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A Visit to the Colonel
Boris Kagarlitsky
TNI Website, 10 January 2005
It is less than a month since Colonel Hugo Chavez, the radical and
charismatic president of Venezuela, spoke in Moscow to an enraptured crowd
of left-wing youth and intelligentsia. Now I am in the Venezuelan capital,
Caracas, at a big conference organised by the president. It is, so to speak,
a return visit.
Hell in Paradise
The first thing that strikes a northerner who comes to a tropical country
is the landscape. This is not the first time I’ve been in Latin America, but
its always the same. Before your eyes is a completely unaccustomed vista
too huge and rich to fit at first into your consciousness. Of course, the
vistas in Russia are much larger, we know this from our geography lessons, but the Russian expanse opens up only gradually; you don’t perceive it at a
glance. Our landscape is modest; with its rivers, hills and coppices, it is
more like chamber music than a symphony. You gain a sense of spaciousness
only when you start to move, and this is why Russians love fast travel.
In Latin America it's different; here everything opens up at once. On one
side is the sea, and on the other an endless chain of mountains, overgrown
with lush greenery. There’s a great deal of everything, all of it on a huge
scale. You don’t need to move; you can simply stand still. Or better still,
you can lie down and absorb the new sensations. The world outside doesn’t
urge you to go anywhere; it doesn’t impel you into motion.
From the point of view of nature this is clearly paradise, a garden of Eden
spreading out for thousands of kilometers. The first signs of civilisation,
however, break the harmony. Between the lush mountains stand huge, ugly,
dilapidated buildings. The city of Caracas presents an irrational (to
foreign eyes) jumble of shabby skyscrapers and undisguised hovels. Threading
between them are hordes of battered old cars and crowds of poorly dressed
people.
From time to time well-dressed people and expensive cars appear too, but
they exist in a sort of parallel world which, to tell the truth, I do not
find very interesting. Exactly the same parallel world can be found in
Moscow.
At one time Caracas, like many urban centers in Latin America, was a small,
comfortable provincial city. But the Yankees found oil here, and then an
economic boom began. Historic quarters were levelled to the ground (only the
house where Simon Bolivar was born miraculously remained intact). In place
of the old buildings, concrete skyscrapers were built, and freeways for the
cars. Unfortunately, the prosperity did not last; oil prices started
falling, the export revenues were plundered, and the standard of living
declined sharply.
The skyscrapers have a depressing air. We were put in the Hilton, in the
very center of town. The hotel consists of two massive concrete towers, one
of them embellished with the words Caracas Hilton in huge letters
completely rusted through. Next to the hotel are two more skyscrapers, even
more massive, one of them half burnt-out and abandoned. Some ministry once
occupied the middle floors. There was a short circuit, the ministry went up
in flames, and along with it all the higher floors. No-one was hurt. Nor is
there any sign of renovations.
The most picturesque areas of Caracas are the shantytowns on the mountain
slopes. A good half of the population lives there. In elections, these
people vote almost unanimously for Chavez. Foreign tourists, however, are
not encouraged to visit the shanty-towns; you could get your throat cut. The
level of crime in Caracas is so high that local residents, I have the
impression, almost take pride in it. They advise us insistently not to go
out on the streets after dark, explaining in detail and with relish how to
avoid unwelcome encounters.
Nature created a paradise, but in this paradise, people have contrived to
build their own hell.
The Colonel
In Venezuela, a revolution is taking place. In 1992 Colonel Chavez tried
unsuccessfully to stage a coup; he was thrown in jail, and became a popular
hero. Winning election as president, he began a struggle against poverty. As
luck would have it, the coming to power of the new regime coincided with a
rise in world oil prices. The president decided to restore order in the
state oil company PDVSA, the revenues from which had earlier been
shamelessly plundered. Before long there was an attempted coup, but it
failed after encountering massive resistance. Then the management of the
company shut down production. In the end Chavez won; the old managerial team
were sent packing, a reorganisation was carried out, and the result was that
from somewhere, an extra four billion dollars promptly appeared in the
budget. The company’s offices were handed over to one of Venezuela’s
universities.
Little by little, the state apparatus is being transformed, but the results
are not turning out exactly as expected. Corruption has been curtailed, but
efficiency has not improved. If some matter would earlier be fouled up at a
cost of three million, this cost has fallen, and it will now be fouled up
for only two million.
I experienced the remarkable qualities of the Venezuelan bureaucracy while
I was still making preparations to go to the conference. First, I was sent a
ticket for the wrong date. Then, after canceling one ticket, they neglected
to issue another. Then they booked a ticket, but did not confirm payment.
Strangely, I still managed to get to Caracas. Magical realism!
