Venezuela

Here we are, February 19. To me, the symbolic deepest depths of winter. The allure of an escape down south to warmer climes is never stronger than it is now. I’ve been fortunate to have had my share of winter getaways. Among the most memorable were those five consecutive years when I spent parts of the winter in Venezuela, back in the 1980s when I was in my 20s. I learned a lot about myself there, and about community.

Up until then, winter for me meant work, work, work. I had spent a good part of my winters working for my family’s snow-clearing company, I was responsible for supervising 45 people and clearing more than 100 parking lots. I was working as much as 18 hours a day. One day, I realized I needed a holiday! I booked a two-week trip to Puerto La Cruz, Venezuela with my girlfriend at the time, Sylvie. While there, we met a woman from Quebec City who told us about a small fishing village nearby, Puerto Piritu. We went there, liked it very much and booked a condo in Puerto Piritu for the following winter, for $350 US a month.

Once back in Montreal, I started planning for next winter’s vacation and I knew I wanted a longer stay in Venezuela. I decided to compress my work year into three seasons. From spring through fall, I worked in landscaping and operated a fruit-and-vegetable stand with Sylvie at the Marché de l’Ouest. In the fall, at that same stand, we sold pumpkins for Halloween and then Christmas trees in late November.

Venezuela is a beautiful country, and in the 1980s it was opening to more tourism. Puerto Piritu was still relatively undeveloped. There were no resorts and no structured activities for tourists. It was a quiet town with no internet yet, and obviously no smartphones. Someone asked me the other day how I spent my time. What I remember most was exploring the area, walking around, and chit-chatting with the locals. I quickly picked up some Spanish and because of that, I began making several friends and acquaintances in town. One memorable moment was when the police chief had us over for dinner! I volunteered as a French-language tour guide for Quebecers visiting a local coffee plantation. We also helped local restaurants do French translations of their menus.

By the late 1980s, Venezuela started talking a political turn for the worse. Venezuela is a petrol state, and oil-prices plummeted through the 80s. The economy suffered, sparking cuts in government services and political discontent. The government cracked down on political opposition. One winter day while I was there, a 4:30 p.m. curfew was imposed. I wasn’t worried, though. Over time, I had made many friends and they said they would take care of us.

Looking back now, I can see that all that walking around and chit-chatting had helped. It wasn’t a contrived thing. It came naturally to me. It was, as we might say now, relationship-building. Underpinning it all, I think, was my sense of curiosity about people and community, something I still have. It’s something that has helped me throughout my life, including my time as mayor of Pointe Claire from 2017-21. I like to think I am what they call in French a “rassembleur.”

People in Puerto Piritu didn’t have a lot of money back then, despite the country’s great potential oil wealth. But they were happy, content, friendly and accommodating. The capital city of Caracas was always dangerous, but if you stayed low-key, considerate, and minded your own business, you were ok.

I went back to Venezuela with my wife Sandra in 1997, but the country’s mood had changed. We enjoyed our time but I noticed much of the zest, magic, and moods of the people in the country had drastically changed. They were just surviving.   

After a failed coup attempt in 1992, the anti-Western socialist populist Hugo Chavez was elected in 1999. Chavez died in 2013 and was replaced by Nicholas Maduro, who is still president today. According to Human Rights Watch, more than 20,000 people have been killed in extrajudicial murders under Maduro’s watch. Since 2015, more than 8 million people have fled the country – one of the largest human migrations so far this century.

On peaceful days like today, I wonder how many of those happy, contented, friendly and accommodating people I met back in Puerto Piritu in the 1980s are still living there. I miss those relaxing sun-filled winters where I could practice my Spanish, meet the people, and learn the culture. Maybe one day, Sandra and I will be able to go back to Puerto Piritu, I am hoping so.