Bienvenidos Venezuela
When we travel through previously unknown countries, we experience the culture of other societies and interact with a completely new daily reality. Everything around us is different from what we know from our safe spaces. These differences follow us on every possible level — from human behaviors to the images surrounding us, and even how others react to a white tourist with a backpack full of items that are, for most people, completely unfamiliar. Shopping at a store or market looks different, the slang is different, the customs are different, the glances are different. It’s not better or worse — it’s simply a completely new stimulus for our minds, which can become rigid after a long time in the same environment.
New stimuli bring new emotional and behavioral challenges, where previously learned behavior patterns need to be adapted to a completely new reality governed by dynamics unfamiliar to us. That’s how it was this time, when my friend Jacek and I decided to enter Venezuela for a few days. In just a few days, we covered a very small distance, but the number of adventures we experienced left us stunned — and the military, police, and border patrol weren’t spared from it either.
After spending three weeks in Colombia with a fantastic group of guys, Jacek and I continued on our own, completely open to the adventures that were clearly waiting to be discovered. After two days of traveling via different modes of transport, we reached the area of Colombia bordering Venezuela. We even hitched a ride in the gap between the cabin and the tank of a truck — a unique experience in itself — but unfortunately, our final destination didn’t meet our expectations. We ended up in a desert area where, aside from a military unit and a rail siding, there was no way to continue forward without turning back. The harsh sun and desert landscape showed no mercy, and any shade was worth its weight in gold. After several hours of walking and trying to hitchhike, someone finally took pity on us and gave us a ride back to something resembling civilization, allowing us to move forward once again.
Being so close to the Venezuelan border, we had no doubts about visiting this completely unknown country for a few days. Unfortunately, only the two of us felt this certainty, as we would soon find out in a very unusual way.
We reached the border at the town of Paraguachon in the afternoon. After assessing the area, we quickly realized that this was by no means a tourist destination. Two white guys with backpacks were drawing a lot more attention than we would have liked. In a country plagued by economic crisis and where the currency had lost almost all value, our presence likely raised a lot of questions about what exactly we were doing there. We had to stay calm and politely avoid unnecessary stares or interactions with people who saw us as walking ATMs.
The first problems started at the immigration office. The Colombian side was smooth, but the Venezuelan border officials were far from welcoming. First, they demanded a hotel reservation, which of course we didn’t have since we planned to sleep in hammocks, wild camping. We knew our reasoning wouldn’t help, and if we wanted to cross the border, we had to play their game. Our second attempt, this time with a digital reservation, also failed — it had to be printed. "We don’t print here. Thank you, goodbye."
Luckily, the Colombian office turned out to be more helpful. A kind lady printed the reservation for us. It's worth noting that the two immigration offices were only about a ten-minute walk apart, so this back-and-forth was burning precious daylight. On our third try, with the printed reservation in hand, the officer gave us a look void of understanding and told us to wait, setting us aside from the main queue. By then, we only had the exit stamp from Colombia. Nightfall was approaching.
After another fifteen minutes, one of the uniformed men invited us into a shipping container turned office — the base of the supervisor or commander, or whoever actually had the authority to let us in. The conversation was... interesting. Meaning, it was our attempt to talk using a translator. We didn’t really speak Spanish, and they didn’t speak English, but we tried. They bombarded us with questions: Why do we want to enter Venezuela? What are we looking for? What are we doing here? Why this particular border crossing?
Our explanations — that we were tourists, camping wild, just visiting for a few days before returning to Colombia — didn’t convince them. We were told it was already evening, and that traveling to our intended destination at this hour was unsafe. The best option was to get a hotel near the border and return in the morning. When we asked why they made us book and print a hotel reservation in the first place, we got no answer. We had no choice but to comply. The "hotel equivalent" by the border left much to be desired, but there were no other options. Our first attempt to enter Venezuela had failed.
Morning greeted us with sunshine and the constant buzz of locals for whom the border wasn't just a crossing point but a bustling trade zone. Whole families made a living off the never-ending stream of people, vehicles, and motorcycles, selling food, exchanging currency, fixing broken-down transport. Mothers with small children made sandwiches, people with handmade carts sold coffee — or rather sugar with a splash of coffee. Money changers offered increasingly better rates to exchange dollars or Colombian pesos for the near-worthless Venezuelan bolívar.
