Breakfast in Venezuela
Y OU HAVE probably heard someone say “I wish I had been a fly on the wall,” referring to a conversation at which they were not present but wish they had been to hear what was being said.
Well, I imagine there may have been quite a few flies on the walls in Venezuela at breakfast lately.
Here are possibly a few conversations. Cicilia Maduro: Nicolás, get out of bed. You can’t afford to sleep any longer. The opposition will be on the streets soon. Nicolás Maduro: Not the snobs and faggots again! Anyway, what’s for breakfast?
Cicilia: Only chicken chow mein or borscht. Nicolás: Oh, God, couldn’t we find some other countries to support us? Cicilia: You finished the Cuban arroz con pollo yesterday Nicolás: How about another empanada? Cicilia: Definitely not. Look how much weight you’ve put on eating empanadas since you became president.
Nicolas: If only the country could afford something else, but we are 99 billion dollars in debt. Perhaps it’s time to declare bankruptcy, what with a million per cent inflation. It’s capitalism that’s driving up prices and causing shortages. We are in an economic war.
Cicilia: Fine words. But can’t you throw more light on our problems?
Nicolas: Light? We’ve even run out of light bulbs.
IN ANOTHER HOUSEHOLD
Meanwhile, in another household, the subject of breakfast has come up. This time, General Marco Peréz Jimenéz’s has a fly on the wall.
The general: What’s for breakfast today? His wife: Nothing. The general: That’s what we had yesterday. His wife: Right. And if these shortages go on much longer, there’ll be no sex either.
The general: Caramba! Look what the gringos are doing to us. I think you had better call a doctor, I’m so weak. His wife: There aren’t many left. About 20,000 have emigrated already, and anyway, we’re out of medicine. The general: How did they all get out? His wife: Probably over the border to Colombia.
The general: Maybe we’ll have to build a wall to keep them in. His wife: I thought the army was always going to get paid?
The general: I did. Yesterday. But the cheque bounced.
His wife: Oh, no. I’d better get in line for some humanitarian aid.
BACK AT MADURO
Back at the Maduro residence, the president has struck on an idea.
The president: We’ll sell some gold. Or maybe we can get rid of those shares that we have in that
antiquated refinery in Jamaica. That should bring in a windfall of US dollars. Mrs president: We’ll have to launder them…we could build a few high-rise condominiums in Kingston.
The president: Ah, yes. I think they have a statue of Bolivar, which means they are sympathetic to Venezuela.
AND NOW, AT GUAIDÓ’S
Also, a breakfast dilemma is at the president-in-waiting Juan Guaidó’s household. Juan Guaidó: Luckily, we have something to eat that my father sent from Spain, eh, Fabiana?
Fabiana Guaidó: That should last for a week. So what are you planning to do today?
Juan: A mass rally, I guess, until we have another election. Fabiana: Don’t hold your breath. Juan: We could lock down the country. Fabiana: Maduro would lock you up. Juan: Well, we don’t want Trump invading Venezuela. He says every option is on the table. Mind you, it’s what he has under the table that we need to worry about. Fabiana: Don’t you have any other ideas?
Juan: We could ask Jared Kushner to intervene. He’s a game changer and a paradigm shifter.
Fabiana: As long as we don’t get any American boots on the ground.
ANOTHER MADURO CONVERSATION
As a breakfast of sardines is ending at Nicolás Maduro’s household, a fly catches another conversation with Cicilia. Nicolás: We’ve nothing to worry about… the army is behind me. Cicilia: Not too far behind, I hope.
Nicolás: And then, I have the Chinese armoured vehicles we got in exchange for oil. The Russians might even send us some missiles like they did in Cuba.
Cicilia: But what is going to happen if all that fails?
Nicolás: Remember that guru in India I went to see in 2005? Maybe
he would take us in.
Cicilia: I’m beginning to feel like the Perons in Argentina. Nicolás: (laughing) Are you going to break into ‘Don’t cry for me, Venezuela’?
Cicilia: No, that was Eva Peron’s. Anyway, I can’t sing. How about Israel? Weren’t your grandparents Jewish?
Nicolás: Yes, we could apply as economic refugees.
Cicilia: That’s a better bet than trying Colombia, although they say your mother was Colombian.
Nicolás: No. My exit strategy is simple. I am sure I can go back to my old job as a bus driver… in Havana, perhaps.
Cicilia: At least that’s better than Gadaffi. He’s somewhere under the desert in Libya.
Anthony Gambrill is a playwright. Email feedback to columns@gleanerjm.com.