By Jesse Jon Doyle

As our decrepit camioneta edged its way from the Colombian Sierra toward the border, our conductor yelled in my face atop the radio: “Twenty pesos!” The frail lady sitting beside me explained that it was merely to bribe the border officials into not searching our bus. I reluctantly asked why we should be concerned with whether they searched our bus or not. She half-heartedly lifted the pile of luggage stacked behind us. From the depths of the baggage a family of undocumented Colombians emerged. “That’s why” she explained. The heavily clad border officials seemed to accept our bribe with alarming composure. We were clear to go. As the camioneta rolled around the corner, the family emerged from the luggage and everyone erupted in uniform applaud. We’d made it into the world of Bolivarian Socialism.
My first destination in Venezuela was Maracaibo, the sprawling concrete jungle built on the back of the oil boom in the seventies. As you enter the city, colossal posters of Chavez adorn the highways plastered with the words Patria, Socialismo o Muerte, which loosely translates to Homeland, Socialism or Death? Considering the options, it became apparent why this Chavez character was all the hype.
As we arrived in Maracaibo I was knocked back by the sweltering heat. I’d fortunately been lucky enough to stumble upon a couch to surf with a gay, twenty-something engineer that worked for the state-run oil company Petroleros de Venezuela S.A (PDVSA). Orlando was a walking contradiction – he preached the ideals of the Chavez led revolution from the air-conditioned comfort of his upper class family’s home. He would talk about the wonders of Bolivarian Socialism with passion as we toured the city in his brand new sedan. Outside, there was clearly a different reality. The poverty was palpable. Whole families lay begging on the street, asking when the empty promises were going to come their way. The electricity cut out for two to three hours each evening. I was at first irate about the shortage, but after the first night the whole situation became quite laughable. After all, I was clearly in no position to be complaining. Many others had it much worse. Retirees on life support, ice cream vendors, electrical engineers to name a few.
Nevertheless, Venezuelans appear to have become somewhat accustomed to such ordeals. In 2002, they faced a two month oil crisis in which the management of PDVSA protested against the Chavez government by cutting off all petrol supply to the country. Without petrol the country effectively stopped. People couldn’t get to work, supplies couldn’t be delivered and thus the government issued emergency rations which included the standard food staples of rice, bread, cereal and amusingly enough beer. Without having to work and with a seemingly endless supply of ice-cold beer at their disposal, the people remained content. That is until big, bad Chavez had to come and ruin the party by sacking 17,000 employees and appointing a socialist driven management who even changed the company’s logo from navy blue to a revolutionary red to prove their allegiance.
For Venezuelans, the latest ordeal that left them without electricity, just like the last, was not such a big deal. The issue was that it prevented them from doing the two things they love most – watching baseball and sipping on frosty beer which was indeed a bother. So much so, that it appeared the populist support for Chavez was evaporating right before my very eyes.
That night, once the electricity had returned we hit a local reggae bar. As I mingled with Orlando’s amigos from university they talked of a counter-revolution that was stirring amongst those disenfranchised with the disillusioned leader. One even said he’d be the one to put an end to it, but he didn’t want to afford Chavez the chance of becoming a martyr. As I soaked in every word they said, the drinks kept flowing. With the fourfold devaluation of the Bolivar (local currency) I was effectively paying nine dollars per bottle of Tequila. This proved dangerous. After, countless hours of dancing to Marley classics in a tequila-induced haze, we stumbled back into Orlando’s house to find his parents glued to a Chavez address being broadcast on the state run television station. He was laying rest to the rumours of a coup d’etat that had been circulating since the electricity shortages. Fed up, with all this talk of politics I went to shower before going to sleep… I turned the tap on but nothing came out. Drunk, naked and disheartened I stumbled to bed. In the morning I was bound for a student city nestled deep in the Andes by the name of Merída.
As our camioneta rolled into town it looked much like the set of a post-apocalyptic Hollywood film set. There were piles upon piles of rubbish, burnt out vehicles and bullet holes scattered across most building facades. A homeless man explained “it was the riots last night. Two people died. What you think you doing here gringo?” In Latin America the term gringo is applied to basically anyone that is or looks American. Locals tell me it came about in the midst of the Mexican-American war when the Mexicanos who knew little English would shout “Green Go” telling the American troops to get out or their country. It somehow stuck and now Caucasian travellers from Paris to Perth are paying the price for American military exploits of the past. I nevertheless accepted the disparaging name bestowed upon me by the drifter and continued exploring.
I was travelling with a fellow couchsurfer that I’d met through Orlando. As we strolled the streets we saw rioters empty commuters off a bus, douse it in petrol and set it alight. We decided it’d be best to hide in hills for the day until the situation calmed. Funnily enough there were a score of bus drivers also hiding up amongst the hills in fear that their bus would pay the price for the government’s blunders. We waited until sunset to head back down to the city centre. The city was alive, locals on edge, foreigners desperately scrambling toward the border in fear of an all out coup d’etat. I decided to cut my trip short and head toward the border in fear of getting stuck in Venezuela. There was a bottle neck. People were being herded through in a cattle-like fashion by the military. The electricity suddenly cut, adding more chaos to the situation. As I was being forced across the border I stopped and asked a military official how he maintained his poise amongst all this pandemonium. The soldier looked across at me from the darkness and with a wry smile uttered
As our decrepit camioneta edged its way from the Colombian Sierra toward the border, our conductor yelled in my face atop the radio: “Twenty pesos!” The frail lady sitting beside me explained that it was merely to bribe the border officials into not searching our bus. I reluctantly asked why we should be concerned with whether they searched our bus or not. She half-heartedly lifted the pile of luggage stacked behind us. From the depths of the baggage a family of undocumented Colombians emerged. “That’s why” she explained. The heavily clad border officials seemed to accept our bribe with alarming composure. We were clear to go. As the camioneta rolled around the corner, the family emerged from the luggage and everyone erupted in uniform applaud. We’d made it into the world of Bolivarian Socialism.
