Long, Hot Summer

Damn it´s hot. Excuse my French but I can´t think of any other way of expressing my disgust at the endless row of hot, steamy days accompanied by the acrid smell of bush and forest fires all around you. True, it´s a special sight to drive along the Autopista Regional del Centro at night and see the pitch black dark lightened up by roaring fires all around you. But it´s sad. Most of the fires are man-made, senseless people lightening up candles at some shrine and leaving the lit candles all in the middle of scorched grass. It makes you wonder whether people here are pyromans or just plain senseless.

Anyhow, this is the background to a country in escalating frenzy after the death of Hugo Chavez. Some people are walking around like out-of-season Santa´s in red chavista uniform, struttin´ their stuff as they say. Others are just getting on the street for the necessary shopping. The streets in the old western part of Caracas - Quinta Crespo, Santa Teresa, San Juan and El Paraiso - are not that full, but you clearly sense that some people are out looking for trouble. So people like me avoid the streets, buy enough for at least a week (this also to avoid looking at empty shelves when you need something and there isn´t any), just try to stay at home. The mood in Venezuela is maddening, to say the least. Even when you don´t watch any news, don´t follow any political events, the moment you walk on the streets you bump into crowds of frenzied red-shirted bikeriders and look at the electoral propaganda of Nicolas Maduro hanging by magic from every lamppost in the city. The word "Maduro" is there alright on the posters, but I see the face of Hugo Chavez and Chavez´signature beneath it. As if from the underworld Chavez is still running for president. Sometimes I feel Venezuela won´t ever get rid of this phantom. I am not exaggerating, really. I wish I were somewhere else, now more than ever. It all seems a very bad Stephen King novel interlaced with a lousily written local telenovela.

The electoral campaign has begun, inofficially, with Henrique Capriles, the opposition candidate, calling Nicolas Maduro a plain liar and explaining why, and Maduro replying with the word faggot. Yes, you´ve read it correctly. For the umpteenth time the chavist side has called Capriles a faggot, a "maricon". Embellishing this insult are califications like rich-born kid, rotten aristocrat and so on. It´s clear that Maduro, who walks around puffed-up in his presidential mode, has no real arguments to throw at Capriles´ face. So he hides behind Chavez´ hallowed image, hoping that Venezuelan voters will vote for him in the assumption that they vote for Chavez, as they have done so for years. In this country, marked by a belief in the supernatural, an army of Virgins all competing with each others, and even more saints and pseudovirgins of the Catholic stables posing as African deities, selling the idea of voting for a dead candidate who is not dead really, is not as hare-brained as you might think.

Accompanying this folkloristic performance is a grimmer factor. Capriles seems to have avoided an attempt on his life day before yesterday, when he was expected to inscribe his candidature at the National Electoral Council (CNE). He didn´t show up, letting the inscription be done by one of the heads of his campaign. This was greeted by a jeering cannonade of insults by the chavist side, of course. But investigations are underway, and the proofs shown are serious enough to conclude that the fear for Henrique Capriles´ life is justified. Maduro´s call that everyone should get a gun to "defend the Revolution" could be taken too literally by the army of hotheads that made Chavez´s presidency possible.