Caraqueñas I: Carmen goes back to work

“Maigualida, espera!”

Right before she takes a right into her dormitory, Maigualida hears the unmistakable voice of the in-house lawyer. Carmen was the Director’s college friend. She was hired two years ago to supervise the progress public defenders make on the individual cases of the inmates. Yet, Maigualida knows this impromptu meeting has nothing to do with her case file, but rather that Carmen is interested in buying cocaina.

“I need some touches. I’m running late for a lunch date.”

Maigualida unlocks her door, enters the dark room and comes out with a gram of cocaine, placing it in the manicured hand of the lady lawyer and noticing the long nails, or claws, painted blood red. As Carmen pulls out a small wad of new Bolivares, Maigualida asks: “What’s the name of that perfume?”

“Chanel numero cinco,” she says looking up from her Gucci purse and smiling, “it’s very expens—”

“It smells rancid,” cuts in Maigualida, taking the money, pushing the stroller into the room and shutting the door behind her. She smiles to herself in the darkness.

Unaffected by the inmate’s behavior and clutching what she came for, Carmen rushes through the dark hallway and down a cement ramp leading to the entrance and exit of the penitentiary. She puts her new acquisition in the inside pocket of her purse, closes the zipper and glides through security into freedom.

Seated in her gold Mazda, Carmen recalls how scared she was to join the workforce when her husband filed for divorce. They had gotten married right out of college, and she had been happy to look after their home and raise the children. Carmen had been an outstanding housewife for twenty five years; she took great pride creating an atmosphere of elegance fit for the heads of the corporations they hosted during the frequent dinner parties. Her two boys had attended college in the States and settled there; their oldest working for a graphic design firm in Boston, Massachusetts and the other in an oil company located in Houston, Texas. They encouraged her “to get on with her life” when the divorce was final and both had stopped talking to their father when, in spite of making more money than ever, he refused to give her a monthly allowance after she sacrificed her career. Carmen had no choice but to return to work. She was lucky to run into this college friend who hired her almost on the spot and provided a monthly salary sufficient to cover her living expenses. She got into coke when a fellow divorcee invited her to “take a bump” raving that it would “give her the balls” she needed to plunge into the dating scene at age forty nine.

There is little traffic from Los Teques to El Rosal. Carmen enters the restaurant only fifteen minutes late, at 1:15pm, after leaving her car in valet parking. El Carso, a restaurant located on Avenida Francisco de Miranda, is famous for being the preferred hangout of male publicists and lawyers. Carmen suspects that Carlos picked this place knowing that the same-sex camaraderie would protect him. Carlos is married, a fact that doesn’t bother Carmen.

“Buenas tardes, I am meeting Carlos Perez.”

“Follow me please; el Señor Perez is waiting at the table.”

As Carmen follows the hostess, she is struck by the virility of the place. The bar and tables are dark mahogany reminiscent of a library in an all-boys club, the dim lighting creates a suspiciously romantic atmosphere, and the male servers dressed in tuxedos convey elegance, the Amazonian women with new breasts walk through tables in stretch spandex selling Black Label or 18 year old Chivas Scotch. As she walks through rows of tables, Carmen notices she is outnumbered. She sits across from Carlos at a table for two located in the farthest and most inconspicuous corner of the restaurant.

Getting up from the table, Carlos says, “Hola nena, how are you?” He kisses Carmen on the right cheek and grazes the corner of her lips.

“Did you run into a lot of traffic?”

“No, not really, just had to wrap up a few things before I left work,” she responds, taking a seat on the chair facing the wall.

“Oh. How is that going?” Carlos asks, looking at her with pity, simultaneously letting his hand fall conveniently on top of hers.

“It’s good,” she says, slipping her hand from under Carlos’s.

“I’m having a Black Label on the rocks. What would you like to drink?”

