The city of Caracas is nestled in a long, narrow valley about 20 kilometers from the Caribbean Sea. The hub of the Venezuelan government, it’s located directly south of Puerto Rico, and about 1,300 miles southeast of Havana.
Dozens of towers jut out from the valley’s deepest crevices, and the hills that slope up from there are covered with homes, either the fenced residences of those who have money, or the tin-walled shacks of those who do not.
There are neighborhoods where even the policemen scatter when night falls, and where taxi drivers refuse to go.
“Sabana Grande – that’s danger!” Miguel the taxi driver warned me, referring to one of the city’s shopping districts.
He then ticked off half a dozen neighborhoods where he will never deliver a passenger, and ended with an unusual one: the city cemetery. Besides the typical spooky ghost stories, the resting place for the dead of Caracas doesn’t offer much rest at all.
Recent years have seen a rise in grave robberies, and not just for jewelry. Now, thieves are snatching the bones themselves, and selling them to followers of Santeria, a black magic that uses human remains in ceremonies to cast hexes.
Fortunately, visiting the cemetery isn’t necessary for my project. That’s something Miguel was pleased to hear.
But, according to him, I’ve got other problems.
“A periodista? That’s danger!” he said when I told him that I’m a journalist.
Why?
“Because the president is crazy!”
We’ll see about that.
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