Parrots screeched in the trees, ripening mangoes hung from the branches, and the South American diplomat was creased up in a wicker chair in his garden, laughing at my attempts to explain Venezuela in a clear, analytical fashion. I was in louche, lush Caracas again – for the first time since I lived there when Hugo Chávez first swept to power in the 1998 presidential election. But I was being “too logical,” the ambassador told me. “The first thing about Venezuela is that it doesn’t make sense. The second is it doesn’t work, and never did.”
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