Waiting…

You are officially entering…

The gleaming red container box said “inmigración”. The doors were closed, one had a sign “entrada” the other “salida” but there was no activity. Certainly this could not be the official immigration counter to get an entry stamp? The reports I had read all spoke of a strange setup that required a 1km walk into the town of San Antonio to the official immigration office. Rather strange in that anyone wanting to get into the country and disappear could simply do so by not bothering with the formalities. Regardless, and thank goodness I had my friend from Colombia with me, we made our way to the official officina de inmigracion; which as it turned out, was not able to provide entry stamps, as officially it was not official anymore, but the red container was now officially declared the official entry check point. Our arguments that there had been no one at the container depot and that since we were now at the erstwhile official office, couldn’t we just get on with it, fell on deaf ears; the official responsible for officially stamping and officially signing the stamp was officially unavailable. There was nothing for it than to return to the border crossing and get in line there. Luckily, this was Venezuela; unfortunately, this was Venezuela.

The unpredictability…

Fortunate in that the longest line was for Venezuelans returning home, and they required no official stamps; there was no need for me to join this line, as I needed a stamp. Unfortunately, the existing chaos resulted in regular internet outages, and when I entered the cool interior of the gleaming red container, there was only one option, wait. There was no real line up, only three people were ahead of me, and we soon started to commiserate about the situation. My Colombian host started speaking with one person, while I started a conversation with a gentleman who seemed to be from somewhere in Europe judging by the accent; it was only a few moments before we switched over to our native language of the low countries. Our conversation covered many topics during our shared wait, and it soon became apparent that my host had been in conversation with this gentleman’s wife, a citizen of Venezuela. When husband and wife learned that it was my intent to travel from San Antonio to San Cristobal by bus, and from there get on a bus to Barquisimeto, they shared a quick stare and roll of eyes, then simultaneously turned back to us and declared me extremely daring – not – but they would help, and I was welcome to join them in their vehicle for the ride to San Cristobal, their home city.

Statue of Simon Bolivar, or El Libertador

I noticed the huge mountain of concern that lifted off my Colombian host’s shoulders when he heard this generous offer, and he could finally smile with confidence again. As much as I had read about the conditions along the road from San Antonio to San Cristobal, so much and worse had he heard about that exact same route, and had not really had a peaceful moment since we started the journey across the border that morning.

of the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela

Suddenly, as though on cue, the computers started burping and spurting, and internet connectivity was restored, our passports could be scanned and digitized and whisked off to the central storage banks; we got our entry stamps, and were cheerily waved on our way by the long-suffering officials whose official duty it was to officially welcome us to the country known officially as the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela.