The Wild Scent of Mastranto Flowers

By Franklin A. Díaz Lárez

The Aroma of Mastranto takes place in 2012, and is the story of twelve-year-old Ana’s trip back to Venezuela, where she was born. She had moved to Spain with her parents when she was a baby, and now is revisiting her native country for the first time.

As Ana travels through Venezuela with her father, we read the letters she writes to a school friend telling her impressions of a divided, politicized society split by inequality and ravaged by insecurity and food scarcity, and her dismay at the idolatry of Simón Bolivar, Fidel Castro and Hugo Chávez that she observes.

Ana’s trip is, most of all, a journey back into her own family history. When they visit the site where decades earlier a brutal massacre of Venezuelan guerrilla fighters took place, her father tells her how those same events scarred his family with violence and dysfunction that lasted for a generation, leaving none of them untouched.

This book contains scenes of extreme violence and cruelty, including disturbing sexual violence, and may not be suitable for all readers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Sep 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781071553565

Book preview

The Wild Scent of Mastranto Flowers

Franklin A. Díaz Lárez

––––––––

Translated by Margaret Schroeder 

The Wild Scent of Mastranto Flowers

Written By Franklin A. Díaz Lárez

Copyright © 2021 Franklin A. Díaz Lárez

All rights reserved

Distributed by Babelcube, Inc.

www.babelcube.com

Translated by Margaret Schroeder

Babelcube Books and Babelcube are trademarks of Babelcube Inc.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Friday, March 2, 2012

Goodbye letter. Warnings about what lies ahead. Nervous. Worried.

Saturday, March 3, 2012

Airport and flight. At Madrid Airport. Discussion about Venezuelans’ values and customs. The fat farter.

Monday, March 5, 2012

Arrival in Venezuela. First impressions. The mountains and the slums. A Short History of Venezuela. Independence. The twentieth-century dictatorships. The Caracazo. The February 4 coup attempt. The rebels pardoned. Support from the people. Debate for vs. against Hugo Chávez. What happened at the stoplight. Allegory of the belly of the whale.

Thursday, March 8, 2012

The speech at Santa María University. The desire to immigrate, and meshing the gears. Reception.

Friday, March 9, 2012

Book presentation of The Change. A tour of Caracas. The holdup in the bus and the mugging in the restaurant. The people glorify and love Hugo Chávez. Bolivarism. Letter to Simón Bolivar.

Saturday, March 10, 2012

Arrival at Maturín. Going out with friends.

Sunday, March 11, 2012

Visit to Los Changurriales del Morocho Evans. The Cantaura Massacre. The history of Sor Fanny Alfonso Salazar and of other idealists. The Cuban intervention in Venezuela. The landing at Machrucuto. Training of Venezuelan guerrillas in Cuba. The escape from Cuartel San Carlos. The Niehous kidnaping. The Yumare and Amparo Massacres. The events at Cantaura and our family. Direct and indirect consequences of the tragedy.

Monday, March 12, 2012

Letter to former president Carlos Andrés Pérez.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Encounter with Hugo Chávez. Visit to the indigenous people of Tucupita.

Friday, March 16, 2012

Visit to the town of Caripito. Contact with rural people. The childrens’ smiles. Anecdotes from the life of Grandmother María. Uncle Gustavo’s crazy love affair: how he ran away with a married woman.

Saturday, March 17, 2012

The final letter. Dream or premonition? Spanish Neochavismo.

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Friday, March 2, 2012

Dear Daphne:

Yesterday when I got home from school at lunch time, my dad had a surprise for me. He said we were going to Venezuela, and that he already had the tickets for the flight and the suitcases packed. I was totally taken by surprise; I didn’t expect anything like this. I had noticed he’d been handling a lot of papers and documents over the last week, but I hadn’t wanted to ask him about it. He always does his thing and I do mine.

I don’t know whether you knew this, but I was born there, in Venezuela. My parents brought me here to Spain before I was a year old. My father has been invited to give a lecture about immigration at the university where he graduated. He’s also going to give a talk and introduce his new book, The Change, which has been selling so well lately. Thanks to the book, we’ve traveled to seven different countries in the past two years, some of them (US and Mexico) more than once.

I never expected my father would become this famous so quickly. Of course, I’m not complaining. Our lives have changed for the better. We finally took those luxury cruises on the Mediterranean and the African coast that we had always wanted, and we’ve bought our own apartment in Madrid, where we’re going to move in a few years when I go to college – I’ll be studying at the Complutense University.

My dad wanted to take advantage of the trip to Venezuela so that I could finally get to know the place where I was born and where I lived when I was a baby. It’s something I’d always wanted to do some day.

I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to see you before I left. Please tell the rest of the gang goodbye from me. My father arranged for me to be absent from school for the next two weeks. I promise to write you as often as I can to tell you everything that happens on this trip.

