Traveling Venezuela: Danger, Corruption, Beautiful Nature
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Venezuela August 2007: "Socialismo O Muerte" (Socialism or Death) proclaim the numerous red banners that hang prominently from various buildings around Caracas, giving the visitor a forewarning of the passions that divide Venezuelans. The collision between a modern upwardly mobile society and an impoverished majority, that is left out of the good life promised by free-market and free trade globalism, is on prominent display each place I went during my few weeks in Venezuela.
I spent my first five days in Venezuela visiting Caracas, a city with one of the highest non war-zone murder rates in the world. Caracas sits in an elongated valley between two large mountain ranges, both of which run roughly parallel to the coast. Placement of the city in this position, along with giving great views of the forested mountains from much of the city, acts to trap the air pollution over the city. I stayed in an area called Las Mercedes, one of the wealthier parts of the city and generally safe for visitors. Many areas of Caracas are considered "no-go" zones to the uninitiated. I was to find out my second day in the city that this was no idle concern.
The better off parts of Caracas seem very Westernized and draw much influence from America. At a mammoth and very popular shopping, entertainment, restaurant and nightspot center near Las Mercedes that I visited on a Friday night, my first night in town, different levels of the center have names like "Uptown Manhattan", "Hollywood" and "Las Vegas". In many of the bars and clubs of the huge complex, you could be forgiven if you thought you were in West Los Angeles when observing the beautiful, international mix of people, while listening to the big variety music from the various clubs, and from the eye popping prices on the food and drink menus.
Caracas has many large shopping malls, both upscale and otherwise. The center of the city, like almost all capitals in South America, has a small renovated colonial section where the city administration buildings are located, along with the Simon Bolivar museum (Simon Bolivar figures prominently in Venezuelan lore, having been born there; and his name is now invoked in the cause of the Chavez movement). There also appears to be many very poor areas of the city, which I did not visit.
On Saturday night I had a more "Caracas" type of experience. Knowing I'd be off to the heartland of Venezuela soon, I figured I'd take advantage of the excellent cuisine at a chic Italian restaurant near my hotel. While waiting at the bar for a table to open at this popular, bustling and noisy eatery, with waitresses and hostesses that all looked like models running drinks and food back and forth, I struck up a conversation with a local playhouse director. A tallish man of medium build and dark slightly greying hair, Tulia ran and directed a highly respected theatre group in the playhouse located next door to my hotel. He spoke good English and has strong connections to the States, having two brothers who live in Houston, and a mother that was raised in Colorado. We chatted for about fifteen minutes, and then Tulia excused himself as he was with a large dinner party and had to return to it. I invited him over for a drink at my table after he was finished with his dinner party.
Later that evening, as I was finishing dinner, Tulia came by and took me up on my drink offer. We ended up discussing the political situation in Venezuela. Tulia contended the country was in trouble under the Chavez regime and that things were going downhill fast. Citing perceived security threats to the US, he rather strongly argued that Chavez' ties with Cuba and Bolivia, his military armament purchases from Russia and his increasingly authoritarian rule all called for the US to do something to take him (Chavez) out of power. Agreeing that it appeared that Chavez was leading his country to a dark path of ruinous authoritarian rule, I countered that it seemed that this was a Venezuelan problem that would have to be dealt with by the people of his country, not the US. Venezuela did not pose any real military, terrorism or WMD threat to the US, and the "oil weapon" was more of a mirage than real because Venezuela needs the US market as much as the US needs their oil. Tulia continued to make his case, citing the continued erosion of various freedoms, the nationalizing of the many components of the energy industries, price freezes on a range of commodities, land expropriations, and other tried and proven lousy economic policies sure to bring ruin to Venezuela. He also cited Venezuela's influence on Ecuadoran politics and cooperation with Argentina in supplying oil to that country.
A bit past midnight, Tulia asked me where I'd like to go in Caracas. He had a car, knew the city well and was glad to show me any aspect of the nightlife in which I was interested (nightlife in Caracas gets going after midnight). "Girls, strips clubs, discos, hookers, what was I into?" he asked. I nixed any of these, expressing a preference to see something unique to Caracas and its culture. He suggested a Salsa place that would show the "real" flavor of the town, as long as I did not mind visiting a somewhat bad area of the city. Figuring that I was in good hands with a local who knew the area, off we went.
En route as Tulia drove and puffed on a joint of apparently high quality Venezuelan weed (Oh well, this is what bohemian artistic types did, I thought), we continued our political discussion until arriving at our destination. Parking about three quarters of a block down from the salsa bar, on a dingy and dimly lit street lined with beat up old apartments and some trees, we exited his car only to be halted by two of Caracas' finest.
The two policemen, an older tall man who appeared to be in charge and his somewhat pudgy late 20s appearing partner, stated that they would like to investigate and asked Tulia for his identity card and me for my passport. Replying that I did not have my passport on me as I had left it in my hotel safe, I politely let them know that we were just heading to the bar down the street and there was nothing amiss or for them to investigate (they were obviously setting up to fish for a bribe). Not so easily brushed off, they told Tulia to put his hands on the car and then proceeded to search him. Tulia obliged as they took everything out of his pockets and place it on the hood of his car. Finishing with Tulia, they then turned to me and said they would search me, too. Since I was only wearing a pair of thin slacks suitable for the tropics, and a dressy t-shirt, I pointed out that there was nothing to search. It was obvious they could see I was not carrying a weapon. Insisting that it was their job, and with Tulia chiming in and insisting that I cooperate, I reluctantly put my hands on the trunk of the car while the younger cops came behind me and started to pat me down. However, when he put his hand into my right side pant pocket and grabbed my money, that was too much. Reacting instinctively, I clamped onto his hand and wrist with my right hand and held his hand in my pocket. I told him "No le doy dinero", my simple Spanish for "I do not give you any money". Then telling Tulia to translate, as I did not know how to say it in Spanish, I told him to let go of my money. The cop commanded in a raised voice for me to let go of his hand and that he was only doing his job. Again in my simple Spanish, I told him that he would not get any money. When both cops insisted that I let go of the hand clutching the money in my pocket, I told Tulia to tell him to take his hand off my money now, and that it was not his job to grab at a person's money. I then proceeded to dig my fingers into his hand and to lever his hand slightly downward (it was caught in my pocket so I was sort of bearing my weight down on it).
This standoff continued for a solid minute, which seemed like a really long time at that particular moment. Both cops with increasing vehemence insisted that I let go of the hand, and Tulia, ever more panicked, also insisted that I let go. Noting that the cop with his hand in my pocket carried his gun holstered to his hip on his right side, the same side as the hand I was gripping, I figured I was safe from him (he was behind me and would have a tough time reaching across the front of his body for it with his left hand). I mentally figured that as long as the older cop, who appeared to be in the lead, did not escalate by drawing his gun, that I "had" them, i.e.: I would ultimately avoid being fleeced. However, if the lead cop did motion to draw his gun, I'd then stand down and pay my way out. Meanwhile a panicked Tulia pointed out that these guys were dangerous and that they could take us to jail, and that we did NOT want to go there under any circumstances.
Next Part 2: Traveling Venezuela: Standoff with Caracas Police Drags On. Angry Citizens try to Help