After
72 unsuccessful hours in search of gasoline, I wanted to cry. Adding
to no cooking gas, no electricity, no water, no
internet, no cash, no way out of the country, this no
gas was the last straw. How to get food supplies to our rural
home?
But
instead, I laughed. I grabbed Venezuela’s powerful secret weapon:
our highly refined art of echando broma. Nothing and no one is
spared the non-stop, no-holds-barred, good-natured teasing that we
heap on everyone and everything that crosses our path. If you ever
wonder how Venezuelans are surviving, that’s our secret.
I
suddenly realized, that while a three day unsuccessful quest for
gasoline is not for the faint of heart, it’s actually fantastic
for the heart. Look, in my former life I had to go to the gym to keep
my EKG looking dandy. Now, I just need to try go get a tank
of gas, and same results! The Gas Line Workout is the ultimate
cardio. Check it out.
At
midnight before our big day (we get the privilege of trying
too get gas once a week, via a complex national schedule
corresponding to the last number on one’s license plate), my
partner and I push our massive old jeep into line. Needing rest
before the marathon, we lay our heads down on tattered plastic upholstery, lulled to
sleep by gas fumes siphoned from surrounding cars (to maximizing your
jackpot if you get lucky) Visions of a full tank dance in our heads.
At
precisely 9:13 am or 11:41 am, or whenever troops arrive, the gas
station opens and the race - or crawl – is on! Maybe I’m
imagining this, but every road leading to a gas station in
Barquisimeto seem to be on an uphill grade. Better for my heart,
right?
Since
the line barely inches, you get the privilege of using all
your muscles to push your car forward, as momentum never happens.
Anyway, that would be cheating. Heart, lungs, shoulders, arms, legs,
all pumping at once!
Ten
hours into pushing,
you
feel
so healthy!
But, wait! This workout is also
great
for your emotional
health.
You get to
make new friends! Pushing
each other’s cars, sharing batteries, hudding on tailgates over
midnight scary stories of endless gas lines is the
total bonding experience.
Making
new
friends is
important since Venezuela’s
complex curfew code makes
it impossible to visit
old friends.
You
might be stopped by
cops
and spend
8
hours at the police station, or
have to buy them a
2-liter Pepsi (depending
on
their mood
).
Calling
friends
is
an
option,
but poor
cell
coverage barely
lets you say
hello!
Anyway,
your cell is usually dead from
nightly power outages.
Thus,
you
savor every moment with these
new
found friends.
You
also get to make enemies! Not my normal relational mode. But, after
not budging for 20 hours, then noticing cars cutting in front by
handing a $20 bill to the military officers charged with “guarding”
the lines, you understand the concept of enemy. Upon discovery, I
marched up to lodge my complaint with a sergeant, certain that he
would delight in my suggestions. I was swiftly pulled back by my
partner, mid-sentence - reminding me that two protesters downed in
one week was enough.
This
gas-line workout also does wonders for expanding the mind, into areas
such as, say – economics and chemistry. Around Hour 30, you wonder
just why you are sitting here anyway. Wait, doesn’t Venezuela have
the world’s largest petroleum reserves? Then your hazy brain
remembers that transforming petroleum to gasoline requires chemicals
that, somehow, Venezuela never learned produce. The next ten hours
are spent designing a plan to diversify Venezuela’s economy.
Just so you don't concentrate on losing three days of your life, you can do crafts between pushing. I was able to knit the world's longest baby blanket by day two! (Good that my grandson-to-be is in the 90th percentile!)
Around
Hour 40 you think about geography. Now, how does it make sense to get
gasoline that traveled around the world by ship from Iran so that you
can go from Point A, to Point B within your small state? Hmm, Greta
would not like this.
On
the other hand, Trump must be gloating that his sanctions caused
these lines, a brilliant maneuver to topple Maduro. Last time I
checked, though, Maduro was happy in his palace. I, for one, am too
exhausted after 60 hours in line to even hold up a protest sign, much
less conjure the energy to dodge bullets at a march. And convincing
the military to turn sides on the same person who just increased
their salaries about a million percent via this bottomless corruption
pit, is a long shot. I fill the next 10 hours devising my escape
route so I can vote in November.
When
finally
within striking distance of the gas station, police swoop
in shouting
gas ran out! It
is then that I have an epiphany. I have devised the ultimate
solution to Venezuela’s economic
crisis!
Ok,
so Venezuela no longer produces oil due to neglect, nor sells it
because of sanctions, nor hosts tourists at our pristine beaches
since they are now black with oil spills, nor at Angel Falls since
all the mercury poured into the rivers to eke out gold to pay for the
imported gasoline is drying it up anyway.
But,
hey, Venezuela can become the new Global Pandemic Tourism Mecca!
Think of all the dollars!
To
begin with, tourists don’t even need to risk airplane travel. The
only way into the country is on foot, an adventure itself through
Colombian drug gang territory. But then, you can personally
experience the Gas Line Workout, from the seat of a classic 1960’s
socially distanced car. Think of all the benefits for your physical,
mental and emotional health!
And
when you finally do get home, stuck again inside your four walls, you
will say, with a sincere sigh: there’s no place
like home.
