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333 days on an unknown front line

It's easy to talk in hindsight, we sometimes say. And I agree, sometimes that statement is rather simplistic. As a researcher, with conflict and crisis areas as my field of work, I have become familiar with uncertainty and chaos, with facing dangers from time to time. I have managed to hold my own in some of the most volatile regions of our earth. However, the enemy I encountered 333 days ago was one I was never prepared for. This invisible enemy in the land of the blind, has torn me away from my familiar front lines and placed me on a completely different one: 333 days on an unknown front line.

 

Lost in Chaos

There I lay, in intensive care, a world away from the places where I once researched and reported. The memories of the chaos and violence of the past decade seemed even more distant at that moment. I had just given Mijntje the OK sign of divers and I got one back from her so that meant she could see me and that I was still there. My hands were tied to the bed with soft "handcuffs," a snake in my throat prevented me from speaking. Cables and hoses ran from different parts of my body to beeping machines on the wall. In delirium I would imagine at times that those cabinets would occasionally be fed fresh cabbage and other vegetables by the nurses, these they would cut fresh on a table after which it would enter my groin and flow into my body through small tubes. Every now and then they would check my blood values to see if I needed more cabbage or carrots, during my delirium I saw more things that did not match reality. 

 

The diving sign that everything was fine was not obvious

Giving the diving sign to Mijntje - that everything was okay - turned out not to be so obvious in retrospect. Only later would I learn how choices that seemed deliberate beforehand carry much more weight when it comes down to it. Especially when those decisions involve someone dear to you and you have to make those decisions in a less protected environment than over a nice conversation with a good glass of wine. Only later would I understand how badly I had put someone on the spot with this.

As you may notice, I find it difficult to talk about this topic. Although I strive to be open about this as usual, it is important to protect myself and those around me. I do my best, but ask for understanding. Nevertheless, onward from here.

 

Dreams or reality

Many of the details of what happened in the first few days in the hospital either did not come to me, or escaped me later. I wouldn't be able to put the strings together until later. It was conversations, patient letters and bouts of memory that helped me put these pieces of the puzzle together. I remember a piece of the flight back to Holland, arriving at the airport, our homecoming. I remember being at the doctor's office, the hospital, and then a hard pressure on my chest. I think I was trying with my hands and arms to keep someone from pressing my chest again. Later I would hear that they had to resuscitate me. But if you ask me now if what I remember was a dream or reality, I wouldn't dare put my hand in the fire for that. The days and weeks that followed were a mix of reality and illusion - an experience I wouldn't wish on anyone.

My body was weak. Even sitting upright was a huge task. In the first few days it seemed like I was attached to the hospital bed like a magnet The cables and tubes connected to me became less and less day by day, until finally even the IV was disconnected and removed from my now very weak hand. I think a specialist from almost every department was involved in my case. I was given dozens of types of medication, yet each day felt like a new step, sometimes even a victory, however small.

The whiteboard at the foot of my bed listed my weight, among other things. It started at 77.5 kg and dropped to 62.4 kg in just one week. That's more than 15 kg of fluid leaving my body. Although I was never particularly heavy, especially in recent years, during the subsequent rehabilitation process, I would gradually move back toward 80 kg.

 

The sense of progress and the enduring struggle

Sometimes I feel like I still have a long way to go, but then when I think back on that period, I realize how far I've come. They say it goes like this: You make rapid progress in fits and starts, but recovery is not a linear process. There are times when it takes longer to feel like you've taken a step forward, and not everything is measurable. What I do know for sure is that it is intense. My days are filled with physical and occupational therapy, swimming, going back and forth to the hospital for tests, and much more.