Amid this natural chaos, we stepped up for our next attempt at crossing, hoping for the long-awaited stamp. Our printed reservation and the previous day’s Colombian exit stamp immediately raised suspicion, but somehow we managed to explain. Again, we were pulled aside and brought back to the now-familiar supervisor's office. This time, the atmosphere was friendlier. They took our photos — probably just to prove we entered the country in one piece — and then sent us back to the passport booth.
The same officer who had dealt with us before clearly wasn’t thrilled to see us again. After stamping our passports, he practically threw them at us and dismissed us with a wave.
That’s how our Venezuelan adventure began — before we had even truly stepped foot into the country.
Now we were at least legally staying in the country and could freely explore everything that awaited us — and as it turned out, there was quite a lot waiting. Our first destination was the largest city in the region: Maracaibo. During the four-hour bus ride, we went through five passport checks, including one for drugs. Of course, as white tourists, we were asked to step off the bus and head to a small table where a uniformed officer was already waiting to curiously inspect our backpacks. He didn’t find anything concerning and let us return to the bus. Eventually, we made it to Maracaibo — exhausted from the heat, the constant noise, and the persistent border checks.
The city lies along a massive lake of the same name, which connects to the Gulf of Venezuela and ultimately the Caribbean Sea. Our plan was simple: get out of the city and find a nice spot for our hammocks, ideally somewhere we could take a dip in the lake. Unfortunately, that plan brought us more trouble than benefit. Hitchhiking in this colorful country is borderline absurd — even if someone sees you, they usually just smile and drive on. Evening was approaching, and the chances of finding transport at that hour were dwindling. Hour by hour, we slowly made our way out of the city, where we could start looking for a quiet place to spend the night.
Unfortunately, such places aren’t marked on the map — especially not an offline one — as we decided not to buy a local SIM card for just three days. We turned off the main road onto a smaller one, which, according to the map, led right to the lake shore. After about an hour of walking, we arrived, having passed through industrial facilities that didn’t raise any red flags at the time. We didn’t see anyone along the way, and nobody seemed to care that we were walking through the area. In the night scenery, the lake didn’t look suspicious, but upon closer inspection, we were certain swimming wasn’t an option. The shore was coated in black sludge resembling crude oil, the water smelled strange, and the whole setting felt lifeless.
There wasn’t much we could do at night except find a place for our hammocks and go to sleep. Morning confirmed our suspicions. Everything along the shore was stained with oil, and a greasy film shimmered on the water’s surface. It was clear something had gone very wrong here, and we were witnessing a phenomenon that certainly wasn’t a tourist attraction. Not wanting to waste time, we packed up and headed back toward the main road. Initially, we took a different path, which somehow led us into the interior road system of an oil refinery.
Thankfully, this wasn’t Europe. After a few minutes of walking, a man noticed us and told us to turn back. At that point, we realized we were in the wrong place for two white tourists. We returned the same way we had come the previous evening, but this time there was more traffic. At one point, in the exact location we had walked through unnoticed the night before, stood a military checkpoint — specifically the Bolivarian Guard.
We didn’t fully realize the gravity of our situation, so we casually walked past the soldiers, greeting them with a cheerful “Ola!” The six uniformed men, of course armed with rifles, were visibly baffled by our carefree attitude and immediately stopped us.
Then began the translator-powered attempt to explain what was going on. Our passports were taken, Jacek’s backpack was thoroughly searched, and we were told we had entered a government- and military-controlled oil refinery zone. We were surprised — for such a strategic area, our evening entry had gone completely unchecked, and there were no signs warning of restricted access. Just a regular road heading toward the lake.
The soldiers were skeptical that we had ended up there by accident and were surprised to learn that no one had been stationed at the checkpoint the previous evening. At first, they didn’t even recognize the stamp from our border entry and suspected we were in the country illegally, adding tension to the already awkward situation.
We couldn’t help but find it a bit comical, knowing we hadn’t done anything wrong. Our presence there simply didn’t fit the usual procedures, and the soldiers had to find a way to deal with it. Again, we used the translator to explain our situation — our travel history, intentions, and anything else that might help prove we were just lost tourists.
