only. The crew and I were enjoying coffee, fresh-baked scones, and the quiet stillness of the morning. No auxiliary, no generator, just silence.
Two fighter jets coming at us from beyond the horizon broke that silence and stillness. They made broad turns above us, then disappeared from whence they came.
I got on the radio immediately, hoping that my VHF antenna on the masthead would see more of the earth’s surface. A response to my call was immediate. Jets from an American aircraft carrier were using my boat as a turning point for some kind of staged exercise. Then I got a callback from the ship’s captain. He was very friendly and apologetic for the disturbance. “My pilots were supposed to stay high, but sometimes they get a bit frisky. You won’t see any more fighters, but I’m going to send over a holiday package.”
About an hour later, a helicopter came into view, positioned up to the boat, staying back far enough not to beat us up with propeller wash, then lowered a large, bright orange bag onto the water. It was a huge waterproof bag, and it took two men and a halyard winch to get it on our boat. In it was a precooked turkey, a ham, all the accessory servings of potato and vegetables, a couple of whole pies, ice cream in a special freezer wrapping, and t-shirts and ball caps with the ship’s name. A much-appreciated Christmas gift.
My Mexican friend liked the story, but I think I was telling it more for my own benefit. I wanted to remember that there was a time, not all that long ago, that America and the American Navy were something to be proud of.
To those of you who are out and about, walking or driving, be well and be safe. Felices Fiestas!