It has now been 333 days since I was on the brink of death, and I can look back on that time with a different perspective. Not only on the period in the hospital, but also on the time before that. After being home for a few months and undergoing day treatment, I was readmitted to rehab a week and a half ago. What first seemed like an injury three months ago later turned out to be a more complex problem. After surgery two weeks ago, another one is scheduled in a few weeks. If all goes well, after that I will soon be able to work on my rehab and get back to where I was before the "injury," and continue from there

 

A renewed focus and the path forward

For the first six months of my rehab, I couldn't think about work. That is still difficult, but in addition to my rehabilitation, I am trying to spend some time exploring opportunities. For now, that will be on the digital front lines, as the other fronts are difficult to reach by wheelchair. Moreover, my medical condition does not yet allow me to think about leaving at all.

The outlook is relatively good and I hope to have an even better picture within three months. One thing is for sure, this could have turned out so much worse. I may not be able to do everything I did before, but it has given me new insights that allow me to do certain things better. My life will be permanently changed by this. I look differently at my own abilities, my own body, but also at my loved ones and at the essential things that make life worth living, sometimes things I had lost sight of.

In the coming time I will be more active online again. I might write about different topics from time to time than you are normally used to from me, but I hope they will not be less interesting.

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An ordinary day in a bankrupt Venezuela

Our fixer Cheo runs back and forth to the gate of the prison while Joris and I sit just down the street waiting anxiously on the hood of our car. A daily market develops on the street outside the prison; it is a coming and going of visitors and vendors at the gate of Venezuela's most notorious prison.

Yesterday, When we visited the prison, not everything went as planned. It was not the first time we visited the Tocoron prison. While we were convinced that everyone was properly bribed before we entered the prison, all of our equipment was confiscated by the national guards guarding the outside of the prison. When we left the prison, we did not get our equipment back. Later that evening, after some conversations between our fixer and some prisoners, we were told that the inmates' boss had taken our things from the Guardia National and that we could get them back at the prison gate.

Tocoron, a prison for 750 inmates was built in 1982. Today it holds 7,500 prisoners. Guards and government personnel are not welcome in this prison run by prisoners. Chief among them is inmate Hector Guerrero Flores aka Niño Guerrero (The Warrior Child). The ruthless leader has two faces. While he runs his prison and his criminal empire with an iron fist, he is otherwise known as a benefactor. He lifts families out of poverty and gives wheelchairs and medicine to those in need. Niño Guerrero not only runs the Tocoron prison, but his former residential neighborhood of 28,000 residents is completely under the control of Niño and his men. Many others tell us that his power goes even much further in Venezuela.

In recent years, Niño has transformed his prison into a small town where nothing is missing. As we walked through the prison, we saw a swimming pool, a zoo and a disco. On the main street are restaurants, stores and amenities such as a bank, a television provider and gambling houses. Niño and his armed friends ride around the crowded prison on motorcycles undisturbed.

After an hour and a half of waiting in front of the prison, there is rescue. One of Niño's henchmen walks out of the front gate of the prison with our shoulder bag. When we open it, we see that all our equipment is still in it and wonder how much this prank has cost us? Nothing, courtesy of Niño .

Relieved, we continue on our way to Venezuela's capital, Caracas . A mass demonstration is planned there today. For years there has been unrest in the corrupt country ravaged by an economic crisis. In previous demonstrations we visited in recent weeks, there were clashes between protesters and authorities. So far, 43 protesters have been killed in these clashes.

When we arrived in Caracas, we exchanged our car for motorcycles. Because of the protests, there was almost no other way to get through the congested streets of the capital. Once we arrived at one of the highways serving as the route for today's demonstration, we saw that the first protesters were already preparing for what was to come. Logs are being dragged across the road, fences and anything else they can find are being used for the first barricades. In the distance, we see the first clouds of smoke from tear gas coming our way. In the hours that follow, a battle erupts between the authorities and the protesters, and the protesters are gradually forced to move into the center of the city.

While there is no money to import food into Venezuela, there is no shortage of tear gas canisters, which are sometimes shot at protesters by the dozens. As night begins to fall, the mood grows grimmer. As Joris and I make our way to our car, we witness the first car fires, stores and offices being looted. As the protesters continue their struggle, a new demonstration is announced on social media for the next day. Joris and I continue toward our next stop, the city of Maracay.

