„Cúcuta is a hot, muggy, filthy, crime-ridden city“.
„The only reason coming here is to cross the border to or from Venezuela“.
„If you must stay overnight consider staying in nearby Pamplona instead“.
I indeed only went there to cross the border to Venezuela. Four times to be precise, in order to get my working visa, because my university was unable to send the documents soon enough to get it done back home. Therefore, I also had to stay overnight. Altogether three days I spent in that wonderfully described place.
Well, the city itself wasn't by far as bad as it sounded, and as my flatmates made me believe. In fact, there were some pretty nice corners, the streets are full of life, and the people I met were extremely friendly and helpful. I got picked up from the airport, was taken out to a vegetarian restaurant. I stayed with Cecilia and her husband I forgot the name of, the parents of Martín, director of Antonio Narino's seat in Cúcuta. In the house, there was also Jessica, their niece from Venezuela, Manuel, Martíns son, Carolina, the navela, and a very talkative parrot called Roberto. All of them took perfectly care of me, gave me a place to sleep, fed me, took me whereever I wanted.
That was the good side. The other side was harder to bear. First of all, the unbelievable heat, that even at night doesn't drop below 35°C. No way doing anything else then suffering all they (and night) long. Some streets are really more than busy, rather loud and hectic at times. Together with the heat so comes the continuous noise of honking cars.
Simón Bolívar is ubiquitous. Everything is bolívariano. The bakeries, the universities, the markets, streets, restaurants, sights, museums.... and we are not even in Venezuela, the self proclaimed „country of great progress“ yet.
And then, the seemingly neverending story of getting my visa done. A history of bureaucracy, of people's goodwill, of power and of money.
To give some examples...
- I had to enter und exit Venezuela a total of four times. In theory, every time you do so, you have to get an exit stamp from Colombia, an entry stamp in Venezuela, and vice versa on the way back. But don't think leaving the Bolivarian Republic is for free....
- One time, Mister Complicado Consulado – the nickname Martín gave him – asked for an additional stamp on my contract – issued by a notary – and of course, paid. The next time I went there, he didn't even look at it at all.
- Then, he wanted the University to – cynicly said – certify that I know German. Therefore a paper had to be written back in Bogotá, signed by the national director, and sent there. A pity there was one word too much on that paper, so sitting in the consulate for the third time, I was supposed to get a new one.
On the last day, we were altogether four people going to Venezuela, trying to make me stay and work legally in Colombia. The consul himself, deeply questioning me how I want to know I really want to stay there for a year, was just the icing on the cake....