There’s nothing I would have liked better than to take you along, too, but it was out of my hands. If it’s true what they say that your spirit leaves your body when you’re asleep, then please try to come and join me if you can. And I promise to do the same to be with you. I don’t think we’ll cross paths, because of the time difference: when you’re asleep, I’ll be awake and vice versa. Anyway, if we meet in the middle, so much the better.

I’m sure it’s not going to be the same traveling with my dad as hanging out with you. He’s a man, an adult (35 years old as of last February), and he has his own way of seeing the world, different from mine, different from yours. Maybe as we grow older, the world makes us older, too, or at least what gets older is our way of thinking, our way of seeing things. I don’t know. You know how I am; when I don’t know something, I speculate about it. One of my little flaws.

If you were coming with me, I’d be able to talk about everything with you. There are things I can’t talk about with my father. First of all, I think like a young person – it’s too complicated for him to understand. I don’t judge him for that. Probably, as the years go by, some weird genetic deficiency erases the ability to think like a child from our brains. Whoever can figure out a cure for that would deserve a Nobel prize. It would be one of the greatest contributions to humanity. Who knows how many suicides it could prevent. Maybe it would lead to the fountain of eternal youth. Then there‘s the topic of sex. Since I’m a girl, I’ll never see things the same as a guy, never think the way they do, feel what they feel.

Fate has kept me together with my father, living at his side, but bodies are one thing, and minds are something else entirely. Mine wanders along its own paths, discovering new roads, new escape routes. His way of thinking is boxed in by memories of the past, the kind that torment every old person. He suffers from the dogmatic way that our culture forces him to see the world. His time to resist ideologies is ending; mine is barely starting. I still have time ahead of me to fight; he’s already given up and surrendered.

What I can tell you is that I feel a little bit nervous and uneasy, but at the same time, excited and looking forward to the experience. My father told me that I shouldn’t take my nice clothes, or my computer or my cell phone, nothing valuable that could attract attention. These last twelve years that we’ve been living in Spain, I’ve never been back to Venezuela, so I have no idea what anything there is like. What little I know about it is what my father has told me. It’s a big country, twice as big as Spain, although it has less than half the population. It has all kinds of different climates, from cold in the Andes mountains to very hot on the plains and in the east. It has all sorts of natural resources and minerals, but especially oil; it has long coastlines with countless beaches, hundreds of rivers of every size, and it has good and bad people, just like anywhere else on earth.

My father has warned me to stick close to him all the time, not to talk to strangers, not to look at people if they stare at me, not to trust anyone. He said I’m going find the culture very different from mine, so I should be careful not to judge things I don’t understand yet. I should be ready, he says, for a country with a lot of social and political conflict. A country with a very divided society, engulfed in chaos and anarchy, a struggle for control that is tearing the nation apart.

All his warnings have made me curious, and to tell the truth, a little nervous, too. But I trust my dad, I know he won’t let anything happen to me.

The only thing I’m worried about is that we’ll be leaving Cusi alone in our apartment. I hope she won’t get too depressed. Maybe spending this time shut in alone will make her think about her misbehavior and her naughty tricks, her future, her destiny on Earth, and so on. We left her enough food in a big bowl, water in another one, and lots of toys so she won’t get bored. I feel bad that we can’t take her with us. I would have liked to show the world how beautiful my cat is.

As for Toby, my worn out old teddy bear, I couldn’t imagine leaving him behind. He’s kept me company for so many years, listened to my dreams, and served as my pillow when I needed him. He knows just the right shape to fit under my neck when I can’t sleep – I couldn’t do without him.

I’ll write again soon.

Take care

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Saturday, March 3, 2012

Dear Daphne:

I’m writing this on the plane on the way to Venezuela. The flight is about nine hours long. But before this flight, we had to fly two and a half hours from Tenerife to Madrid, because we couldn’t get direct flights from Tenerife to Caracas.

We haven’t got to Venezuela yet, but I already have things to tell you.

While we were in line waiting to board at Barajas airport in Madrid, people were crowding around and pushing to go through the gate. No problem so far, I’ve seen that more than once. But this time, something really unusual caught my attention. A woman who was also waiting for the flight seemed to be upset, and started scolding people.

Let’s have some respect, please; we’re still in Spain. This isn’t the place to act like Venezuelans!

My father and I exchanged glances. Seeing my surprised reaction, he winked at me.

Just then, some girls who were also in the line recognized my father and came up to talk to him.

"Excuse me... aren’t you the author of The Change?"

My father, polite as always, smiled and answered yes.

My name is Natalia, the girl said. I’ve read all your books. I guess you could say I’m a fan of yours. Could we have a photo?

Of course, my father answered.

Immediately four young, pretty women surrounded him while one of the girls took a picture with her cell phone. I don’t know how many of them there were altogether, because some of them were in the line and others came up closer because of the photo.

Amazing! I heard one of them say to another. They’re not going to believe this!

Are you going to Venezuela? Are you going to present your book? another girl asked.

I’m from there, he answered. And yes, actually, I am going to present my book. I’m also going to give a lecture at Santa María University in Caracas.

