Frustration. Anxiety. Depression. Fear. Ire. Hatred
I feel a hole in my stomach, but I don’t know what it is, where it came from or what it’s due to. I then realize that it is the accumulation of these emotions all at the same time.
March 27, 2019
At 5:30 in the morning my alarm goes off. I let it go on for about five minutes because I am still tired and I don’t want to face the reality of having to get up one more day without water and electricity.
At 5:35 I get up, and look out the window and I see that the street light outside is off. Because apparently, we Venezuelans never lose hope, I still try to switch on the lights in my room, in case it was just that this street light was broken. Once again, I tell myself: You have to be more realistic…it’s another blackout.
I had taken a shower the night before out of fear that there would be no water the next day. So, I decide to read the news that I got up until the last moment of electricity and phone signal.
I get dressed, make a bag with clothes and toiletries because I don’t know when and where I am going to take my next shower and it is better to be prepared so I don’t have to waste gas coming and going.
I venture off to see how the city has woken up, once again without any electricity, and to look for a place to have breakfast that has either electricity or an electric plant. I still don’t know if this blackout is in El Hatillo, the whole city or the whole country.
I get some phone signal once I get to the highway and I get the feeling that this is a big black-out. My boyfriend tells me that the bakery la Flor de Altamira has an electric plant. I arrive there and there are about 10 people having breakfast. I prepare myself to spend my dollars but the cashier woman tells me there is a functioning POS. I get excited.
I wonder for a while if I should order two cachitos (1) instead of one because I might have to have my lunch later in the day. But I decide against it because I don’t want to exaggerate. As soon as I finish my breakfast, the owner informs us that the POS is no longer working and that they will only accept dollars and cash.
My eyes begin to water for the first time in the day. I know I am lucky that I have somewhere to eat and that I was able to take a shower the night before. But my anger and fear don’t allow me to stay calm.
I decide to drive around to observe the city. I realize that I have three quarters of the tank left and I get scared once again. I have to find a gas station soon to fill it up. It is no longer an option to wait until I have one quarter left. I have to be cautious because there is no way of knowing how many days of gasoline are left.
I inform my work friends that the bakery is open, but that they are only accepting dollars and cash. They ask me to buy cheese and turkey. I go back because I need to do something. I can’t just sit still. When I arrive, there is a line of approximately 20 people. I ask again, to make sure they are only accepting dollars, but the people in line have no idea. It seems as if we have become so paranoid that when we see a line, we join it just in case, without even knowing what it’s for or if we can afford it. We just want to solve our basic needs of food, gas, water, cash. I ask the owner and inform those in line that they are indeed only accepting dollars and cash. Half the people leave.
I pay $10 for 300 grams of turkey and 400 grams of cheese. Considerably more expensive than in neighbor countries.
I realize it is time to go to work. But, not without stopping at an open pharmacy first to ask what they’re selling and the payment method they’re accepting, so that I can inform my loved ones.
The city is still a ghost town. It’s already 7:50 am but all the stores are still closed and the streets are still empty.
I arrive at the office and climb five floors of stairs for the first time in the day. I am thankful there are only five. I charge my cellphone immediately and then join the everyday conversation: “do you have power?” “what about water?” “at what time did the black-out start where you live?” “have you been able to take a shower and wash the dishes?”
I get updated on the news and start working. I go three floors down. Then three floors up. Then down again. I regret not having that second cachito. I decide to go home to eat and take another shower just in case I can’t do it later in the day.
A half hour later, I realize I have too much work to do and have to eat somewhere close to the office and risk not taking a shower that day. I ask around if anyone has seen an open gas station. The answer is negative.
I go pick up my mom so we can have lunch together. We go to the same bakery to have a sandwich. I prepare her for the fact that she will most likely have to spend her dollars. I reason that I should develop a friendship with the bakery’s owner so that he will be more willing to lend me in case there is a longer black-out and I run out of dollars. I am surprised again: the POS have started working again.
I drop off my mom and start driving around looking for a gas station. I find one with only three cars in line. I let all my work friends and family know.
I realize it’s already 2:30 I should go home as soon as possible to take advantage of the electricity and water. I finish my duties for the day and at 4:00 pm I run home hoping that the power will not go out before I get a chance to take a shower, charge my phone, and wash some dishes. Between the lack of air conditioning at the office and the climbing up and down the stairs, a shower is now necessary. My eyes begin to water again.
I check the whiteboard where we have been counting each time the light goes and comes back. Today electricity went off and came back up three times during the day. More stable than yesterday.
On my way home, I see people parked in the middle of the street trying to get cellphone signal, women banging pots and pans in every corner as a sign of protest, people desperately buying food and supplies. None of this is normal.
I arrive. I see that my enchufado (2) neighbor is arriving as well. I have to literally put my hand over my mouth to stop myself from yelling at him. I realize that my hatred and anger are getting the better of me. I see that there is electricity and I take a deep breath. I run to take a shower and wash my hair.
I dress myself in fresh clothing to avoid sweating. I don’t know when the next black-out is coming and we will be left without water again. I realize once again how lucky I am: I had breakfast, lunch, I had a shower, and soon I will have dinner. Why do I start to think of these basic necessities as a luxury?
I go to the supermarket with my sister to buy some tequeños (3) and soda. My cousin and her toddler are coming to dinner because they haven’t been as lucky and haven’t had any electricity in the past two days. I explain to my 14-year-old sister the intricacies of what is going on with the National Electric System, with the little information I have. I spend $45 on some tequeños, two Pepsi bottles, two butter sticks, and a box of bottled water. Once again, I am astounded and scared by how expensive things have become.
I get home and read for a while. I read the news. I read the news. I read the news. I don’t get tired of reading the news. I can’t tell if it makes me more anxious or it calms me down. But I need to have information about what’s going on around me.
The light starts flickering. I let my boyfriend know that any minute now I will be once again without electricity, water, and cellphone signal. 20 minutes later, my fears materialize: another black-out.
I manage to get 2 minutes of cellphone signal and I text my cousin not to come by. We have dinner in the darkness. I am thankful I can at least have another warm meal.
I start planning with my mom and sister things we can do to make my neighbor’s life just as rough as the rest Venezuelans’. “Let’s break his electric plant,” “let’s fire at it with a pellet gun.” We settle on gathering the rest of the neighbors to bang pots and pans in the middle of the night and block the street so he can’t leave and his friends can’t come in.
The electricity comes back up. We cheer with joy. I run to my room to charge my phone that has 95% of battery left, just in case.
I read the news. I cry for the third time in the day. I am lucky I had electricity and water in my house for a greater part of the day. I accept that it is no longer a right, but a luxury.
Frustration. Anxiety. Depression. Fear. Ire. Hatred.
I will go to bed once again with these feelings coupled with the chronic exhaustion that constant panic and uncertainty leave us.
We have survived one more day without electricity. Tomorrow will be another day. I hope to wake up and see the street light on.
(1) Venezuelan breakfast pastry filled with ham
(2) Name given to people who have helped and profited from the government
(3) Venezuelan cheese-filled appetizer