“Get me a Greygoose with soda and lime while I go to the ladies room?” Carmen translates her order into a question, sounding delicate. Years of experience with her ex had taught her how to stroke the ego of Venezuelan men. As she walks to the bathroom she also recognizes a few men who make eye contact and smile in the same endearing, irresistible way Carlos did a week ago at a cocktail party in his wife’s absence.

After a bump of courage, Carmen stops before the mirror to retouch her make-up. Looking back is the person she invented; a brunette with a bob haircut, full red lips, and smoky brown eye shadow that highlights her green eyes. She is thinner than the gullible wife who wore pastels colors and buttoned up shirts. She adjusts the white silk blouse to reveal some cleavage and touches the right corner of her lips, the place where Carlos had laid a kiss. His wife was the first in a long line of married friends to snub her when news of the divorce was public. That had been heartbreaking, being excluded and treated like an outcast by women she thought her friends. Divorce had transformed her into a threat.

In contrast, the men had become increasingly friendly. Divorce had transformed her into an opportunity. To them, she is an attractive woman that they can have sex with, no strings attached. They know she is vulnerable and will hide the affair from the society. Carmen knows all this. Regardless, she accepts the lunch dates to catch up on old times, to feel that she maintains a foot, even a toe, in the old social circle. Lost in her thoughts, Carmen crashes into the hostess as she walks out of the bathroom. The collision and flustered “perdon” shatter the young girl’s last attempt at containment and she crumbles into muffled yelps and running mascara. Carmen closes the door of the restroom and asks: “Un hombre?”

“Si,”

“What’s your name sweetheart?”

“Anabella,”

“How old are you Anabella?”

“Twenty.”

Carmen tries to say something encouraging, wavering between there’s a lot of fish in the sea and you have your whole life ahead of you. In the end she chooses the truth, “Brace yourself, Anabella, this is only the beginning.” At first, the callous response shocks Anabella. She turns to Carmen in disbelief, looking for sympathy and clarification. Carmen says, “My advice is to grow thick skin,” gives her a benevolent smile and walks out.

Caraqueñas I: Maigualida's life is a prison

Cristina is always struck by how the inmates of the INOF live in a perpetual state of recess. From the moment they wake up with the sound of the first alarm at 7 a.m. until they return to their cells at 8 p.m. they roam the long hallways freely. The institution itself looks like a large public school with a fence crowned by electrical wire. Inside the fence, the penitentiary is a collection of plain cement blocks built around an open, rectangular space; a playground of sorts. Each building serves a different purpose; administrative, boarding, eating and educational. Originally, the sleeping arrangement depended on the severity of the crime, but the penitentiary is so overpopulated that new inmates are given the beds that are available.

Severe understaffing has also forced the institution to accept the help of different religious groups that run the daycare, teach courses or just come to talk to the inmates. Supply shortage of everything, including uniforms, make it possible for volunteers to walk the institution unmarked and blend in with the boarding population. Cristina walks, inconspicuously, along a ramp that leads to the open playground. The sky is a deep blue, not a single cloud to spoil its beauty. The day is warm and dry; the breeze is cooled by its trajectory across cold and hard surfaces. People sit on concrete benches on the periphery of the open space and talk, knit or text on their cellular phones while a game of kicking ball unfolds. The cheers rise and fall with the skill of the kickers or in celebration of an air catch. There are no cheerleader outfits or pom-poms, just random cheers and the bump, bump noise of empty two liter soda bottles beat against hard concrete. Different, maybe simpler, but still recess.

Cristina finds a bench next to Maigualida. From the top of her shaved head, to the hard soles of her cracked feel, Maigualida’s coffee colored skin is mined by scars and burns of different shapes that have not healed well or completely. In the absence of a bra under the extra large white t-shirt, her breasts seem almost unnoticeable. Unfazed, Maigualida pulls out her left boob and feeds the newborn infant. She turns and looks Cristina in the eyes as she sits down.

“Get any visitors during the weekend?”

“No. My family has their own problems. They don’t have time for me.”

