Fleeing Venezuela Before the Elections
HAVANA TIMES – My third day in Pacaraima begins at two in the morning. It’s cold, as expected, but I am prepared. In the tent, there is already a small group of people marking their spot; some have spent the whole night there, while others arrived earlier in the morning. The floor of the tent is filled with small stones to prevent the ground from flooding when it rains.
In the long hours that remain until the Brazilian officials start attending to us at eight in the morning, I talk with some of the people near me. The main concern, beyond being able to enter the Casa Azul today, is the situation in Venezuela. The upcoming elections have caused an increase in the number of people at the border.
Edesio, a tall man who must be around forty years old, doesn’t believe that Maduro will win, he says it’s more than obvious. But he is also certain that Maduro will not acknowledge his defeat. He has known he’s defeated for a long time because, according to Edesio, behind the supposed transfer of convicts from Tocoron Prison a few months ago, there is a plan: to release some of them, arm them, and prepare them for election day and the days afterward, so they can sow fear and kill anyone who opposes the government.
Of course, I cannot confirm what he tells me, although I know this is not a new practice. Social media is flooded with videos of convicts, lined up in military formation, swearing to defend the country and Nicolas Maduro, patriotic criminals, so to speak.
It’s also true that the so-called “colectivos” have seen a decrease in their numbers and their support for the government. So it makes sense that the dictatorship would turn to its favorite resource: criminals. I tremble at the thought of what I’m leaving behind in Venezuela. The people I’ve met, my friends, my partner (who I hope can join me soon)… and even my pets. I tremble for the people I don’t know.
Someone interrupts the conversation that was starting to make me anxious, and warns that it’s five in the morning, the time when the shelter opens and the people who stayed there overnight come out in droves. “Here come the ones from the Shelter!” Those who have no resources to pay for a night in a guesthouse rely on this benefit offered by the Operation Welcome initiative.
Later on, I’ll meet a sweet-hearted and well-mannered miner who confessed that he would rather sleep outdoors than ever return to the “shelter.” According to him, there are too many people there lacking the most basic manners or common sense.
I mentally thanked my friends who helped cover my travel expenses, including the guesthouse where I sleep in a bed, take hot showers, and “only” have to share the room with three other people (to reduce the cost).
The issue with the “shelter” people is that they often leave one family member or friend marking the spot all night in line. So, if you had fifteen people ahead of you, now you’ll have fifty, because not only will the entire “group” enter, but the “smart ones” will take advantage of the disorder to sneak in.
The situation is uncontrollable, even though some people try to maintain a semblance of order with methods as old and ineffective as the lines themselves.
Now, I talk to a young woman from eastern Venezuela who is traveling with her two daughters. Her husband is waiting for her in Minas Gerais. What ultimately made her decide to leave the country was the healthcare system. Just a few months ago, she lost her baby during childbirth. She was attended by an 18-year-old student, one of those that the government graduates as an “integral doctor” in just three years. The student mishandled the baby. At the hospital, they said the baby was stillborn, despite the fact that the previous day everything had gone well in the tests.
She knows she was “lucky”; a few weeks earlier, a neighbor of hers had died after the hospital refused to perform the cesarean section that the obstetrician had ordered. These situations are all too common in Venezuelan hospitals, where you have to bring everything from gloves to syringes and even the IV fluid for the simplest consultation. People are also aware that many employees, doctors, and nurses steal the few supplies the government provides.
It’s eight in the morning, and the line begins to stir, like an animal shaking off its fur after being rained on.
Senses are heightened. I remember again that the rest of my journey depends on this first step. Without this COVID test, I won’t have access to the vaccines I need, and without them, I won’t be able to attend the seminar after which I can start processing my papers to stay legally in Brazil.
Today we are a bit luckier. Despite walking like in a conga line, three steps forward, one step back, and another to the side, by eleven in the morning, in the last group to be attended before they break for lunch, I manage to enter the Casa Azul.