Venezuelans turn to odd jobs to stretch wages; hope for change after election

Original Article:

Source: Link

A municipal market in eastern Venezuela is teeming with weekend customers hoping to score a deal among the stalls of produce, meat, cheese and shelf-stable products. Some carry plantains, cassava crackers, corn flour or half a carton of eggs as they walk home. Middle school teacher Cruz Brito is standing across the street amid the smell of fish that clings to the hot humid air of Maturin. She has about $27 in her bank account and a single can of sardines at home. She is five days away from her next paycheck and her oldest daughter needs college supplies for the following day. So, she walks away empty handed. Maybe her neighborhood convenience store will sell her a couple of things on credit. Eleven years into her country’s complex crisis, the days of food shortages are virtually gone, but with many earning under $200 a month, getting the essentials is a constant struggle for families in rural and urban areas alike. People work second and third jobs, start little businesses, exchange services and gamble to scrape together the money, but still every decision seems to involve a calculator and a calendar. That angst-provoking math is among the reasons why the ruling party’s hold on power looks vulnerable in Sunday’s presidential election. Brito is praying for a new president — and, by extension, an end to the distress that has at times left her feeling hopeless. “I have cried because I have not had to eat,” Brito said Sunday outside the market, one week before the election. “We haven’t migrated — first, because I have my mom and dad here, and second, because I believe in God and I believe that we are going to get through this. But if not, I do have to leave unfortunately with a broken heart, like all those who have emigrated.” Venezuela’s prolonged crisis has evolved over the years. The government of President Nicolás Maduro can even point to economic growth in post-pandemic years. But wages and worker benefits have not recovered. A street seller arranges her merchandise in Caracas, Venezuela, on Tuesday. Yuri Cortez / AFP - Getty Images Each month, public employees receive the country’s minimum wage: 130 Venezuelan bolivares, or a little more based on experience, contracts and skills. That amount has not changed since March 2022, when it was equivalent to about $30. Variations in currency exchange rates have now reduced it to $3.50. Workers also earn a monthly food assistance bonus of about $40, and those who have signed up for a system of government benefits known as the Fatherland Card get an additional $90. That’s how, with 20 years of experience as an English teacher, Brito earns $143 every month. She gets $6.50 on the 10th of the month and again on the 25th, when she also receives $40 in food assistance. On the 15th of the month, she receives the Fatherland Card’s $90, a stipend the government has dubbed Economic War Bonus, in reference to what Maduro and allies consider attacks on Venezuela’s economy by the United States. Families across the South American country need at least $385 a month just to buy a basic basket of goods, which among several things includes 1 liter (quart) of vegetable oil; 1 kilogram (2 pounds) each of rice, sugar, potatoes, bananas and ground beef; half a kilo (1 pound) of beans; and at least 12 eggs. So, Brito tries to earn extra money by playing casino games on a smartphone app in the evenings, doing translations, holding raffles, and selling freezies on the streets of Maturin. She gained 1,000 bolivares — the $27 on her bank account — playing roulette. Her bets range from 33 cents to 66 cents. Brito teaches Monday through Friday, but nationwide, educators often only show up to classrooms two or three days a week because they have to scrounge for money elsewhere. “Getting to the supermarket, grabbing a cart and shopping around, I don’t know what that is anymore,” Brito, 47, said. “I used to buy a whole chicken, now I don’t even buy half a chicken. I have had to buy three eggs because I can no longer buy a carton of eggs.” Private sector workers fair better but not by much, earning an average of $231 a month. Today, 80% of the population lives in poverty. In Maturin, an oil industry hub, the signs of a once-thriving middle class are everywhere: Two-story homes sit on corner lots in disrepair with “for sale” signs; strip malls are boarded up and auto dealerships shuttered; and a mall with ample parking has marks on the walls from where store marquees once hung. The city’s long, wide roads were created for a time when virtually anyone could afford a car, and gas was effectively free. A car, however old, is a luxury these days. Israel Gimon had to sell one of his two vehicles due to the country’s crisis. He receives about $28.50 a month between his pension — which by law is set to be equal to the monthly minimum wage — and a Fatherland Card bonus. Retirees like him do not get food assistance. Gimon, 66, worked for more than four decades as a construction manager and expected to live comfortably off his pension. Instead, he sells ice from his garage and repairs home appliances. He also occasionally gets $30 from his daughter, who lives in the U.S. In a good month, he earns $50 from his repair business after deducting supplies and transportation. He said he sets his prices low because he otherwise would not be hired by his neighbors and acquaintances, all of whom are in similar economic conditions. He also often makes repairs for which he accepts in-kind payments. His earnings must cover the needs of his wife, his other daughter, and Princess of Carmen, his beloved poodle. “There are days we don’t have food,” he said flatly. “Sometimes we buy beef organ meats because they are more economical. We may buy half a kilo of ground beef or I buy chicken trimmings that include the neck, legs, wings. I was upper middle class!” Through his Fatherland Card, he gets access to a package of subsidized food that includes arepa flour, beans, pasta, coffee and other shelf-stable foods. The government has long been criticized for the quality of the food it distributes across the country, but Gimon said he eats it even when it is unappetizing. The cards give people access to a variety of social programs, including subsidized gasoline, medicines and food packages. Opposition leaders and international observers have accused the government of using the cards as both carrot and stick during elections. Before the crisis, government social benefits were wide-ranging, including scholarships for colleges in Europe and the U.S., free housing, and all-expenses-paid trips to Cuba for cataract surgeries. Gimon desperately needed $700 in mid-July for cataract surgery in his right eye, even though public hospitals are not supposed to charge for services. He reduced the cost by $200 when his surgeon agreed to have him repair a stand-alone freezer instead of paying his fee. The rest, including $300 for the artificial lens and $200 for the surgery equipment, was covered with help from his daughter. On Saturday, he allowed a few people to park their motorcycles while attending a nearby rally of Maduro opponents, led by opposition powerhouse María Corina Machado. He could not attend the demonstration because of his recent surgery, but he was handing out business card-size copies of the July 28 ballot, highlighting the candidate representing the main opposition coalition, former diplomat Edmundo Gonzalez Urrutia. Sweating like practically everyone else at the rally, Nilda Contreras waited patiently for Machado to arrive. She sought shade from the scorching sun under an umbrella and stood on her tiptoes to try to catch a glimpse of the opposition leader’s caravan. Contreras plans to vote for Machado-endorsed González, with the main hope of seeing an increase in wages and pensions. At 65, she thought she’d be enjoying retirement, but she has to sell cakes, ice cream and other desserts to complement the roughly $103 she receives every month. She must reach at least $200 combining all income streams to be able to afford her husband’s eye drops and the heart medication they both take. “I used to have quality of life, but the government has trampled us,” Contreras said. “My idea was to travel, visit my family. Now that is no longer possible.” For more from NBC Latino, sign up for our weekly newsletter.