Venezuela

Venezuela

__Map of Venezuela__

The Hacha Falls

The Water Cleaner Lucas Stephens

Another day of walking two miles through the soon to be destroyed Venezuelan jungle. Traveling with two other villagers Pablo and Manuel. I had gotten to know them quite well over the course of my two year stay here. Clean water the only thing they needed, but everyday more and more of it was taken away from the villagers. Forests being destroyed, sewage dumped into lakes, massive amounts of land being destroyed in attempts to get oil, or other materials. All these contributed to my worst fear, all the clean water being pushed out. The entire village may have to get up and leave there homes and completely start over.

 I had been working so hard to find a solution, but none of the mining companies would ever stop. They were simply making to much money to stop and care about a village whose lives they were destroying. Also long term water purification systems are not cheap or easy to make. I was afraid that all my hard work would do nothing for them, they would just end up being forced to move somewhere else. They had done nothing to deserve this, but still the villagers were not outraged like me. They simply kept going trying there hardest to survive and be happy. Through there great perseverance we ended up successful.

After so many different attempts we were able to set up several water purification systems, that would last a very long time. The village still might have to move eventually but now they could prepare themselves for that day, and be ready for it. I realized that the villagers had a much better way of looking at there situation. I had been so mad and stressed and scared for them, the villagers had been so happy during all this though. They knew there lives could be destroyed but they were happy as long as they had friends and family. Such a large contrast from the way we see things in America

 I still remember the first day I came here, the village bustling with activity living on almost no water. I was so unprepared, no idea of what I needed to do. But how could I have? I was absolutely terrified. So many worries, I didn’t know if I could really do anything to help them. However 2 years of hard work everyday has showed me the amazing things that I can do. 2 years of life changing events.

I truly believe I have made a difference here, and that is the most amazing thing I will ever do. I did not do it alone however, the perseverance of the villagers and all of their hard work has really done something amazing. We did not solve all of there problems but we did get one step closer. Going to Venezuela has given me an entire new look on life and I will never forget it.

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The Angel Falls, the highest waterfall in the world.

__The extensions of the Andes Mountains into Venezuela__

The Guaina Highlands

__The Instunto Arnoldo. Declared a national historic artifact in 1984.__

The Colonia Tovar. Established by German Catholics in 1843, The people there still maintain the same german catholic culture.



This is an image of the traditional Joropo dance. It has a large native american and african influence



This is the arepa, which is commonly ate for lunch and breakfast. It is beef and cheese surrounded by two pancakes. They were originally made by indigenous people of columbia and Venezuela.

Kordell Culture Story media type="file" key="Kordell Culture Story.m4a"

