Llano (The Plains)

I spent a lot of time near the plains.

First, it is worth saying that many parts of Venezuela are made up of wide open plains and towns devoted to cattle, horse breeding, and farming.

When you take Route 5 out of San Cristóbal, little by little, everything begins to flatten out. The mountains slowly drift away from you, and the air grows warmer. Along the road there are rivers everywhere, as well as restaurants serving carne en vara. You also come across roadside stands where people sell papelón con limón. After passing through towns like Santo Domingo, La Pedrera, and Socopó, you eventually reach Barinas. You can also turn onto Route 19 and continue toward Guasdualito, a place many people nowadays might remember because of a meme.

Several times, I swam in rivers near military bridges, and in others close to farms belonging to people we knew. What I remember most vividly is looking out to either side whenever I traveled those roads, paying close attention to the landscape.

The plains seemed endless to me.

I was always afraid of somehow getting stranded somewhere surrounded by all that open land. I would think about the story of El Silbón, which I first heard when I was nine years old. The plains are deeply connected to stories like that, so for a long time, whenever I traveled through those places, it was impossible not to think about them.

But I wanted to write about the plains because I feel they are something many of us recognize as part of being Venezuelan or maybe not.

I feel that whenever we hear música llanera, something in our blood begins to boil. Even if we do not listen to it very often, we still know many of those songs, and we even know a few of the dance steps.

And I take it for granted that when those songs begin to play, they bring back memories filled with beer and barbecues, memories of rivers and heat, of fires burning nearby.

Then, like a sudden gust of wind, there it is again, what we are. Venezuela.

“If the mountains are where I belong,
and my strength runs wild and free,
how could you ask me not to sing?
How could you ask me not to sing
the way a heart knows how?”

Mi querencia, Simón Díaz.