“Did you get to work at all?”

“The Director asked a group of us to clean the classrooms on the second floor. But then she paid us shit. I am not working for her again.”

With a second grade education, Maigualida’s only alternative is physical labor. She refuses to attend the courses offered in the INOF to learn how to read and write. Getting a high school diploma is a goal that has never crossed her mind. Like more than half of the inmate population, Maigualida has spent most of her life inside state institutions for crimes such as aggravated armed robbery and recently, raping a woman with a broom stick. At nine month pregnant, she threw herself down a flight of stairs in a final attempt to have a miscarriage. Five days later, Maigualida gave birth to her child inside the prison system. Jorge suckles happily from her breast, unaware of all the things she did to prevent his birth. He wears a black hoody, like a preemie malandro, and snuggles comfortably into his mother’s mutilated arm. Maigualida has two long, shiny, pale scars extending from her wrists to the inside of her elbows. Even though she does not wear long-sleeves, she turns the inside of her arm downward when Cristina sees it.

“You know, many people cut their skin; it is very common. People do it because they can’t express their pain through crying or screaming. It is a silent way to cry.” Cristina had looked up self-mutilation after the first day of volunteering, when she noticed many women with thin scars on the arms, face and legs. Cristina thought that diffusing the situation and making inmates feel normal was the best way to broach the subject. “Maybe you could go to group therapy and find a better way to express your pain.”

“My blood is worth the same as my tears… nothing. And anyway, group therapy is for locas. I am not trading stories with a bunch of crazies.” Even though it is the first time most of these women have access to education and psychological treatment, the classrooms of the institution remain almost empty. Every day the women do the same thing: talk, play cards, send text messages, watch the game or, in the case of Maigualida, wait for an odd job to come up. They waste away in boredom and fail to attend a single class even for the sake of varying the routine and breaking the monotony. Everything changes in the penitentiary. The social structure reverts to its basic form and hierarchies materialize around the strongest inmates, the women who assume the role of men in their absence. One has been circling Cristina for ten minutes, observing her from behind walls and columns, like a coyote circles a lost lamb. Finally, she decides to walk over.

“Hey Maigualida, is she fresh meat?”

Cristina does not feel threatened. She sees a handful of security guards chatting less than twenty feet away. Two more walking around the prison yard scanning, reading the overall mood of the population.

“Yeah, she’s fresh, too bad for you she is not a boarder.” The harshness of Maigualida’s retort stops the inmate in her tracks. She waits, thinking that maybe it’s a joke. Maigualida doesn’t lift her gaze from Jorge’s face, but whispers to him as his tender fingers coil around her hardened thumb. Without waiting for the punch line, the coyote woman makes a retreat back into the horde and disappears. Cristina is grateful, but knows better than to express her thankfulness out loud.

“Well Maigualida, it’s been nice talking to you. I’m going to a session of group therapy.”

“Wait, I’ll walk with you. There are bad people roaming this place.” Maigualida smiles at her own joke and puts the baby in the stroller. “I am going back to my room.”

They walk together down one side of the yard, common ground and stop before they go in different directions. “Are you sure you don’t want to go with me?”

“Are you crazy? No therapy is going to cure me.” Without ceremony, Maigualida turns away and pushes the stroller with Jorge inside down a ramp leading to the dormitories of the most dangerous criminals. Her gaunt figure disappears in the darkness.

Caraqueñas I: Cristina chooses a different life

Although Daniela doesn’t say anything, Cristina senses pity in the uncomfortable silences. It is obvious that her friend would rather be married and unhappy than alone at thirty-something. Cristina gets that same vibe from many Venezuelans across all ages and genders. A “full” life in this society seems to lead to a single path, getting married and raising a family. Anything else is considered failure, particularly for women.

