VENEZUELA: The Affairs of Foreign Journalism

In September of 2005, I visited a newsroom in Caracas, Venezuela with fellow classmates of a feature writing class and my professor, LA Times writer Janet Eastman. The visit was part of the class curriculum, but really it was a much needed wake-up call as an aspiring American journalist to appreciate the freedoms available to us in the states.

From the port in La Guaira where our ship was docked, we traveled on a tour bus through a
tunnel that burrows through a hillside separating La Guaira and Caracas, Venezuela's capital. Thick grey exhaust swirled from the tunnel like toxic fingers beckoning me to my first real foreign experience (spring break in Cabo San Lucas and a day trip to Tijuana pale in comparison to this South American experience...). I had never seen pollution like what exists in Venezuela - trash ornaments every other empty space of civilization like wilted popcorn strings on an outdated dying Christmas tree and is stuffed in between scuzzy business and apartment buildings stained dark by the greasy, sweaty haze that suffocates the atmosphere. This...mess is ironically juxtaposed
against breathtaking tropical emerald green hillsides that jet skyward from Venezuela's shores and cities and summit above the morning coastal fog. Venezuela's contrasting scenery can certainly be a metaphor of how its stifling government pollutes the concept of free speech and inhibits the concept of outstanding journalism.

In the lobby of El Nacional, we were met by Yaemi Vargas, a mousy-looking young journalist in her early twenties with a thick accent. At first, our visit seemed like a standard guided tour you would attend with your elementary school class or girl scout troop. The building's layout was typical for a newspaper - the paper's name in gold block lettering in the lobby, an open newsroom divided by short cubicles decorated with computer screens and phones ringing to the rhythm of fact checks and interviews. The only thing particularly interesting so far was checking out El Nacional's printing press - a hand-me-down from a Boston newsroom circa 1940-something that runs like a wizz. The press looked ancient and heavy but its mechanic, who spoke broken English and was spotted with black ink, swore by its efficiency and speed.


After the tour, we squeezed into a hallway that offered a bench and just barely enough floor space for all of us. Class was about to begin and the day's lesson is one that will stick with me forever. Two other of El Nacional's staff joined us, a young male photographer and a young female reporter. They both spoke English well but the the second female reporter spoke as if she grew up in a Latin neighborhood in New York, despite having never been to the States. The three journalists dished insight on what it is like to be a journalist in Venezuela, stating that the government, headed by Hugo Chavez, considers the press public enemy numero uno. El Nacional is a left-centered, family owned newspaper that is usually is critical of Chavez and the government. It is one of Venezuela's most circulated news publications, along with El Universal. The newspaper's building has been vandalized by Chavez supporters who have thrown bricks with hate messages attached through its front windows. The newspaper has received bomb threats and on more than one occasion and reporters have feared for their lives even when attending to daily activity outside of work.

Despite the heavy matter being addressed, all three reporters spoke articulately and with confidence. I was surprised by their composure. One of them said that most active journalists in Venezuela are young and female, a statistic that also surprised me. Not to say by any means that South American journalism is a "man's job," but I was in awe by the fact that so many young women wanted to become revolutionists despite threats of violence and and the thought of pending free speech. Leaving the newsroom, my mind was pregnant with so many concepts of ethics and contradicting politics. For the entire forty minute bus ride back to the ship, I tried to make notes in my journal about the conclusions I had made from the day's affairs, but I couldn't find the words. I stared out the window for the rest of the trip back in a state of silent disposition. Now a year and a half later, I thumbed through the journal I brought with me on all of my travels with Semester At Sea to recall material for this blog. A few pages in, under the heading "El Nacional Newsroom visit," my brief entry of facts and notes about the atmosphere of our meeting is ended with "Conclusions:..." followed by an empty space on the page. Apparently, that was the most sense I could make out of Venezuelan journalism.

For another read about the real risks, read this article about the murder of two Venezuelan journalists of other Chavez-critical publications in June 2006, the summer after my visit.

