I have lived a perfect day – now I can die – a perfect, exquisite day of love and laughter, of smog, of many smelly cars, and a parade of beautiful bicycles. About a week before my perfect day, I had flown down to Caracas, Venezuela, where I was a delegate to the World Social Forum; an absolutely, insanely chaotic gathering of activists of every imaginable stripe, involved in every imaginable new way of being; new ways of building this world – five days, two thousand workshops, and 80,000 people.
I participated in a grand total of eight of these workshops – all fabulous – and the best one of all was the one with the crazy, crazy cyclists who had rolled in from the neighbouring country of Colombia. They really were out to lunch; I mean, who would cycle for days through a war zone to get here? Caracas is another kind of war zone altogether. Oil-rich Venezuela, under the rule of socialist Hugo Chavez, king pisser-offer of El Presidente Bush, is disappointingly full of cars. Gas is cheaper here than water.
So I’m off to Caracas’ first Critical Mass (with no bike of my own). The Colombians promise to show up with an extra one and tell me to keep an eye out for their chiva, their big-ass sweep-up bus painted with riotous colours and with bicycles on top. I show up on time, a little early even. Oh dear, there’s no one here. I walk the streets for an hour or so, and come back. A few people are here, some are Colombian even, and some of them are my friends, but no chiva and no extra bike. Not yet.
A paddy wagon arrives stuffed with extra bikes – “only for the city workers who signed up for them,” says William, a thick-armed policeman. “Surely, there might be one for me, big boy?” I ask, batting my eyelids Whore that I am, I go for breakfast with William in a street stand next to our gathering spot – anything for a bike to ride in Caracas’ first Critical Mass! Alas, there are no extra bikes and two hours later, as the ride begins, I end up in the back of William’s paddy wagon with Ariday, a Colombian woman who is also waiting for the chiva and her bike. We enjoy the ride immensely. Ariday is mad for bikes, and she manages to fold her four children and her hair salon into the madness without a problem.
Out of the back of the wagon we can see the cars begin to pile up, confusedly honking their horns, trying to get around William and this crazy pack of 200 cyclists – what the hell – streets are for cars! Ariday says, “We love you, we’re going to kidnap you. We’re off to party at Isla Margarita after this.” Oh I do want to go. . . but my children, my job, and that man I’ve got a crush on back home? “Sorry,” I say, “can’t go.” “Well, too bad” says Ariday, “but next year we’re cycling to Patagonia.” What! From Colombia? As a revolutionary act of peace-making and extreme anti-carism! Hmmm . . .
Suddenly everyone stops; all the bikes and William too. There’s the chiva in all her glory! And Ariday’s bike! And one for me! Out of the jail wagon. They hand me down a bike – freedom! Ariday rolls off, William drives off, all the bikes go. Me too. Wait a minute, the chain’s busted, and the tire’s flat, crap – this thing is dead. “Jump, jump into the chiva!” They call from on board. Which is what I do. For a while I’m miserable. Then I notice that this chiva’s loaded. There are no walls and no seats, only a few benches welded along the sides. There’s Colombian Salsa blasting everyone’s ears out – and best of all – two whirling disco balls attached to the inside of the roof. “Let’s dance!” I cry to all inside, and we do.
We make an entrance into the grounds of the Forum, with at least 80,000 people crowded around. We’re following the bicycle jam and we’re loud and happy, dancing our asses off. When we jump out I find Ariday, Juan Pablo, David and the rest of the gang, hot and sweaty from a long, lovely ride. We hug and kiss and hang around eating oranges. “We have to keep dancing tonight,” says Juan Pablo. “Let’s meet right here, standing at this exact spot at six o’clock.”
I’m totally on and, after an afternoon of workshops with a bunch of revolutionary Christians, I come back to that exact spot. No cute Juan Pablo, no cyclists. Sad, I head back to the hotel, stopping to dance in the street with a bunch of people to a sizzling all-girl Cuban band. I’m down in the hotel’s bar having one last Cuba libre, when I hear a jingling from far down the now empty street. Before I know it, the chiva is barreling along, music blasting. It’s full of dancing Colombians. I rush out to catch them, but they’re going too fast. The chiva disappears into the Caracas night; the last thing I see are the flashing disco balls. Ahh, my heart breaks. But then there’s always next year, and Patagonia!
----------