Thankfully, living in the United States opened Cristina’s mind to other paths. First, she wants to achieve success in her career as an interior designer. Caracas had been an ideal place to start her own company. In a matter of two years, Cristina has built an impressive list of clients which includes her family’s friends, many of her childhood buddies and an ever growing number of people that have contacted her because of positive references. She is always taking on new projects, making more money and adding services to her business.

Even though she wouldn’t have been able to achieve so much success in such a short time anywhere else in the world, Cristina sometimes misses the freedom she felt in the States, where society did not impose a specific track and timeline on her life. Yet she knows that by being her own boss Cristina can travel often, train for short marathons, take yoga classes at her convenience and even do a bit of volunteer work. Following her mother’s advice, she’s decided to become a volunteer at the Institucion Nacional de Orientacion Femenina (INOF), a women’s penitentiary located in Los Teques; the final destination for women unable to break vicious cycles.

After taking a quick shower, Cristina throws on a white t-shirt, worn jeans and casual shoes and heads out the door. It takes her forty minutes to arrive at the INOF. She parks in her usual spot, hides her valuables under the passenger seat and locks the car door, decided to leave the baggage behind for a few hours and focus on the volunteer work. Cristina gets strip searched at the entrance and crosses the threshold to an alternative reality, a place freedom never visits.

Caraqueñas I: Daniela Espino is the Venezuelan Housewife

After the children leave, Daniela descends the stairs to wait for the rest of the running group. She is mad at Dominga for getting pregnant, she is mad that women like her go through life paying dearly for stupid mistakes rather than improving their situation. Yet she also feels guilty about letting her go at such a critical moment. Dominga is an honest, hard working woman who takes good care of Daniela’s children. Although they are the same age, opportunities sets them worlds apart. Daniela suspects that in the end she will hire Dominga to clean a few days per week.

But for now, Daniela wants Dominga to squirm a little, to worry about her future; to grasp the consequences of her choices and the absurdity of living with a man out of wedlock while refusing to take the birth control pills she’s offered to purchase countless times. Catholic women in the barrio seem to pick and choose which Christian rules to abide by; none of them protect themselves from conceiving again and again, but they all live with marinovios.

Daniela greets the first arrival with the usual big, bright smile.

“Good morning. So, what circuit are we running today?”

“Let’s do the long one with the steep hill mid-route. I want to punish myself today,” responds Daniela, pulling her long, brown hair into a thin pony tail and bending down to stretch her lean calves, taking quick gander at her right, then left thigh. Her breasts, waistline, hips and thighs shrink in conjunction with her self-esteem.

Almost immediately, she runs ahead of the pack. It had been a very long week and she doesn’t want to talk about it. Ricardo was away Monday through Thursday and he went golfing the entire weekend, while she took care of the two kids. Lately, the only time he sees the boys is in the morning before heading off to work. Yet every time she broaches the subject, Ricardo replies that he is working hard to maintain their standard of living.

When they got married, Ricardo had risen to the task of providing for his family. His hard work and constancy had been rewarded with early promotions and by thirty he had achieved a high level of economic security. She had a great house in La Castellana, a new Ford Explorer, two maids, access to his family’s plane, vacation homes and plenty of money to spend on herself. Everything she had, everything she did, who she was in Caracas was a result of Ricardo’s hard work. Did she have any right to question how he spent his time?

Daniela pushes her body faster up the steep hill toward el Avila, the tallest mountain the Caracas, ignoring the burning pain in her chest. Running makes her feel powerful and in control; the aches in her muscles are a reminder of this moment of strength. She turns to that image of herself, “the athletic woman running up the hill,” for energy and vigor. This was all part of her plan to recapture and keep Ricardo’s attention, along with the plastic surgery, biweekly appointments at the hairdresser, massages and new wardrobe.

Once or twice Daniela had considered the possibility that Ricardo was not in love with her anymore, and that maybe she wasn’t in love with him either, which would explain why he would rather be doing anything else than spending time with her and the kids. Yet, when she thinks about leaving Ricardo, Daniela is overwhelmed by a crippling fear. Her identity is intermingled with the prestigious reputation of the Espino family; who she is today grew out of Ricardo’s success and all the great things they have because of it. She cannot see herself living in a small apartment, driving a used car, taking the children to a local beach for the weekend.

