The complicated world of Venezuelan Officials

Run in #1

Run in #2

Run in #3

Run in #4

Notes:

• They do not have guns
• Since then, I just make sure my doors are locked, and try to to loose any speed as I pass thourgh this checkpoint, lunch budget they have set up.
• They do not have guns

Run in #5

The Biggie

This time, its not in a remote country town, but in the city of Maracaibo. The polic have set up a road station and are stopping random cars for paper inspections and just general harasment.

Of course, being a gringo, I get stopped without doubt.

So, there I am stopped.

The guy who stopped me, is straight from a freakin' movie. Dark aviator glasses, finger-less leather gloves, very thick bullet-proof vest over his uniform, bike helmet, very large pistol hanging in a very obvious hip holster, knee high cycle boots.

He wants my "tarjeta cedula" which id Spanish for personal identification card, which all Venezuelans have, and need to carry at all times to prevent being thought of as a Columbian and being thrown out of the country right then and there.

Of course, I dont have one.

Ok, so I give him all the other things I do have (on me). Australian driver's license, rental papers for the car.

He wants my passport.

I didn't tell him that less than 2 days earlier I had DHL'd my passport back to Calgary to get my Venezuela Work Visa extended. I had made copies of the passport and the visa, but it was in my house.

I said, Mi paseporte es en mi casa (my passport is in my house)

He wasn't happy about this, and neither was I.

I asked for it again. Why is it that these pigs can't understand that I'm not going to say "Ha ha! Fooled you! Here is my passport right here! I was just foolin!". Good grief.

I told him again that I didn't have it with me, it was in my house.

He made a "Oh dear me, this is going to be a problem". He then adjusted his gun obviously enough so that I saw, then asked me to turn off the car.

He then walked slowly to the back of the car and made a very large deal about checking the license plates and other documents I gave him.

He then swaggered over to the truck, picked up the radio and proceeded to yabber. This attracted attention. Pretty soon, chicken gagle style, all the other officers where crowding him and my papers, all pointing and making suggestions. Meanwhile, the very important checkstop went unattended for severl minutes, and all the locals took the oppurtunity to speed through and avoid the random checking.

He swaggers back and asks me where the passport is again. I tell him. He nods slowly to himeself, like "Hmmm, I was afraid you say that". And then asked my who's car it was.

I took one the papers in his hand and placed in on the top of the pile and pointed to the top of the freakin' thing. "Good Car Rentals", the whole thing was in Spanish for heavens sake!

"Hmmm" he said. Then he wanted to know who owned my house. Now this is ridiculous. I tell him its rented also.

He needs to walk behind the car again and look at something. I remember that I have my PDVSA badge in the glove compartment. This badge has done so much for me in the past, I decide to play it as my trump.

A brief aside: The day before (Friday), pretty girls were handing out nightclub flyers in the street. I absently threw mine into the glove compartment. Harmless right? Read on.

In the act of rummaging around for my PDVSA badge, the nightclub flyers were face up in the open glove compartment. Now is probably the time to tell you that the flyers where colour replicas of 10,000 Bolivar notes, with promotions on the bottom. They looked like real 10,000 B notes.

Mr Pig Policman comes back to the front of the car, and looks into me and I hand him the PDVSA badge. He looks down into the glove compartment, and sees the 10,000 B notes (10,000 Bs is about CA$20) and asks very offendedly, "Que es eso? Que es eso?!" (What is that?).

I cant belive it. He thinks I'm trying to bribe him. This little pig thinks I want to give him money. That, my friends, is only the very last resort.

I pick up the "note" very carefully and turn it over. It's blank. I turn it back over and give it to him. He reads it. "Hmmph" he grunts. Hmmph indeed. This guy feel out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down. Absolute bottom of the food chain.

He gives me back my papers, and I take them with trembing hands. I'm not used to be so intimidated by trigger happy idiots. (They are trigger happy too. I heard of a bank robbery where 5 robbers where shot dead on the street.)

He sees my nervousness, and asks if I'm nervouse. What the hell do you think Einstein?! Of course I am! I say yes. He asks me why. I tell him that I am not used to police like this. He nods in that way the people do when they've just learnt something about another country. Interested, calculated, comparative. Like they're thinking how what you've just said is different from what they know.

No. He was not thinking that. In fact, I'm not sure what he got out of my comment, but it made him want to see everything in the car.

The trunk, the bags on the back seat, all the convinient holders in the car. He wanted my to flip slowly through my CD case for him to see. He lifted the false bottom of the trunk and inspected the spare tire. He took out the jack, the tire iron. He looked at all of these things as if for the first time. All cars in Venezuela must carry a reflective triangle. Mine was kept in a plastic case. I tried for about 1 whole minute to open this case and failed, so gave up and closed the trunk.

He gave me back all my papers, and said I could go.

What an ordeal. What an intimidating idiot.

I told this story to people within PDVSA and I learnt some Spanish swear words I had not yet learnt.