Caridad’s Diary

Her name is Kueka, and grandfather Kueka is hoping she returns. The entire Pemon community is also hoping she comes back, but more than waiting, they’re demanding her return.

After a year of being away from Caracas, I’m back. This time though, I’m not attached to any official job – so I can breathe a certain air of freedom whenever I decide to, not simply when my boss decides on it.

I don’t believe there exists any culture in the Western world in which a visit by one’s in-laws doesn’t translate into something like a slow-motion nightmare with hints of tragicomedy.

Once I read a story about a debate between a boy and an adult crocodile. The boy had helped to save Mr. Crocodile’s life. Later, though, the crocodile was hungry and insisted on eating the boy.

I’m appalled at the sadness of those who — for any change in society or their environment — resort to violence or speak out in favor of it.

To be a photographer is the dream of thousands of people, a dream they don’t always choose to realize. Obstacles sometimes get in the way, be it the expensive nature of the art, or the person’s lack of real talent or their not having enough humility to learn from those who preceded them.

I was recently at a Polito Ibañez concert and it came to me that years ago—though he was one of my favorite trova singers—I had preferred not to look at his face while he sang.

The taxi stops for a woman who flagged it down. She’s old, though it’s hard to say how old – but she’s got to be over 75. She’s carrying a cane with some colored ribbons wrapped around it. But what catches one’s attention even more is her overly bowed leg, probably from birth.

Buying it already processed is not the same as growing it, if they are so afraid of it. If we negotiate petroleum with Venezuela, why not negotiate coca with Bolivia?