Meanwhile, the stereotype image of Latin American inefficiency is not
always borne out. On the technical side, things may be on a very high level.
People in Venezuela adore new technologies. I spent two hours waiting for
the young person who was supposed to prepare my identity card. But once he
had appeared, the electronic system was switched on, and within half a
minute all the problems were solved; the data were all loaded into the
computer, and I had a beautiful plastic card complete with my photo.
Chavez appeared frequently before us, making speeches each of which
averaged about two hours. Toward the end we got used to it, and were taking
regular visits by the president for granted. Once the colonel had finished
his speech, he started talking with people, putting his bodyguards on edge.
The squads of bodyguards were constantly changing, and their expressions
were extremely troubled. To tell the truth, they worked very professionally;
they did not stop the president talking with his supporters, but at the same
time kept a very close watch on everything that was happening.
Chavez’s speeches are relatively simple. They are not like those of Fidel
Castro, a professional orator with aristocratic features and a lawyers
training, nor like those of Brazilian President Lula, accustomed to
addressing trade union meetings and workers demonstrations. Chavez is a
talkative colonel, of the kind found in our army too. He is not especially
well versed in the art of rhetoric. He talks with those around him, reflects
on life, and has trouble stopping. People like it.
The colonel is already making for the exit when a woman starts calling out,
Chavez, I’ve wanted for a long time to shake your hand! The president
turns around and goes to shake her hand, but on the way notices an
acquaintance and stops to chat with him. How are things with your wife? And
your daughter? The crowd of supporters continues pressing forward. The
leader of the republic is gradually wearying of the endless handshakes, but
is trying not to show it. Finally, urged on by his bodyguards, he makes it
to the door. The hall is blocked for several minutes.
To judge by everything, speeches to the public, handshaking, and
conversations with workers about life take up a good deal of the president’s
time. There is just one small mystery: when does he get to do any work?
At the Grass Roots
Critically-thinking intellectuals are never satisfied with revolutionary
speeches, and everyone has wanted to see how the revolution is going at the
local level. And so, we were taken to the grass roots. The conference
delegates were divided into several groups and sent to various parts of the
republic. I was dispatched to a particularly remote region, the state of
Lara. We had to fly there in an analogue of the sturdy, somewhat
old-fashioned aircraft of Russian agriculture. After carefully surveying his
six passengers, the pilot began seating them in a particular order: the
fattest in the middle of the aircraft, and those who looked somewhat lighter
towards the tail. Otherwise the plane might flip over, he explained
nonchalantly. Once in flight, the passengers had to change seats; the
initial estimates of our weight had obviously been wrong. After this, the
group of Puerto Ricans I was traveling with were smitten with an
irresistible desire for a drink. By a strange coincidence, a supply of
whisky and tequila had been laid in beforehand.
For some time after I arrived in the state of Lara I could not quite
understand were we being shown things here, or on the contrary, were we
ourselves on display? Whatever the case, we were in the real backwoods. Few
people come here even from Puerto Rico, not to speak of Russia. One way or
another, the impressions were powerful. First we were taken to a tumble-down
shed with a slate roof. On entering, we found two magnificently equipped
dentists chairs and two Cuban dentists who day and night were fixing the
jaws of Venezuelans. An important achievement of the revolution is free
dental care. There is no doubt that the system works; all over Caracas I saw
young women with dental braces of the sort which in Europe are usually
fitted to twelve-year-olds. The masses have felt the changes: everyone has
started getting their teeth fixed.
Our welcoming hosts in the state of Lara were eager to show off their
achievements. We were taken to a village general store, a municipal shop
where for fixed prices working people could buy everything they needed. The
goods were supplied by state companies and local cooperatives. All sorts of
basic items were on sale - milk, bread, flour, baby food, and for some
reason, no fewer than ten varieties of ketchup. In the local climate, this
was obviously among the goods of first necessity.
Our next stop was by some shacks, where a dining-room for poor people had
been set up. People would prepare food at home, the state would provide
them with foodstuffs and they had to feed themselves and help feed their
neighbours. On the wall were the rules of the dining-room, along with a
placard bearing a portrait of Chavez. Next to these was Che Guevara. Next
again, a little smaller, was Batman.
A friendly local official explained how everything was set up. The food
only looks unappetising, he said. In fact, it’s very nutritious. An old
man was carrying a pan full of food out of the building. In the rules on the
wall it was written clearly that taking food out was forbidden. Noting my
surprised glance, the official immediately explained, this is an exception
he has a sick wife. But we always send someone to make sure its her hes
feeding.
