I remember when I thought I was a patient person...

All my life, I have considered myself a pretty patient person. I even have one memory as a child with my mom when we lived at 106B Keowee. It was Easter, and she was putting out all of her cutesy decorations. Part of the decorations was a small Easter tree, which required unwinding all the tangled up branches. As she pulled it out of the box, she huffed and passed it over to me, saying, “Here, you’ve got more patience for these kinds of things than I do.” I don’t know why, but I remember feeling proud at the time that Mom was complimenting my patience (looking back, though, I think she just didn’t want to have to deal with that tree). After having spent so much time in Venezuela, however, I no longer recognize the person that I was, when I used to think the test of patience was only unwinding Easter trees.

Let me tell you about some of the experiences I’ve had this week -

Tuesday morning I got up at 6 am to make it to the bank in the city early, in order to avoid the notoriously long line. I waited out in the entrance to the house until public transportation arrived at 6:30 (public transportation to Carorita consists of old jeeps, some of which can hold up to 15 people). Once in town in La Puerta, I waited about 15 minutes until the bus arrived that would take me to the city of Valera. Once in Valera, I got off the bus at the bus stop at the only McDonalds around and waited to catch the next bus which would leave me on the corner at the bank. I finally made it to the bank at 8:00 on the dot. That’s an hour and a half of public transportation, and that was a good day - sometimes it can take two or two and a half hours depending on lines.

The doors were still closed even though I had been informed that they would open at 7:45, and to my horror, there was a line of over 100 people winding around the bank building over onto the next block. I got in the back of the line to see how fast it would move once the bank opened. After waiting over 20 minutes and still moving no where, I decided to leave, since I had an appointment at 10:30, and I knew there was no way I would make it on time. I took advantage of the free time I had and went to buy more tickets- which are government paid reduced price public transportation stubs for students. Anyone who can prove they are enrolled in any school can buy up to 100 each month. They are absolutely necessary for Venezuelan students and for me! Without them, I would spend almost $40,000 bolívares, or $20, a week in transportation alone, but with tickets, I spend only $4,000 bolívares, or $2, a week.

Again, I took another bus to get to the ticket office. There was a line of about 30 or 40 people (another outside line, by the way). That didn’t seem so bad, and anyway, I had nothing else to do, and I really needed them! I only went to town with $5,000 bolívares, which without tickets, was just enough to get me home that day and let me buy a pack of crackers to make it through the lunch hour. If I could buy the tickets, however, I would be able to make it to and from town for 2 weeks. In other words, this was urgent! Well, two hours later, I made it out of the ticket office, with tickets in hand and very late for my appointment. I found in some spare change in my purse which was enough to call and let my appointment know I would be late.

After my appointment, I got out at about 1 o’clock and thought it would be a good idea to try the bank again, since most people had to be back at work by 2 (here the lunch hour is from 12-2). I walked to the bank to save my tickets, and three hours later, I walked out of the bank after cashing my check. I don’t ever want to go to the bank again.

It was a funny day for me, because I’ve always known how much harder life is here, and I’ve even experienced a lot of it, but never like I have this week. All the five hours I spent in line this one day, I really thought I was going to go crazy. In my mind, I would go back and forth between wanting to scream and feeling bad - feeling bad because what seemed so horrible to me was normal for everyone else in line. I wanted to be strong enough to put up with it all just like they do all the time, but I’m not - and that made me feel disappointed in myself.

As it turns out, that particular day was just the beginning of my test of patience this week. The next day when I had to go down to town, I missed the jeep here in Carorita. They usually go all the way up the mountain before turning around and coming back down, which is where I flag it down. For some reason, though, he turned around much sooner than I had expected, and just as I walked outside, I saw him disappear into the distance. Having no other choice because I had to be in town at a certain time, I grabbed my purse and started to walk. The jeeps here come very infrequently because there are always so little passengers, so I have no way of knowing what time the next jeep will come. The only option left was to start walking in hopes of hitchhiking somewhere along the way.

I made it to the entrance of Carorita in about 20 minutes, and there, I waited 15 more minutes before a truck came by and gave me and another girl headed to class a ride into town. I remember the first time I came to Venezuela I was so afraid and embarrassed to hitchhike (embarrassed to throw out my hand and have the car pass me by) - now, however, it’s the cheapest and sometimes the only way to get around. I remember when my friends first gave me hitchhiking lessons, too - my friend Judy said, “Now, remember, whatever you do, don’t try to catch rides with the really nice cars, it can be dangerous and they usually won’t stop anyway. Just try to catch rides with the more beat-up cars, they’re usually from around here and are humble people just like you and me.” Isn’t that funny - don’t catch rides with the nice cars!

That same day, I waited over an hour in the cold, dark rain to get a ride back up to Carorita - the jeeps refuse to take off until there are enough passengers to fill them up.

My worst test of patience came yesterday, however, when I agreed to pick up milk for a lady here in Carorita since I was going to town anyway. Lately, sugar, flour, and milk have been scarce in Venezuela (I am not saying this so that you can blame Chávez - it’s much more complicated than that). The worst scarcity has been milk, though, and families sometimes wait all day for milk or make long trips to other towns when they hear there will be milk available a certain day. Well, my friend had spent three hours in line the day before with no luck - the milk ran out before it was her turn. They gave her a ticket to buy milk the next day. With this ticket, I went to town.

I only ended up waiting 30 minutes, but let me explain - this was 30 minutes of over 200 people yelling, pushing at me from all directions, babies and children screaming… I made it through the fence (where the soldiers were letting people through) basically by letting the crowd push me through. These are a couple of things I heard yelled while I was in line: “You’re stepping on that kid!” “Why don’t you organize this - this is crazy!” “What happened to the line?!?” “Let the people with tickets through first!” “Let her go through - she’s pregnant!” “Oh, yeah, that’s not fair, I’m pregnant, too!” “You’re squishing my belly!”

Once I made it through, I was sold only 1 kilo of milk from a huge truck. I handed up my ticket and money, and I was handed down the milk and my change from up above. It was I think the most dehumanizing experience I have ever had in my life. I am fortunate - I can avoid this, but families with babies and children cannot - they must have milk.

In Venezuela, I have learned to redefine many things - patience, comfort, stress, hunger, tiredness, necessities, faith, and joy… I don’t know that many people back home who could go through all of this, not to mention making it home to cook all day for your husband, children, and day laborers, (there are no restaurants… at least no affordable ones), to wash your whole family’s clothes by hand, to grind corn to make your own flour because of the scarcity, or to work the fields all day, and still feel happy, still smile, still make jokes with those around you. I couldn’t do it, either, to begin with, but everyday, I experience a little more of it and get a little better. I now understand why there is such a strong understanding and importance of community here in rural Venezuela - you need your neighbor to be able to make it through, not just so that they can loan you sugar from time to time, or watch your kids for you, but to have someone to laugh with. It’s by laughing that people make it through the day here, and when you’re surrounded by others who understand the same problems you go through, you can laugh a lot harder than when you’re by yourself.

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