Venezuela: Why the Barrios Still Love Hugo

The drive from Simon Bolivar airport to the center of Caracas retains the capacity to shock even the most hardened of travelers. It is not that poverty in oil-rich Venezuela is particularly acute by Latin American standards. I have seen much worse in Peru; mothers with dull eyes for whom a book is no more than an unintelligible mass of paper and ink, and children who grab at your trouser legs and, in return for a few coins, agree to cease whining: "Meester, please, me hungry"; the transaction robbing both the hunter and his prey of their humanity. In Venezuela, the shock is less to do with absolute poverty, and more to do with the way that social contrasts are expressed through geography, and in particular, altitude.

Hugo Chávez, the country's socialist president, is often blamed for the political polarisation of Venezuelan society. But the fact that the basis of that divide -- the polarization of wealth and power -- long preceded Chávez, is proved by the urban landscape.

Suppose it were you in the passenger seat on your way into Caracas. Along the route you would doubtless look out of the window to your right. Were you to do so, you would see rows of ostentatious high-rise apartment blocks with polished windows, some of them with neatly manicured jungles protruding out of each balcony like a series of elaborate Chelsea flower shows rising into the sky. These are the homes of the middle classes. Then, if you turned your head and looked up the mountainside to your left, you would be confronted with reality as experienced by most Venezuelans: the barrio.

It is impossible to describe the architecture of a Caracas barrio by reference to a poor neighborhood in London, Paris or New York. Seen from a distance, it is as if God had taken a giant wheelbarrow, filled with hundreds of thousands of tiny, half-made cubes and then proceeded to pour the contents indiscriminately over the mountainsides. As the cubes land, they come to rest in no particular order; one perched precariously atop another, all of them somehow defying the force of gravity.

But of course, the barrios were constructed by people: poor people from the countryside who migrated to the city during the course of the 20th century. When they arrived, finding no homes or land at prices they could afford, they squatted on unused land on the sides of the mountains, and began to surround the city with their own makeshift dwellings, built with whatever materials they could lay their hands on: usually a combination of brick, breeze block and tin, or for the less fortunate, cardboard.

The view from my friend's balcony on the 24th floor of a tower block, situated in the middle-class district of Los Dos Caminos, is spectacular. It is as if I am surveying the city from atop a lighthouse that has been plonked in the center of a giant misshapen bowl. In the center, there are streets arranged in straight lines, modern blocks of flats, gleaming shopping malls, and the ever-present traffic jams. Wrapped around the sides of the bowl are the barrios. Three or four kilometers from my vantage point is the Petare barrio, one of the largest in Latin America and home to almost half a million Venezuelans. At night, Petare rises in glittering yellow and white dots like the lights of a thousand Christmas trees. Soon the barrio will sparkle in monochrome, as the government program of replacing the old yellow bulbs with energy-saving white ones nears completion.

The landscape provides a physical dimension to the sense that Caracas is a city under siege from itself: the better-off, literally, looking up at the poor who look down on the richer citizens. Politically also, Venezuelan society, in the throes of its 21st century socialist revolution, has some features of the siege warfare of previous eras. Those who were formerly socially excluded now have political power; although the wealthy retain much of the economic and ideological power, through their ownership of the private media and other businesses.