I had been working with Venezuelan refugees in Pamplona, Colombia for the past month and as I witnessed the hoards of people walking along the road in an escape from Venezuela, I felt everlastingly intrigued to visit this place they were all coming from.
Venezuela as a country itself, was something that was perhaps at this time unachievable, known for being the most dangerous country in the world that isn’t at war, I felt no need to run the risks of actually going there. But the place that struck my interest, was called the Trocha, the illegal border crossing. Every refugee I had spoken to had said to me that the Trocha was the darkest, most dangerous leg of their whole walking journey across Venezuela and Colombia. If you didn’t get robbed there or have a gun / machete held to your head while it happened, you must have been carrying a gift from God.
Pamplona, the city I was volunteering in, was a four hour drive from Cucuta, the border city, and around a four day walk for the thousands that didn’t have another option. I headed over there with another volunteer called Andrew, both of us with the intention to try and film the place, talk to the locals, and perhaps get a slightly firmer grasp of why so many millions (5.4million) of people are choosing to leave Venezuela. On the way there, I was warned by Ronald, the manager of one of the Aid tents, that he considers Cucuta the most dangerous city in Colombia, and that I should prepare myself. I think it’s incredibly hard to statistically prove that any city is more dangerous than another, however I took his word for it, and knowing that it was the first place that people in such desperate circumstances arrive on their journey out of Venezuela, it wasn’t hard to believe.
I would like to make a disclaimer that I am not saying Venezuelan people are bad or dangerous within themselves. They are however in a horrific political situation, out of their control, causing starvation and anguish which undoubtably leads to violent situations.
Andrew and I left our phones behind, carrying only our cameras, due to the knowledge that it was highly probable we would be robbed. Although in these situations it’s advised that you don’t carry more than you can afford to loose, our main reason for going there was to film, so it seemed like a risk worth taking.
We hopped into the taxi, too nervous to even speak to each other, and said to the driver ‘the Trocha please’ ‘sure, I’ll take you to the most dangerous one’ he replied laughing a little, I think judging us too…what on earth do you two white idiots want to do there…
We drove through the city in daylight, all was calm and I couldn’t see what the fuss was about. I remember whizzing down an open highway, with no one in sight, what a smooth ride. This won’t be as bad as everyone has made it out to be…
Within the click of a finger, the open highway had terminated, and we were in some crammed suburbs, shouting, screaming, clapping, clicking, selling, throwing, walking, laughing, pointing, beeping. An uncomfortable chaos. ‘We can turn right for one crossing, and left for the other, I can drive a bit further but you will have to walk if you want to go the whole way’ said the driver. We turned right.
Crowds of people walked towards us like a wall, a block that’s solidarity was only broken by the irregular pitches of screaming and cries from all ages and genders. The wall may have been one, but unison would not be a way to describe this energy of pain and suffering. Cries of misery, faces of destruction, limps of exhaustion. The energy dropped like a rollercoaster in a theme park, just without the thrills and exhilaration. All sounds I heard were rooted from pain and anger. The wall of people continued to move. ‘TROCHA TROCHA TROCHA’ a man to my right topless, head to toe in tattoos who’s neck was laced with chains was yelling, swinging his arm in violent circular motions as if to point us in the right direction. His chains jingled across his tattooed chest as his arms swung vigorously.
The streets became narrower and the crowds got denser, making us more noticeable as we sat static inside the car. The less the car could move the more noticeable we became, and with that arrived a grand insecurity. A man pointed at my camera and started laughing, wagging his finger, choking on his authoritative laugh, ‘ that camera in this place uh uh’.
The driver said he could go no further and we needed to get out of the car. No way was this going to happen. I felt as vulnerable as an insect in a mosh pit whilst within the car, let alone out of it. I remembered what the refugees had all told me. This place is the toughest part of their entire journey, and I had hadn’t met a single person who hadn’t been robbed here. ‘If Venezuelans, fleeing their own country, who pass through here without even pair of shoes get robbed at gun point, what the hell is going to happen to me’ I thought to myself. ‘Ummm, una vuelta por favor?’ Would it be possible to make a U-turn please. Andrew asked the driver pleadingly.
We reversed a little and as soon as we were driving in the opposite direction, two men started to chase the car, managed to catch up with us, and then jumped onto the roof, grabbing on with all their might, shouting at us scratching the windows with their beaten hands, tattooed chests smothered against the rear windscreen. I stopped filming instantly, I hid my camera under the seat in terror, even though it was pointless because they’d already seen it. The windows were closed but I felt like a monkey in a slaughter house, with nowhere to go, trapped in a transparent box, with the only exit being the danger zone. We were unable to pick up speed due to the traffic, travelling at a solid 15 kmph and there was no way of shaking them off. Our driver said the reason they were on here was just because they wanted a free ride, he was calm as ever, but I wasn’t convinced on his theory. They clung to the vehicle until the traffic dispersed and we were able to pick up speed.
We had now spent at least an hour in the taxi driving from chaos to mayhem, out of the frying pan and into the fire, and basing our decision on experience, we decided to call it a day and leave the Trocha!
I felt so out of place there, uncomfortable in the safety of the taxi walls. Being stared and shouted at like a monkey in a zoo, because I was the lucky one. I was the rich the white girl in the taxi with a camera, I had arrived in this pit of desperation by choice, and was there to film its’ inhabitants. So who was the real monkey in the zoo?
Once we decided to leave the Trocha, we went around the city making interviews with Venezuelans working on the streets. Throughout the entire city it was evident how many refugees lived there. We came across a group of musicians hopping on and off of buses with an array of different instruments collecting money for playing, so decided to interview them.
