I can't count how many hours of my life I spent waiting for Hugo Chávez. My colleague Donnacha O'Briain and I arrived in Venezuela in late 2001 to film a fly-on-the-wall documentary about the president, who had been in power for almost two years. Our government contact had resigned, and our promise of access to the president had gone with him.
After days of trying, we eventually came within shouting distance of Chávez amid a throng of journalists on a media outing. I shouted: “Mr President, I’m from Cork, the land of Daniel Florence O’Leary.” O’Leary had been Simón Bolivar’s right-hand man. It worked.
Our first proper meeting was late one night. We waited for three or four hours. When an aide finally led us into his office, Chávez sat behind a long cluttered desk sipping chicken soup.
He stood, giving Donnacha his customary hearty handshake and slap on the shoulder; a bear hug for me.
He offered us some soup and fried bananas and then he was off, talking about his plans to revolutionise the country's economy, energised and passionate, pulling out packets of Venezuelan pasta from under a pile of books to explain how he planned to turn Venezuela from a country that imported most of its food from the US to a self-sufficient economy.
Then he ordered three cafecitos, no doubt his 15th or 20th shot of espresso that day, pulling out a pack of Belmont Lights cigarettes from his desk drawer and offering us a smoke with a wink: "I like a little cigarette at the end of the day with my coffee, but I don't smoke in public. It sets a bad example."
The rest of the night was spent chatting about history, Bolivar and O’Leary, with a little explanation of the access we needed for our documentary. He asked for a list of what exactly we wanted to film, which we gave him. The next day his aide got in touch to say the president couldn’t “make head nor tail of your list”.
In Venezuela at that time, a fly-on-the-wall documentary was a new concept. No one, including Chávez, could understand why we wanted to film the president brushing his teeth or sitting in his car on the way to the airport. It took a long time for those around him to stop questioning our motives and take our presence for granted.
Years later I found out that one of the president's advisers had christened me "the Irish spy". Chávez had nicknamed Donnacha e l c atire , "the fair-haired fella", and for reasons I never understood, I was Kim de l a s elva , or "Kim of the jungle".
Epic distances
I travelled epic distances with Chávez, on helicopters, on buses, and in the backs of lorries covered in red felt to look like the paratrooper's red beret he loved to wear. I slept in tents and in five-star hotels, shared rooms with cooks and ministers, lay awake in metal army bunks that had been rafted down the river and set up in a clearing in the jungle for a Christmas Eve broadcast of his weekly TV show, Aló Presidente .
Chávez was like a man always on the campaign trail. He thrived on contact with his people and knew his popularity lay in his hands-on approach. On and off camera he loved to joke, dance, sing and make outrageous comments that were invariably picked up by the world’s media and often taken far too seriously.
He had a terrific memory and always remembered people’s names, mostly calling people by their first name or nickname, and those around him loved it. I’ve heard people talk of the Clinton effect, and I suppose Chávez had a similar quality: people wanted his attention and were flattered by it.
He had some trouble with his eyes, and I remember the frustration of the nurse who travelled with us as she tried to make him rest his eyes back in the hotel after another 14-hour day travelling the length and breadth of the country, but she couldn’t get him to close his eyes for more than 10 minutes. The phone would ring, or he would remember something and start making notes.
He could also be cranky. I remember on a few occasions seeing him frustrated by the inefficiencies around him. He wanted to micromanage everything, but one man cannot manage a country the size of Venezuela. I felt he chose to rely on people he could trust with his life, rather than those with management skills.
As a film-maker, what drew me to him in the first place was a trip to Venezuela in 1999 when catastrophic mudslides killed tens of thousands in the shanty towns north of Caracas. Chávez had just been elected; and I was struck by the number of people from these poor barrios whom he had inspired to learn to read so they could understand the constitution.
It was these same people who surrounded the palace following a coup against Chávez in 2002. Our documentary ended up largely being about the role the media played in that coup.
We filmed Chávez being taken away by the generals who plotted to overthrow him. His parting words were " A delante siempre ", onward always. Someone shouted, "We'll be back, Mr President," and Chávez replied, "We haven't gone anywhere."
Changed the country
That could have been the end of Chávez and his Bolivarian revolution. But no matter what happens next, I thought that night, Chávez has changed this country forever. Three days later, he returned.
In death as in life, Chávez remains controversial. Reading articles about his life and legacy over the past few days, I am struck by how little has changed. I haven't been back to Venezuela for 10 years, but I have no doubt that Chávez will always be remembered by those whose lives he helped change for the better. As a champion of the poor. As someone who lived for what he believed in. As a man who helped change Latin America.