Eventually we arrived at the governor’s palace, a beautiful old mansion
surrounded on all sides by ugly concrete boxes. The governor himself was a
serving military pilot, an African-Venezuelan. He told us clearly and
specifically what was succeeding and where there were difficulties. He was
one of the people who might be called the workhorses of the revolution.
Gathered in the main hall were thirty or so people who were taking part in
programs connected with the struggle against illiteracy. One after another
they came before us and gave accounts of the work that had been done. In the
state of Lara, illiteracy had been wiped out. The Puerto Ricans demanded to
be shown, as they had been promised, a formerly illiterate person who had
been taught to read. Unfortunately, the organisers of the event had
forgotten to bring such a person along. There was, however, a bearded man
present who had undergone retraining in an institution something like the
Workers Faculties in the USSR of the 1920s. He related how he had dreamed
all his life of becoming a teacher, but had not had the chance to get an
education. Now he had been given all the requisite knowledge, and could
himself teach others. Inspired with enthusiasm, the people in the hall began
shouting slogans, Hugo Chavez will not go! And so, we returned to Caracas.
A Venezuelan woman who was accompanying us complained, The people in Lara
so much wanted to talk to you. But they had clearly set out to put us on
display.
In the lobby of the hotel I encountered an American who had been taken to
another state. We exchanged impressions. No, he said thoughtfully, that
was obviously not a Potemkin village. Everything was too run-down.
Democracy
From his appearance, Chavez leaves no doubt as to his origins. He is
descended from Indians. Among Latin American leaders, this is something
distinctly unusual. The old Creole elite, that has ruled here for centuries,
does not hide its indignation. How can the descendants of conquistadors
tolerate having a mestizo in power?
The opposition in Venezuela complains constantly about one stricture or
another, but compared to what we see in Russia, this is a model democracy.
An effort is made not to appoint opponents of the president to government
service. I rack my brains, trying to recall if I have ever encountered an
open opponent of President Putin among today’s Russian state functionaries.
Putin spent his first four years in office trying to drive two independent
television channels off the airwaves. As well as two state channels,
Venezuela has three private ones that are openly pro-opposition. In the
hotel during the evening I turn on the television set. First, a state
channel. Tedious, poorly produced propaganda, together with provincial news
it’s impossible to watch. I switch over to an opposition channel.
Uninterrupted abuse directed at Chavez, and biased news programs. It’s
impossible to watch.
Venezuelans have long since stopped paying attention to the television. Not
long ago a new press law was adopted, a law which the opposition regards as
infringing press freedom. I have it before me. Compared to what applies in
Russia, everything is exceedingly liberal. True, explicit calls for armed
revolt are forbidden. The ludicrous thing here is that such appeals have
been made periodically on the opposition channels. Everyone is used to them,
and no-one takes much notice. The soap operas are more interesting.
In the post-Soviet republics, provision is made for the holding of
referendums, and Chavez has had his referendum too. But unlike its
counterparts in the former USSR, the Venezuelan referendum was not about
extending the president’s term in office, but about ending his term ahead of
schedule. This is among the provisions of the new constitution which Chavez
introduced: any elected figure may be subjected to this procedure once half
of his or her term has passed.
The opposition had trouble collecting signatures, and some of the
signatures they had were considered doubtful. The initiative group was given
additional time to correct mistakes and submit new lists.
In Latin America, the rigging of elections is just as commonplace as in our
part of Europe. Consequently, the opposition can always find a pretext for
taking to the streets (the Ukrainian and Georgian events are examples of a
typical Third World situation). The task of the authorities in Caracas was
to stop events from developing in this fashion. Instead of preparing water
cannon and grooming experts who would demonstrate that malpractice had not
occurred, the authorities in Venezuela chose a somewhat unorthodox route: to
count the votes honestly.
The voting system involved double counting, and included an international
audit with the participation of American experts. Considering the extremely
hostile relationship between Chavez and the US administration, it would be
hard to imagine more exacting monitors. Venezuelans first recorded their
vote on an electronic machine resembling the automatic teller machines in a
bank. Then the machine issued a receipt, which would be deposited in a
ballot box. The receipts and the electronic votes were counted separately,
and the results compared. Almost half of the positions on the electoral
commission were assigned to opponents of the president. Some voting
districts and regions were chosen by lot for the auditors to conduct a
recount. But however the count was made, there was only one outcome: Chavez
had won.
To Moscow, to Moscow!
Sheremetyevo Airport greets me not with frost and snow, but with mud and
slush. I feel a strong urge to wheeze and cough. All the same faces are back
on the television. Parliamentary deputies from the United Russia bloc
explain how much better education and health care will become when
everything is finally privatised and commercialised.
Tomorrow I am to visit the dentist. I had better get the money ready.
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