“Enough punishment,” she says and decreases the pace after the hill, letting Cristina catch up with her so they can chat for the final ten minutes of the circuit.

“How was the weekend?” Daniela asks expectantly. She revels in Cristina’s adventures and has to get the details of the events including: who went to the party, what they wore, how long they stayed and who they talked to. Daniela has fun through Cristina, the only woman in the running group who, at thirty-two, has never married.

“Any news of Santiago?” asks Daniela carefully; hoping that bringing up the most recent ex-boyfriend will not make her feel sad.

“Nope. I really don’t expect him to call me for the next few months.” In spite of her façade of acceptance and peace of mind, Daniela notices worry in Cristina’s green eyes and decides to drop the weekend gossip, thinking to herself, yet another reason to stay married.

Caraqueñas I: Dominga's Monday Commute to Work

The sky is black as the barrios on the margins of Caracas begin to stir. It is 3:58 a.m. in Barrio Bolívar. From her bed, Dominga hears gunshots fired by malandros coming home after partying and stealing. Instinctively, she looks to the left corner of the room and sees her two children, sleeping on a mattress on the floor. Hanging above their heads the images of San Jose, la Virgen Del Carmen and San Ismael, the patron saint of delinquents that must perform good deeds to get into heaven, protect them. All of them live in a single room mid-way up the cerro. The rented space has two mattresses, a full bathroom, a small kitchen and an old coffee table with matching chairs which Mrs. Espino, Dominga’s jefa, threw out.

Manuel stirs and settles face up, his gaping mouth exposing shiny, toothless gums. He’s older, but he is good to her children and good to her. They split most expenses down the middle, except her children’s education. She marvels that her youngest, at fourteen, knows more than she will learn in her lifetime. Although Manuel is not her husband, he is her partner and the four of them are a family. Well, five, counting the one on the way. Dominga can no longer hide the breasts or expanding waistline which pulls at the buttons of her pale blue uniform. Today she will tell Mrs. Espino that she is six months pregnant. Hopefully, she can keep her job.

Arising from the bed, she walks to the bathroom and turns on the light bulb that hangs by a thin red wire. A black woman with delicate features and brown eyes that rise at the corners looks back at her and smiles. Even with wiry hair going in every direction, Dominga is beautiful, her racial pureness characteristic of the black population from Barlovento, a region in the center of the Miranda where cacao is cultivated and is the origin of the purest Venezuelan black people. After taking a quick, cold shower, she throws on her pink stretch pants, flower print shirt, pink socks and hand-me-down white sneakers quietly. She puts her wallet, cellular phone and keys in the plastic leather purse and locks the door behind her. At 4:30, Dominga makes her descent to the bus stop through narrow passage ways littered with food wrappers and dog poop. She counts 332 steps in the darkness, to keep from thinking of malandros lurking in the shadows, waiting to take her bus money or cellular phone. She murmurs under her breath, “San Ismael protégeme,” and does the sign of the cross. The Espino family lives in la Castellana, a neighborhood on the east side of the capital. It takes her one hour and a half to get to work on Mondays.

At the bus terminal, rats scurry near her feet to the metal containers overflowing with trash. Dump trucks haven’t come for weeks; everything smells like trash juice. After waiting only twenty minutes, Dominga takes an empty window seat and tucks her belongings underneath, hoping that, if a robbery occurs, the thief will miss her purse. Seated, Dominga can no longer escape the reality: she is poor and she is pregnant with her third child. Even if she is not fired, having the baby will affect her current schedule. How will she work and take care of a newborn? How will she feed her other children without work? When the bus exits the highway, Dominga’s empty stomach is a knot of anxiety that tightens more as she exits the bus and walks two blocks to her final destination.