Chronicle of a red light and the “rotico” of a ticket: the long lines for gasoline return to Venezuela

First, it appears dim, and then it becomes more and more incandescent. The light that warns of a shortage of gasoline is igniting on the dashboard of my vehicle, with the red silhouette of a fuel dispenser. In Maracaibo, in Venezuela, the locals humorously say that the icon is almost like a cry: “¡échale!”.

Although in any part of the world that represents the urgency of filling the tank, in one of the most populated cities of the South American country it evokes both crisis and stress, at a time when the long lines of cars at service stations have just revived.

It so happens that Maracaibo, the capital of Zulia, the oil state par excellence of Venezuela, lived through years of long lines and waits of several days to be able to fill up at gas stations until, in May, they disappeared in a jiffy. According to sources in the oil industry, improvements in transportation and the stability of the refineries allowed this.

But this Thursday morning it becomes clear that the old sit-ins are back, as I take my daughter to her end of the school year party: barrels and metal chains close the accesses to the interior of two of the main “bombs”, What are gas stations called?

One of his employees confirms, with a sorrow that can be read from a distance, that his sales are suspended due to not having fuel. The situation is a portrait of many other “bombs” in the north of the city, friends told in chats and union spokesmen on social networks, such as Twitter. The few stations where there is gasoline are already full of cars.

The shortage is national. Since the first days of December, residents and union spokespersons in the southern, western, Los Andes, eastern and central regions of the country have denounced that long waits and the rationing of liters per user have returned.

The authorities have not ruled, while press agencies, such as Reutersreport that a unit of the Amuay refinery has just broken down, which, together with Cardón, forms part of the largest refining complex in Venezuela, in the state of Falcón.

The Cecilio Acosta Grand Prix

Back home, already with my little girl in her Christmas celebration, I saw an oasis in the desert: a relatively short queue of vehicles that advanced in a station on Bella Vista avenue. After a quick lap around the block to make sure they were stocked and, upon confirming that they were, it was time to accelerate to arrive, like a Formula 1 driver, at the final position of the improvised “pit”.

It was all math in the mind: it’s 9:30 in the morning; there are no less than 40 cars in a row; five plastic cones block the parking lot of a bakery to prevent the gas-hungry from blocking customers; It subtracts a kilometer and a half of distance to the service station; and, perhaps, two hours of waiting as well.

Every once in a while, it’s time to turn the car off and on. Thus, the air conditioning that allows to alleviate the 35 degrees Celsius that prevails in the city ends. The sweat and the debate begin: do I turn on the cold air despite being covered, under the risk of catching a cold?

The discomfort of the nasopharyngitis of the last few weeks worsens, while I make calls to the health insurance and send messages to the editors on duty at work, always keeping an eye on the young security guard of a greengrocer who, occasionally, signals for carts to move forward.

He holds up his hand, stretching out one finger. He shakes it, in a hurry, and I say to myself: “Let only one pass, it must be.” I assume then that it is my turn to make it to the cover of the shadow of two tall buildings, just before turning onto the main street of the gas station.

The clock warns that 40 minutes have already passed since I emulated Max Verstappen in the now improvised Grand Prix from the popular Venezuelan street of Cecilio Acosta.

The “punch”, the ticket

Turning around the corner and seeing the entry point of the service station in the distance, guarded by two soldiers, is not synonymous with contentment or happiness. In any case, discomfort and anxiety are exacerbated while I confirm that there are 14 cars left to enter.

Any driver who has waited in one of these lines knows that, even on the eve of the service, gasoline can run out at any moment and hours may have passed in vain. The locals call this act of maximum frustration “staying ponchao”.

A man in his 50s is reflected in the rearview mirror as he shakes a manila folder to scare away the flies that have broken into his vehicle, just behind. It’s just that, just a few meters away, on the sidewalk, pizza boxes, rotten vegetables and various dirt lie on garbage bags gutted by an anonymous person.

The queue stops for 10, 15, 20 minutes. Nobody advances. Half an hour later, he moves, while one of the uniformed men approaches each vehicle. “Go pay,” he invites dryly. I turn off the car, leave it in line, and almost jog over to a window whose collector only accepts payments with cash in dollars.

Four drivers wait, again, although without cars, also in line.

-Give me 45 liters, please.

-The maximum is 40, they ordered us.

Well, give me 40.

I give the exact amount, a 20 dollar bill – each liter costs 50 cents at gas stations without subsidized fuel in Venezuela. The manager returns my payment almost immediately. “Here’s a rotic, I can’t accept it”, he argues, while he points his finger towards the presumed crack of just millimeters in the center of the printed currency.

I don’t see it, but, no way. It will be 30 liters, I tell myself, before handing him 5 and 10 dollar bills, praying for the miracle that the alleged wear and tear for which many merchants, like the one behind the window, tend to reject them in this country, do not appear.

A white piece of paper engraved with the phrase “30 liters” and an unintelligible signature is the key to the service. It is the stellar moment: a friendly “fireman” opens the tank cap, inserts the hose and fully complies with the written mandate. Not one drop more, not one less.

An hour and 40 minutes, between sweat and uncertainties, it took to turn off that increasingly hot red light on the board in a country filled, once again, with long and exhausting lines.

Connect with the Voice of America! Subscribe to our channel Youtube and activate notifications, or follow us on social networks: Facebook, Twitter and instagram.