In many ways my two weeks spent living in the Catia district of Caracas were uneventful and solitary, spent exploring Caracas and studying Spanish. That is, while I was staying with good friends, I slept and cooked alone on the second floor of the small house, in an apartment formerly used as a school but currently in hiatus, sandwiched between the households of our friend Corina, her husband Herman and their two year old daughter Catalina on the top floor– and the residence of Corina’s sister, brother-in-law, father, and three nephews Gabriel, Israel and Rafael on the first floor. Perhaps solitary is not the right word, considering my surroundings. My feelings of solitude stemmed not from isolation but rather more from my unease at being implored by my hosts to keep a strict 8 pm curfew for my own safety. Just that small loss of independence made the walls of the apartment feel as though they were closing in around me. But by making that tiny sacrifice I was able to experience a reality of Venezuela that I couldn’t possibly hope to understand as a tourist.
Catia is one of the largest neighborhoods in Caracas, something you feel immediately if you spend any time there, which is saying something considering how large the rest of Caracas feels. It is historically working class, home to many immigrants to Venezuela as well, primarily from Lebanon and Italy. The U.S. distinctions between working class, poor, and ghetto neighborhoods are probably not quite as nuanced as they are in Latin America. While in no way considered a barrio in Venezuela, Catia might find itself categorized as a ghetto back in the States. The dozens of now infamous decrepit highrise apartment buildings may not help matters. Because of its proximity to the Miraflores presidential palace, after the coup attempt in 2002, Catia was the epicenter of organizing people to march towards the palace, demanding the return of Chavez. Now it is a hotbed of activism in the region and a major area of support for Chavez and his social programs. Catia TV is the first public TV station in Venezuela dedicated to social justice and giving a voice to the marginalized. Needless to say the people of Catia are excited and involved in the political process. At the same time, the neighborhood is in shambles. Some roads are only semi-paved, and there is rubble and trash everywhere. Scattered between houses and apartment buildings are liquor stores and auto repair shops, and not much else. An occasional panaderia or arepa shop. There is, however, a giant central market in Catia every day where you can find just about anything you could want or need (bootleg DVDs!).
It is safe to say that I stood out as a bright-eyed, pasty-skinned, blonde kid roaming the neighborhood. People took it in stride for the most part, though. It wasn’t until the day I was leaving, walking with a fellow gringo, that a man ran up, and with genuine concern, asked if we were lost and looking for the American Embassy (which is on completely the opposite side of town). Venezuelans have tended to assume I’m American or German. He was shocked when I told him we were staying with friends in the neighborhood and he told us to watch our backs. Otherwise everyone I met in the neighborhood was friendly and truly interested in how on earth I found myself there. Most often my generic but genuine response that I wanted to see how the real population of Venezuela lives sparked a political conversation. I was constantly amazed at people’s interchangeable levels of knowledge/commitment/involvement/support for the current government. But I was hoping to cut through the Chavez hysteria and get some specific examples.
Fortunately, Gabriel, Corinna’s 16-year-old nephew was on summer vacation. He offered to take me around town and also introduce me to various folks in the neighborhood. As it turned out, Gabriel knew essentially everyone in the neighborhood, and just walking around with him, I met dozens of families. Thanks to Gabriel, by the end of my two weeks in Catia, I was recognizing faces and the enormity of the neighborhood was no longer overwhelming. For 16-years-old, Gabriel showed amazing maturity. He had just finished at the military academy and was heading back to public high school. We spoke about everything, from the importance of education to the sense of community in Catia and the darker side of this—that many people only knew their houses, the corner, and people they drink beers with, to alcoholism, teenage pregnancy (he claimed he knew an 11-year-old with two kids, although I’m not even sure that’s physically possible) and to the fact that Chavez is giving dignity to the people of these neighborhoods. Gabriel was hoping to study languages so he could eventually travel. It was clear where this came from. Both his aunt and uncle had traveled to the U.S. and lived in the Bay Area (thus my connection). His mom was a teacher, probably part of the reason he already valued education at such an early age. Gabriel’s mom explained why her family avidly supported Chavez in terms so simple I could have kissed her. “The opposition offers nothing. Why would I support them?” She went on to explain that she has seen both schools she works at improving, particularly the public school, since Chavez came into power. In Venezuela teachers often work in two schools, along with doctors who frequently work in two clinics, public and private. For example, Gabriel’s mother worked in a public school in the morning and then a private school in the afternoon because otherwise her salary at the public school wouldn’t make ends meet. Doctors regularly worked in a similar way, I was told.
She witnessed Catia improving in many ways under Chavez. The public schools which had nothing before now had more teachers, computers, even a physical education program. There was also now a clinic and hospital near their house where before there was a prison. Finally I had found someone who could steer clear of rhetoric and supported the government because of clear examples that affected her and her family directly. Ideology had nothing to do with it, or if it did she kept it to herself. She wanted a better life for her and her family and Chavez offered improvements whereas before she was not even included in the political process. Punto. No pero, sin embargo, imperialismo or any other ways of complicating a beautifully simple argument. Regardless of enthusiastic support by activists and denial by the middle and upper classes, here was living proof that the lives of the underprivileged were really improving, poco a poco, under the current government.
Despite my oppressive 8 pm curfew, to my surprise one evening no one in the family screamed or tackled me, in fact no one seemed to notice, when Gabriel invited me to hang out with the neighborhood kids and I accepted. That is, I went out after 8 (oh no!) only to hang out in the street (whyyy??) with a group of kids ranging in ages from about 7 to 16 (death-wish). I still don’t really understand why such young kids were left free to wander the streets at night while most nights I strained to peek out my barred windows in hopes of seeing first hand the danger that confined me indoors. These kids, mostly cousins or siblings of Gabriel’s girlfriend were fearless. They played around in the dark, decrepit streets of Catia like I imagined white children from my parent’s generation did throughout the suburbs of America in the 50’s. Neighborhood kids hauling around the Red Radio Flyer and going on daily adventures (though probably not at night) was commonplace back then. Now parents in the U.S. won’t even let their kids walk to school alone. I had sort of assumed that this was a worldwide phenomenon, so to see seven-year-olds playing tag at ten o’clock at night in a neighborhood deemed too dangerous for me to even walk around in past sundown made me feel a little silly.
The Catia gang may have lacked the Red Flyer, but they certainly didn’t lack a sense of adventure. The group started with about five and grew to about twelve throughout the evening, as more and more cousins seemed to appear. We eventually left our hangout under a dim lamp post in search of…more cousins. Following Gabriel, we headed for another part of Catia. I played crossing guard for the kids while they carelessly dashed across the freeway. Passing countless darkened auto repair shops, I tagged along with the group until we reached the house of another cousin. In a tiny two-room house behind a repair shop, I was introduced to three cousins, mom, dad, and grandma who all apparently lived in this tiny space. Though they didn’t seem particularly interested, I felt it necessary to explain who I was and why I was hanging out with this group teenagers and preteens. While I’m quite certain I was the only gringo to have stepped foot in their house, the family acted very natural, like this was a normal occurrence or that I too lived on the other side of the freeway. Once the new cousins were recruited, the group decided to head back for the lamp post. So we crossed back over the freeway, past the heaps of rubble and trash to the comfort of the dim flickering lamp post. We chatted for a while longer, which mostly consisted of the younger kids asking me questions about popular pop songs from High School Musical, before everyone decided to call it a night right before midnight. Just like that. No parents dragging their kids inside or yelling for them to get off the street. The kids knew. It was bedtime.
-Jake
