Small Tribute To A Dying City

Between the 1940s and the 1970s, the placid city of Santiago de León de Caracas inhaled the air of modernization, developing into a full-blown metropolis. Its daring architecture and raging urbanism left many of its inhabitants breathless, amazed by the ongoing transformation of their hometown into a burgeoning center of international commerce and foreign pop culture. Skyscrapers and highways were the signs of a blossoming adolescence that turned Caracas into a world capital (Paris-New York-Caracas, an affluent gallery boasted under its name), which the rest of the Americas looked to with envy or greed. Perhaps it was the Venezuelans' passion for melodrama, but so much abundance just couldn't last. Doomed by the same black gold that had given it such vibrant energy, the country that had cheerfully danced in oil-money suddenly found itself catching up with all it had ignored; unfinished projects, overwhelming misery and an enormous national debt adding up to a huge bill for a party that was definitely over. Like an orchid left in the sun, the modern Caracas withered, its remarkable structures buried under the weight of forgetfulness and disrepair, its vitality sinking into a benign apathy. Undaunted, the city once known as "the Sultana of the Avila" for the way it sprawled over its surrounding hills like a carefree odalisque on her divan, continued to change, embarking on a frenzy of reconstruction. The aging monuments of modernity were struck from the urban landscape as if with a vengeance, casualties of a progress that could only recognize itself in the new. Some have profited from this constant renewal, and many could not care less about it, but still others wonder why the city they loved was laid to waste, its memories piles of rubble that disgruntled truckers are paid to cart away.

Pequeño Tributo A Una Ciudad Agonizante

Entre los años cuarenta y setenta, la plácida ciudad de Santiago de León de Caracas inhaló el aire de la modernidad, convirtiéndose en una metrópolis digna de ese nombre. Su atrevida arquitectura y galopante urbanismo dejaron a muchos de sus habitantes sin aliento, asombrados por la transformación de su ciudad en centro emergente de comercio internacional y cultura popular extranjera. Rascacielos y autopistas eran los signos de una floreciente adolescencia que hizo de Caracas una capital mundial (París-New York-Caracas, rezaba orgullosamente el letrero de una galería de arte), a la cual el resto de América Latina observaba con envidia o avaricia.
Quizás fue la pasión venezolana por el melodrama, pero tanta abundancia no podía durar. Marcado fatalmente por el mismo oro negro que le había dado tanta energía, el país que durante décadas bailó felizmente al son de la riqueza petrolera se encontró de pronto frente a todo aquello que había ignorado : proyectos inacabados, una miseria vertiginosa y una enorme deuda nacional totalizando una factura gigantesca por una fiesta que había llegado definitivamente a su fin. Como una orquídea abandonada al sol, la Caracas moderna comenzó a marchitarse, sus extraordinarias estructuras enterradas bajo el peso del olvido y la falta de mantenimiento, su vitalidad reducida a una benigna apatía.
Irrefrenable, la ciudad que fuera conocida como « la Sultana del Avila » por el modo en que se despliega sobre las colinas cual lujuriosa odalisca en su diván, continuó cambiando, embarcándose en un frenesí de reconstrucción. Los avejentados monumentos de la modernidad fueron descartados casi con saña del paisaje urbano, víctimas de un progreso que sólo sabe reconocerse en lo nuevo. Hay quienes se han beneficiado de esta renovación constante, y también quienes permanecen indiferentes frente a ella, pero también aquéllos que se preguntan por qué la ciudad que amaban fue destruida, sus recuerdos convertidoss en pilas de escombros que malhumorados camioneros cobran por eliminar.

The Humboldt Hotel sits on top of Mount Avila, which separates the valley of Caracas from the Caribbean. Ideally, one would be able to take the cable car from the city, go up to the hotel, and descend down the other side to the seashore. But the cables have been broken since the late seventies, their heavy wires dangling silently against the cliffs. The Avila is a national forest sprinkled with waterfalls and guarded by mounted rangers whose most pressing problem, apart from seasonal fires, is a lack of horses to mount.

The hotel was named after Baron Alexander von Humboldt, who saw a meteor shower upon arriving at the Venezuelan shores in 1799, explored the Orinoco basin, and collected 60,000 plant specimens throughout Latin America. His namesake wasn't as successful. Its fiasco reminds me of a Venezuelan woman who married a European explorer to escape her native country. Her husband suddenly fell in love with the tropics, deciding never to leave.

Caracas has a heavy-duty car culture. Until 1983, automotive transportation was the only way to get from one place to another, a situation greatly hindered by the city's labyrinthine layout and irregular topography. This resulted in endless traffic jams during which drivers would turn off their engines and begin talking to one another. As a child, I remember obsessively making up math games with license plate numbers, attempting to escape the boredom of remaining for hours in the back seat of my parents' car.

Baron Von Humboldt's excursions somehow blazed a trail for this fated site; people often hike up to the hotel, as if it were the equivalent of a mountain peak. An endless source of speculation, the Sheraton Humboldt is rumored to have been built as a tax write-off. Some have dreamed of turning the vacant building into a casino, the only one of its kind in what used to be called Saudi Venezuela. Successive government officials have used the site for fabulous parties, the city glittering at their feet.

One valiant attempt at controlling traffic and pollution was the "día de parada" (stop your car for a day) policy, which prevented alternating plate digits from transiting during weekdays. This plan backfired bigtime; most families either bought an extra car or got hold of forged plates to use on the forbidden days. What is detested by some can be a blessing for others, however: many slum dwellers make a living selling potato chips, newspapers, and even the occasional car ornament on the city's congested highways.

Street directions are rerouted so constantly a friend once suggested thai this was our most important cultural event - drivers frantically attempting to find their way home after frequent and often unannounced changes. Caracas' turnpikes are literally an asphalt jungle: "El Pulpo" (The Octopus), "La Araña" (The Spider), and "El Ciempiés" (The Centipede). Driving on them can be a crash course on how to find your way through the city instinctively while searching for a decent radio station with your free hand.

Car owners learn the hard way not to gel too attached to their vehicles, no matter how many alarms, electric and fuel blockages, or locks they install. Some people say the constant thefts and carjackings are an auto insurance scam. Others, like my friend who was kidnapped along with his car or my father who surrendered his at gunpoint, simply count their blessing.

This could be my mother atop the Pico Bolívar, the only place in Venezuela where it actually snows. My mother loves traveling. When I was thirteen, she would take me skating at the Humboldt station's ice rink every week. This place and a coffee shop where we later sipped hot chocolate were the only active venues in this lonely resort. Cooler temperatures and isolation make the Humboldt's grounds ideal for romantic getaways or family retreats. In a neo-colonial turnaround, the tropics relish alpine fantasies.