My first destination in Venezuela was Maracaibo, the sprawling concrete jungle built on the back of the oil boom in the seventies. As you enter the city, colossal posters of Chavez adorn the highways plastered with the words Patria, Socialismo o Muerte, which loosely translates to Homeland, Socialism or Death? Considering the options, it became apparent why this Chavez character was all the hype.
As we arrived in Maracaibo I was knocked back by the sweltering heat. I’d fortunately been lucky enough to stumble upon a couch to surf with a gay, twenty-something engineer that worked for the state-run oil company Petroleros de Venezuela S.A (PDVSA). Orlando was a walking contradiction – he preached the ideals of the Chavez led revolution from the air-conditioned comfort of his upper class family’s home. He would talk about the wonders of Bolivarian Socialism with passion as we toured the city in his brand new sedan. Outside, there was clearly a different reality. The poverty was palpable. Whole families lay begging on the street, asking when the empty promises were going to come their way. The electricity cut out for two to three hours each evening. I was at first irate about the shortage, but after the first night the whole situation became quite laughable. After all, I was clearly in no position to be complaining. Many others had it much worse. Retirees on life support, ice cream vendors, electrical engineers to name a few.
Nevertheless, Venezuelans appear to have become somewhat accustomed to such ordeals. In 2002, they faced a two month oil crisis in which the management of PDVSA protested against the Chavez government by cutting off all petrol supply to the country. Without petrol the country effectively stopped. People couldn’t get to work, supplies couldn’t be delivered and thus the government issued emergency rations which included the standard food staples of rice, bread, cereal and amusingly enough beer. Without having to work and with a seemingly endless supply of ice-cold beer at their disposal, the people remained content. That is until big, bad Chavez had to come and ruin the party by sacking 17,000 employees and appointing a socialist driven management who even changed the company’s logo from navy blue to a revolutionary red to prove their allegiance.
For Venezuelans, the latest ordeal that left them without electricity, just like the last, was not such a big deal. The issue was that it prevented them from doing the two things they love most – watching baseball and sipping on frosty beer which was indeed a bother. So much so, that it appeared the populist support for Chavez was evaporating right before my very eyes.
That night, once the electricity had returned we hit a local reggae bar. As I mingled with Orlando’s amigos from university they talked of a counter-revolution that was stirring amongst those disenfranchised with the disillusioned leader. One even said he’d be the one to put an end to it, but he didn’t want to afford Chavez the chance of becoming a martyr. As I soaked in every word they said, the drinks kept flowing. With the fourfold devaluation of the Bolivar (local currency) I was effectively paying nine dollars per bottle of Tequila. This proved dangerous. After, countless hours of dancing to Marley classics in a tequila-induced haze, we stumbled back into Orlando’s house to find his parents glued to a Chavez address being broadcast on the state run television station. He was laying rest to the rumours of a coup d’etat that had been circulating since the electricity shortages. Fed up, with all this talk of politics I went to shower before going to sleep… I turned the tap on but nothing came out. Drunk, naked and disheartened I stumbled to bed. In the morning I was bound for a student city nestled deep in the Andes by the name of Merída.
As our camioneta rolled into town it looked much like the set of a post-apocalyptic Hollywood film set. There were piles upon piles of rubbish, burnt out vehicles and bullet holes scattered across most building facades. A homeless man explained “it was the riots last night. Two people died. What you think you doing here gringo?” In Latin America the term gringo is applied to basically anyone that is or looks American. Locals tell me it came about in the midst of the Mexican-American war when the Mexicanos who knew little English would shout “Green Go” telling the American troops to get out or their country. It somehow stuck and now Caucasian travellers from Paris to Perth are paying the price for American military exploits of the past. I nevertheless accepted the disparaging name bestowed upon me by the drifter and continued exploring.
I was travelling with a fellow couchsurfer that I’d met through Orlando. As we strolled the streets we saw rioters empty commuters off a bus, douse it in petrol and set it alight. We decided it’d be best to hide in hills for the day until the situation calmed. Funnily enough there were a score of bus drivers also hiding up amongst the hills in fear that their bus would pay the price for the government’s blunders. We waited until sunset to head back down to the city centre. The city was alive, locals on edge, foreigners desperately scrambling toward the border in fear of an all out coup d’etat. I decided to cut my trip short and head toward the border in fear of getting stuck in Venezuela. There was a bottle neck. People were being herded through in a cattle-like fashion by the military. The electricity suddenly cut, adding more chaos to the situation. As I was being forced across the border I stopped and asked a military official how he maintained his poise amongst all this pandemonium. The soldier looked across at me from the darkness and with a wry smile uttered “just another day in a socialist utopia, right gringo?”