Jake Isola-Henry The Search Abruptly getting up from my bed, I began to daze and felt a wave of darkness creep over my eyes. I sat for a minute and remembered where I was as I took in the stained and humid old hotel room. Entering the moldy bathroom, I braced myself for the cold water, which felt like nails spraying on my tired face. Already irritated for even coming to Venezuela, I had no ambition to search for waves. Of course, I had signed up to do the annual “Search for Surf” in a country that had none. There were legends of massive swells caused by seasonal hurricanes, but none were in sight. The only place I wanted to be was back in my Santa Monica apartment, prepping for deep blue swells and surf opportunities in an ocean I understood. Hopping out of my frigid shower, I threw on my worn cargo shorts and t shirt and took a walk down to a local street vendor to grab an Arepa. The Arepa is a pancake filled with sausage patties and probably the most enjoyable aspect of my trip. The vendor, Jaunito was a cool guy too – always happy to see me again and making me feel like a local by telling me neighborhood gossip. Apparently he and the Batido cart guy (Batido is a thick kind of fruit smoothie) had bad blood going way back and they sat on opposite corners giving each other they evil eye. Dreading my hotel, I roamed the streets for a little bit with my Arepa. I found myself in front of a tall beautiful old church, and realized it was Sunday morning as I watched all of the families dressed in starched, brightly colored dresses and pressed suits, marching up the stairs to mass. Without realizing it, I devoured my entire Areba, largely due to my empty stomach from the prior night. Night after night I forgot about siesta which left me hungry and alone. I could not figure out why every restaurant was in full swing from eight in the morning to four in the afternoon, and after that, it was like everything shut down. Back in my neighborhood all the cafes were starting happy hour about that time! Realizing that I was on a “critical search” for pristine waves, worthy of publishing, I headed back to the hotel to gather my belongings. I carried my camera and all of my empty film and tip toed around the puddle that my rental car was submerged in from the torrential rain of last night. Peeling out over the uneven cobblestones, I navigated my way to the main high way. With Venezuela’s rich coast line, I could not give up on the possibility of good surf. It had a growing surf population, but my task was to find waves that were worthy of traveling to or even hosting competitions. Heading east on the coast I looked to my right and had an excellent view of the lush green forest, filled to the brim with tropical birds making all kinds of noise. Along the drive, I noticed burning areas in the forest and trees being cut down but never figured out what they were doing. I continued on Northeast towards the coast of Caracas. Before my exit, I spotted a hut with the title, Caracas Surf, exiting the main highway I parked outside the shop. Not really having a reason for entering, I figured I would buy a bar of wax for my board that would probably see little use. Stepping into the air-conditioned shop I was shocked to find a wide selection of boards, along with some locals who were conversing about surfing (I guessed). I speak close to no Spanish, but it was not a very big problem so far—most everyone spoke some English. Grabbing some wax and looking around the shop, I finally made my way over to the cashier’s desk. He nodded and I nodded back, without looking, he uttered “So, where are you planning on surfing.” Surprised by his American accented English, I responded with “Caracas, is it any good?” “You could come across a few good sections” he replied. I said thanks and I was on my way out. I guess it was reassuring to know that there were some waves—at least enough to keep this shop and an American surfer in business. My car was uncomfortably warm, my sweaty back pressed against the seat and I rushed to the beach if for nothing other than diving in the water. Nearing the turn I saw families having a picnic under a canopy of trees by the beach. The men were dressed in cowboy like outfits and the women were wearing long colorful gowns. They were dancing around one another and there was a group of men playing maracas and guitars on the side. I could not help but wonder what they were celebrating. At the first beach called “Los Cocos” I left my overheated car and scurried over the scalding sand to the head of the beach. I rushed into the clear turquoise water that was almost bath warm but it still provided sweet relief from the sun’s rays. Finally out on my board, I took a skeptic look at the waves. I saw two other men on boards but they were mostly just sitting there talking and laughing. Otherwise the beach belonged to tons of young children playing in the waves and bodysurfing. Many local families crowded the beach in huge encampments of toys and food and kids running around in wet clothes. After out of the water, I waited and saw things pep up as few sets rolled by and the two men looked like they were having a great time on their boards. Their enthusiasm was odd, because the conditions were fair to poor with small surf. But I snapped a few photos anyways, and I started up to the car to go to my next spot. The next beach was called “Panteleta” this spot was located closer to the city of Caracas and was more urbanized. I coasted by a group of about 100 protesters. They were in front of what looked to be a government building. They had signs showing homes and words that I could not translate but I inferred that this could have something to do with the recent floods in the city. As I walked on to the beach I noticed that he surf had two noticeable peaks. This time there were four or five guys in the water who were making the most of their short rides. They were all hooting and hollering, having the time of their lives. This made me wonder if the surf was always this small or could it be that these conditions were actually better than the Venezuelan norm. I again snapped a few photos and then as I saw one of the surfers paddle out with his two kids and dog on the board, I realized something. I had completely forgotten the meaning of being a true surfer. It’s not about the conditions or size of waves. Surfing is about having a great time with people that you love. Whether its two foot beach break in Venezuela, or twenty foot Pipeline in Hawaii, you’ll have fun when you’re with the right people on a beautiful sunny beach. I can now return to Southern California with a lesson learned and a brighter outlook on tomorrow.

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