Socialist Dreams And Beauty Queens: Arriving In Venezuela
[Editor’s Note: The following is an excerpt from “Socialist Dreams and Beauty Queens: A Couch Surfer’s Memoir of Venezuela” by Jamie Maslin from Skyhorse Publishing.]
Caracas, Venezuela — Dawn had just broken, and a lazy soft pink light diffused across the landscape as we drove to the center of Caracas. I love this time of day more than any other, and especially when traveling. Everything seems so still, but at the same time there’s a tangible optimism in the air, like the moment before the curtain rises on a big theater performance, and although it might not live up to your expectations, the anticipation at the start is still the same. Minutes earlier I had been tired and lethargic from an uncomfortable night on a plane, but now I felt energized and excited to the point of agitation to be here in a new unexplored country, at the beginning of a long and no doubt fascinating adventure.
Forested peaks soon gave way to chaotic sprawling barrio shantytowns, which clung to the undulating terrain like limpets to a rock, and rose up precariously on top of each other in the most haphazard manner imaginable. Being so early in the morning, there was barely a soul about, with the inhabitants tucked up in bed unseen behind their home’s ramshackle walls. Red-painted slogans in support of Venezuela’s president, Hugo Chávez, adorned many of the dwellings. Along the highway we passed several billboards with the image of Chávez striking optimistic and magnanimous poses. We drove in near silence due to my lack of Spanish and Ricardo’s of English. It was just what I needed to get my thoughts together and prepare for what I had been led to believe would be an extremely challenging city.
Caracas is situated in a valley dominated by the towering Mount El Ávila, which rises 7,400 feet to the north of the city, isolating it from the Caribbean coast beyond. This handy landmark serves as a useful navigation tool as I would soon discover. As we got closer to the center of the capital, the barrios yielded to monolithic skyscrapers, gleaming like beacons in the low morning light. Freeways twisted every which way, spreading out like tributaries of the Amazon into Caracas’s myriad districts, housing the city’s four million inhabitants. As it wasn’t yet five o’clock, few had roused themselves yet, imparting a strange serene and peaceful atmosphere to the city, which I knew could be anything but. Was this the calm before the storm? I wondered.
We pulled into centrally located run-of-the-mill residential area, Bello Monte, comprising countless forgettable apartment blocks, and came to a halt on a steep incline outside a weathered-looking six-story tower. By the time of our arrival, life was just beginning to stir in the streets outside. Morning deliveries of crates of fruit, cartons of milk, and crusty loafs of bread were off-loaded at local shops. A few early risers purchased newspapers from a small kiosk across the road and nursed small cups of espresso coffees at a welcoming café opposite, slowly bringing the area to life.
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Beauty, and as a consequence cosmetic surgery, is big business in Venezuela. In fact, it’s something of a national obsession. There are more beauty salons listed in the Caracas yellow pages than pharmacies, and the city has one beauty salon for every two cafés—and it has plenty of cafés. There are respected schools for aspiring beauty queens, and Venezuela has an unparalleled record in international beauty pageants, having won five Miss World titles, five Miss International titles, and six Miss Universe titles.
Boob jobs are so popular they are advertised on Venezuelan TV, and banks offer special lines of credit to fund them. Amazingly, many girls receive implants for their fifteenth birthday as part of their traditional quinceañera, or coming-of-age celebrations, something that President Chávez has spoken out against. During a marathon TV address lasting a staggering eight hours, Chávez took to task parents who might give their daughters such a present, stating, “Now some people think, ‘My daughter’s turning fifteen, let’s give her breast enlargements.’ That’s horrible. It’s the ultimate degeneration.” He went on to blame Western beauty icons such as Barbie dolls for the popularity of the operations. Sadly, with cosmetic surgery being so popular, individuals unqualified to perform the operations have set themselves up as surgeons, often with horrendous results.
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But odder still were the names inspired by the most unlikely of arbitrary sources. These included popular sports shoes, fast-food restaurants, infamous political figures, and superheroes. Hans had previously written an article on this strange cultural phenomenon and, as part of his research, had surreptitiously acquired lists of patients’ names from doctors and dentists. These had included Superman, Ladi Diana, Max Donald, Stalin, Nick Carter Backstreet Boyz, Genghis Khan, US Navy, and my favorite, Air Jordan.
It must have made for some interesting James Bond-esque introductions, “The name’s Gonzales, Nick Carter Backstreet Boyz Gonzales.”
