Caracas Chronicles

“¿La clave?” the woman in the cafe said, as I used my debit card for the first time in Venezuela while paying for a coffee. I paused momentarily, not quite sure if I had misheard. Was this woman expecting me to tell her my PIN number? Perhaps it was some kind of scam, or maybe she hadn’t worked there long and, or was just a little delayed in handing me the card machine. A couple of seconds passed. I looked at her, waiting for some kind of clue. She looked back at me, expressionless. Quietly, and a little apprehensively, I told her the number.

This was a curveball, and the first real surprise I’d encountered during my first couple of days in Venezuela. I soon found it that this unusual approach to PIN numbers had been adopted countrywide. In most nations, a person’s PIN number is a secret that maybe their own family isn’t even privy too. In my own country, the United Kingdom, a quick glance at the person behind you in a queue is a common, yet mildly passive aggressive signal, that they need to take a few steps back. But in Venezuela, a PIN number is shouted as freely as the latest football results.

If this was one of my biggest cultural shocks, it was far from the only one. The free sharing of information when paying for things extended to meeting people for the first time too. “Do you have kids? A boyfriend or husband? How much did you pay for your flight? What about rent back home?” These questions were frequently repeated by different people I met, their faces beaming with friendliness but also a directness that was enough to make a Brit blush. In the UK, small talk during first encounters usually goes as far as discussing the weather, “A bit cloudy today, isn’t it?,” or perhaps what you do for work. 

I’d lived in Colombia for two years and this line of questioning wasn’t entirely new for me. But suddenly the questions were fired with a new intensity, increased frequency and from people I wasn’t expecting: waiters in restaurants, hotel staff and strangers in coffee shops. I can only put it down to Venezuelans’ genuine curiosity about foreigners visiting their country and wanting to initiate more conversations. In Colombia, this curiosity in tourists has perhaps been somewhat diluted over the years given high numbers of international visitors. 

The openness of Venezuelans has also led to heartwarming surprises that have become cherished moments. A lively street vendor was determined to gift me an old-fashioned record to hang on my wall back home, so I would always remember Caracas. A bookseller in Merida slipped a novel into my hand, ‘a memento of Merida’, he said smiling. The number of times I’ve been approached asking where I am from and if I need any help has become uncountable, as are the occasions I’ve been presented with coffee or arepas in people’s homes, guesthouses or shops.

This kindness has also helped me overcome obstacles in Venezuela. Paying for just about anything is not as easy as in other countries. Just before coming to Venezuela, I’d heeded advice from Venezuelans in Colombia to bring very little cash with me as they said the guardia, or National Guard, might take it. The abundance of checkpoints –as I traveled by land– was certainly overwhelming and disconcerting, but fortunately the guardia didn’t take anything from me. However, I ran out of money fast. Given many ATMs are out of service or don’t work with foreign cards, getting cash proved tricky. A hotel once helped me find a small kiosk selling dollars for an exorbitant commission rate, and a friend gave me a few dollars and I paid for the shopping he needed on my card in exchange. Once you do have cash, it’s a challenge to break bigger notes and get change, and having $1 notes is not even enough to guarantee they’ll be accepted. They’re sometimes rejected over the tiniest mark or tear. 

Paying by card also wasn’t as easy as I’d been led to believe. Especially outside Caracas, I found the acceptance of my two cards widely unpredictable. The tiniest street stall might take an international card, but a large hotel or restaurant might not. A bus company might theoretically take it, but if the electricity goes, as it often does, and there’s no wifi signal, then the transaction can’t be completed. Now on my third visit, I still find paying for just about anything a daily frustration.

These peculiar surprises are always matched by enriching ones. Spotting a shawarma restaurant in Merida with staff switching between Arabic and Spanish, was the first proper clue of the influence that Venezuela’s rich migration has had on its gastronomy, and the country as a whole—a fact I’d heard about but hadn’t properly absorbed. From people speaking Mandarin in Chinese-owned shops and restaurants in Barquisimeto, to German-style bakeries filled with crusty white bread and jars of jam in Colonia Tovar, to eating one of Venezuela’s national dishes—pabellón—representing different cultural influences of the country’s indigenous, Spanish colonial and African roots.

While I’d been looking forward to trying different food, on my first visit, I had been concerned about Venezuela’s crime levels. Not only did my own government’s website paint a doomsday picture of robberies and kidnappings, Venezuelans I knew in Colombia had done so too—some warning me it was too dangerous for a foreigner to visit. Arriving at the Merida’s terminal, I darted across the road to take the bus into town and, before getting off, I tucked my phone and money away safely and clutched my bags closely. But barely anyone seemed to notice me, and those who did just smiled and carried on walking with their shopping bags or eating their ice creams.

The second time I came to Venezuela, I visited Caracas, which was far from the criminal hell I’d envisaged. I actually felt relatively safe getting around. Those I met there informed me that the security situation has changed significantly over the last few years since the times they wouldn’t even dare take their phone out on the metro. Of course, this isn’t to say my worries have transcended into blind naivety. A close encounter in Maracaibo with a not very discreet thief was a stark reminder to never fully let my guard down, although the same advice could be given for any major city around the world. But the picture wasn’t as bleak, at least in my own experience, as I had read about.

The list of surprises is a long one that keeps on growing: Siberian-like temperatures on long distance buses, the number of nail bars and hair salons, elderly people still working because they can’t live off their pensions, a lack of heavy traffic even in major cities at rush hour because so many people have left the country, constant electricity cuts in cities outside of Caracas, and having to give my document number to pay by card or to stay in a hotel or buy a bus ticket, and the high cost of some basic products compared to other countries. For me, the most welcome surprises usually come from Venezuela’s natural beauty, as well as its people: cloud-capped peaks of Merida and gentle rolling hills of Tachira, vibrant macaws flying overhead in Caracas, the flashes of Catatumbo lightning while crossing the bridge in Maracaibo, and the warmness and the willingness of the people to help me explore their country. Venezuela isn’t the easiest place to be a foreign visitor, but it certainly is a rewarding one.