Balancing Act

How do you define 'balance?' Does it make you think of trapeze artists, gymnasts or yoga gurus? Do you apply it to the relationship between work and family? Or is 'balance' merely some word you have used to jazz up a paper or a story when what you're really trying to say escapes you?

For me, it's a combination of ink and identity.

In August of 2005, I set sail on the voyage of a lifetime as a student of Semester At Sea. In 100 days, my class circumnavigated the globe trekking nine different countries ultimately covering over 25,000 miles of land and sea. Prior to departure, I found the need to do some major soul searching. Afterall, this was my first attempt at international travel and I had a feeling that dozens of encounters with the unknown and unfamiliar awaited me. This quest for a personal foundation would be a treasure hunt with no map and no fellow comrades. At the end of the dotted line, I didn't exactly find a chest of ancient pirate's booty, but something infinitely more valuable: my own sense of personal balance...and a tattoo shop.

Three weeks before leaving for the Bahamas to meet my ship, the MV Explorer, I left on my lunch break to meet my appointment across the street at Tatfu Tattoo in downtown Flagstaff. I had a design dropped off the day before - a "simple something" that was was almost a year in the making. The design I chose fit all the right standards that I had regarding personal mutilation: personal, discrete, and placed somewhere that wouldn't show on the job or at my wedding. My cousin worked kitty corner to me and I forced her to come on her lunch break as a witness. Nick, my 'artist' told me that my tattoo would only take 15 minutes or so - no sweat, right? After playing with size and exact placement, I apprehensively agreed on an end result. A solid 15 minutes later, I did break a sweat and winced more than once, but I was a slightly different person. I was inked...



I managed to keep my tattoo a secret from my parents for the next three weeks. I had no intentions of hiding it from them - I was 20 years old and totally capable of making these kinds of decisions on my own. I figured, though, I'd let them find it themselves. My parents knew I wanted a tattoo - I brought 'the idea' up at dinner after I had already made my appointment. It was immediately met with opposition. My dad thinks tattoos are unnecessary and only sought out in acts of teenage rebellion, in my case delayed teenage rebellion. My mom stated that I was putting my entire experience with Semester At Sea at risk because my foot will get infected and I'll be sent home as a festering mess...

My dad saw it first in our hotel in Nassau while my mom was in the bathroom. As I was putting sunscreen on my legs, my dad stopped dead in his tracks and peered at the arch of my left foot.

"Did one of those ladies on the beach draw that on you?" he asked, completely in denial.
"No, it's real. I got my tattoo, dad."
My dad rolled his eyes and sighed acknowledging the fact that at least a dozen hairs on his head just turned grey.
"Well just don't let your mother see."

A matter of hours later, the three of us were at a ferry station waiting to explore the next island over. My parents were sitting on a bench and I stood about two feet in front of them when suddenly my mom's gazed became fixed toward the ground. She lifted her sunglasses to reveal an appalling look on her face.
"What is that on your foot?" she quizzed.
"I got a tattoo, mom."
"What does it say??"
"Balance." I took off my flip flop and stuck my foot in her face. My mom didn't move...and then she sobbed. 'Oh god, I made mom cry...' I thought. I started to explain in the most concise way possible the mental and emotional journey I went on that resulted in being inked when mom sobbed again and dad forced a smile.
"Oh honey, that's beautiful!" To my surprise, she liked it - she appreciated it! I saw my dad relax a little, but he still kept quiet.

My mom cried "happy tears" for the next 24 hours. I felt a sense of relief from her emotion. I think my parents know they raised a daughter right despite displaying innocent tattoos (multiple piercings and fuschia-colored hair dye are also a part of my past). I am their only little golden bundle of something wonderful that is the result of all their hard work and good intentions, and I was moments away from leaving the nest for bigger and better things. I felt like my parents understood me more as an individual and were more willing to let me brave the world, literally, on my own. I too, understood myself more than I ever had. I felt balanced.

Until next time, bon voyage!