Axel (23) holds open a refrigerator to show its contents. He lives with his brother Billy (27) and mother Glenda (55) and father Rosvelt (60) in a middle-class neighborhood of Maracay. At the kitchen table, the family talks about the effects of the crisis.

Glenda worked as a bioanalyst at the hospital for 20 years. Since yesterday, her minimum wage has more than doubled to 105,000 bolivares. That is equal to $18. Until yesterday, her full-time job earned her less than $9 a month. The father of the family has been a merchant all his life, a job that today, with the complete collapse of imports, is almost impossible: "Nowadays the only merchant in the country is the government, but I trade in clothes. There is no trade for me now."

The family has lived together for 22 years in a safe middle-class neighborhood in Maracay. The father explains to us that the neighborhood has changed in recent years. "People with money used to live here. When the crisis got worse, many of our neighbors left. The government expropriated many of the houses in this neighborhood and gave them to "government-related people," people with almost no income, sometimes no job, no education. They don't maintain their belongings, don't care about the neighborhood and have no respect." "We used to be able to talk to our friends and family about politics in Venezuela, that subject is too sensitive now."

"We don't have money for the car or the house anymore. All the money we have, we spend on food and medicine, it's too expensive." From his closet, Rosvelt pulls out a strip of medicine. "Take this for example. This strip of 14 pills, enough for a week, costs 25,000 bolivares in Venezuela." In his other hand, he holds a box. "This box, with 300 of the same pills...., and enough for five months, costs me 55,000 bolivars in Colombia."

"I suffer daily when I work in the hospital. It is terrible not being able to give people the help they need because of the shortages of medicine and medical equipment. The government watches but does nothing to change the situation," continued an emotional Glenda. "Every day people die unnecessarily, people stay sick unnecessarily. The government is more concerned about their image. All hospital employees are required to participate in pro-government demonstrations and the government spends a lot of money on propaganda materials.

"A shortage of food and rising inflation have forced people to queue for hours at the supermarket every day in the hope of getting basic items like bread, rice and milk. Food prices are rising daily, and for a simple lunch on the side of the road you easily pay 7,000 bolivares. With luck, you can find a pack of pasta for 4500 bolivares, which is more than a day's wage.

Before yesterday's 60% pay raise, Glenda, the sole breadwinner of the house, earned 48,000 bolivars a month. How can you live with that? "Little by little, any money that comes in goes to food or medicine," she said. Does yesterday's wage increase help the family? "No, in fact it makes the situation even more difficult. Every time wages go up, prices go up twice as much," Rosvelt replied.

"Almost all the teachers have left my university, I think 80% is gone," Axel says. "The oldest students have taken it up and are now teaching." Axel worries. "You can study, but who am I going to work for in Venezuela? There's no one to give me a job. If you're realistic, I have to say it's unrealistic to think that studying here in Venezuela is worth anything."

"Many young Venezuelans have left the country," he said. "My family also offered me to leave Venezuela, but I wanted to finish my studies, I would like to call myself a professional. But I also have ambitions. My dream would be to move to Canada, but that is not realistic, I would go anywhere possible at the moment."

"Yes, leaving Venezuela leaves the country without professionals, but we have to think of ourselves, of our family. The government gives us no choice but to leave. Personally, I am not protesting, several students have already died in demonstrations and death is not part of my future plans."

Later in the evening, over a beer from the cost of almost a day's wages, Joris and I talk about the day. It remains incomprehensible what has happened to one of the most oil-rich countries in the world. We wonder what tomorrow will bring, because every day in Venezuela seems to consist of unthinkable and unpredictable developments.

[This article was previously published on VICE.com under the title: Así se ve la Venezuela que no aguanta más la crisis]

By: Michel Baljet Photos: Joris van Gennip