Fantastic! another of the girls said. We’d love to go and hear you. My sister is studying law and economics there.

Thank you very much, I’ll see you there then, my father answered.

Once we had boarded and found our seats, while we were waiting for takeoff, Natalia came up to my father with a copy of The Change and asked him to sign it with a dedication. My father agreed willingly, that’s how he is.

The flight attendant came up to ask her to return to her seat because they were doing the passenger count and we were about to take off. My father handed Natalia the book, and she went back to her seat, but not without thanking him and giving him a flirtatious look.

My father smiled again.

You could say that you’ve become famous, I said.

I guess so. Actually, I’m surprised myself. I never expected to have so much success just from writing up some ideas of mine.

The aircraft was huge. There was a wide row of five seats down the center, and three seats on each side. My father and I were in the side row, a little in front of the middle.

What do you think about that woman, I asked him, The one in the terminal who was shouting at us in the line? Very rude, wasn’t she?

You’re right. Quite insulting, she was. Oh well, there are people like that wherever you go.

Still, painting everyone with the same brush doesn’t seem quite right to me. Thinking that all Venezuelans are the same...

I think her problem is that she thinks that if people are from a particular place, it means they all behave a certain way.

But isn’t that true? I asked.

No, I don’t think so. I don’t see it that way.

So how do you see it?

I think if people act in one way or another it’s not because they’re from here, or from there, or from whatever place, but because they are acting according to the rules of the place where they find themselves.

What do you mean? What are you talking about, ‘rules’? I asked, surprised.

He grinned at me to show how funny he thought my question was. I didn’t bother explaining. I know him well enough to realize that he understood perfectly well what I had meant.

Okay, let me give you an example, he continued. In Venezuela, lots of people like to drive to the beach, park on the sand right at the edge of the ocean, play their music as loud as they can, and drink all they want. Why do you think they do that? Because they’re Venezuelans? Because they are different from the rest of the world? Do they have some gene that makes them do that, to be like that?

I... I don’t know.

Well, I don’t think so. If that were the case, then they would keep acting like that when they traveled outside their country. They would behave the same as when they were at home. And experience shows that they don’t. The reason they behave badly isn’t because of some sort of ‘Venezuelan gene’ but because in their country there aren’t rules that they obey. And note that I said, rules that they obey,’ because the problem isn’t that there are no rules – if they have to, they obey them."

So what’s the problem – that there aren’t enough laws in Venezuela?

No, it’s not that. Maybe in Venezuela the rules about what you can do on the beach are about the same as the ones in other countries, but the difference is that in other countries people obey them, and in Venezuela they don’t.

So it’s a question of obeying or not obeying, of doing or not doing?

Exactly! Of course, that sort of thing doesn’t just happen only in Venezuela, don’t go thinking that it does. There’s no country on earth where everyone obeys all the laws. Even in Spain, just to give one example, in Andalusia there’s a series of beaches where hundreds of university students come from the UK every year and they overdo the drink, drugs and sex. ‘Booze tourism’ they call it.

Yes, I’ve read about it in the news.

So, then, why do you think they don’t put a stop to it?

How should I know, Dad? I’m just a kid. I don’t know the reason for everything?

I’m sorry, sweetie, I didn’t mean to pile all this on you.

No, it’s not that, it’s that you are asking me things I don’t know about. You tell me, what’s the answer to your question?

Well, I think that in this case, the money from ‘booze tourism’ isn’t exactly unwelcome at the clubs, the hotels, the beach bars, and so on.

You mean, in this case it’s not that there aren’t rules to be obeyed, but that sometimes the rules that everyone obeys, ‘some people’ don’t obey. That is, they ignore the rules if it doesn’t suit them.

Exactly. You’ve seen for yourself that Spain is proud of being a law-abiding country, but in this case they overlook some things in the interests of money.

I see.

Do those young people behave the same way in their own country? Of course not, because they know they’d have to face the consequences.

Yeah, I’ve seen on the news how some of them dive into the hotel pools from their balconies.

Right! That’s another example. Every year there’s more than one death from that kind of idiot behavior. It’s one of the consequences of booze tourism.

What about you... did you do things like that when you were young?

Of course not; I was worse!

That made us both laugh.

It’s normal, so to speak, he continued. When we’re young, we’re in the craziest time of our lives, although there’s no doubt it’s also the best.

So, going back to the topic of rules in Venezuela... do you mean that people don’t obey them there?

"It’s not that clear-cut. Of course people obey rules, some rules. It’s not a matter of obeying or disobeying, but of degrees, of shades, of nuances. There isn’t a single country in the world where people  obey all the rules perfectly. Everywhere you go, whether it’s to a greater or lesser extent, people dodge the rules, commit infractions, break the law. There’s no place on earth that has no murder, rape, kidnapping, theft, and so on. It‘s inevitable, and there’s no way to eliminate it entirely. It’s part and parcel of what it is to be human. Anyone who thinks otherwise is living on another planet. And