Of course, the old Russian visa in Jacek’s passport didn’t help. Soon, the number of military personnel involved in the situation grew to thirteen. Luckily, one of them was clearly more intelligent than the rest and quickly figured out that we were telling the truth and had nothing to hide. We were then escorted on motorcycles to the main military base inside the refinery — which, ironically, was located at the end of the road we had stumbled onto earlier that morning. So we almost made it there on our own. That would’ve been a surprise for them…
After being taken to the base, we were greeted by the commanding officer, who explained that the area we had entered and the road we were planning to travel was considered dangerous and controlled by cartels. He was very understanding about our accidental presence within the refinery and finally returned our passports. We were advised to go back to the city and take a bus to our intended destination, since the road ahead was too risky. After a brief conversation and handshake, we were driven on motorcycles back to the main road and dropped off.
One of the soldiers also told us that the entire lake was contaminated with crude oil and that they had suffered a major environmental disaster years ago — the effects of which were still being felt. This wasn’t exactly what we expected from our Venezuelan trip, but we were safe, unharmed, and most importantly — ready for more adventure. Not that we knew it would find us again so quickly.
Since both of us are explorers of the unknown, we didn’t go back to the city. Instead, we started hitchhiking again — buses, random drivers — whoever was going in more or less the same direction. This time we were doing great. Hour by hour, we moved further with different vehicles, colorful and cheerful people, and many helpful drivers. We caught people’s attention everywhere, but it wasn’t intrusive — just simple human curiosity.
Throughout Venezuela, there are regular checkpoints on the roads where police or military inspect vehicles and documents. Unsurprisingly, seeing two tourists walking with backpacks, they never let us pass without questioning. At one of the checkpoints, we were invited into a small office to explain where we were going, why we were on foot, and why we were hitchhiking. Out came the translator again, and we described our travel plans.
The police officer didn’t give up easily. For an hour, he tried to convince us that we needed hotel reservations to move between cities or a special permit for camping. We didn’t have either, and we also weren’t in a position to challenge the officer’s logic. When I asked if I could make a hotel reservation right there, he hesitated. I got confused and wasn’t sure how to handle the situation any further.
I didn’t realize the oldest and most reliable way of solving problems was still the most effective — cash. Suddenly, the officer told us we could pay him and he’d let us go. And that’s what happened. Fifty Colombian pesos lighter, we were once again on the road, looking for hope in the Venezuelan landscape. Our spirits were still high, and even a bus stopped in the middle of the road — just to pick us up. That was our last ride before the culminating adventure that the Venezuelan authorities had in store for us.
With every new experience, our traveler’s hearts felt more at ease. Day by day, our bond grew stronger. The challenges never created stress between us — just a brotherly connection that allowed us to move forward without fear, staying grounded and centered inside.
Late in the evening, we arrived in a small town called El Cruce. We knew we needed to find a hotel — searching for a place to hang our hammocks on the outskirts at night would’ve taken way too long. We had dinner at a roadside bar and walked toward one of the two hotels that appeared on the map. Along the way, police officers on motorcycles passed us, and out of curiosity, they escorted us to the hotel and checked our documents. It was a routine we were already used to, so nothing about it surprised us.
We said good night to each other and finally went to sleep. I entered deep sleep, wandering through the labyrinth of my imagination. Somewhere in the distance, a strange rumbling began to break into my dream. A sound I couldn’t understand slowly took over the space where my subconscious sought rest.
Through narrow slits between my eyelids, I saw Jacek opening our room door — and there they were, familiar faces from the local police. It was a sudden wake-up call, and the last echo of my dream faded in a split second.
A quick conversation followed and we were told to pack up all our things — we were going to be taken to verify our documents. It was one in the morning, and our surprise blended with frustration at being woken up. Four officers came to pick us up — three women, surprisingly kind and cheerful, and one very gruff man to balance things out.
The ride was something else. We sat on the back seat of an SUV, while two of the women stood outside the car on each side, holding onto the roof rails. That’s how we traveled through the night to the local police station. Our adventure was definitely gaining new color, and we couldn’t even imagine where we were going or why.
After arriving at the station, the atmosphere was surprisingly friendly — the ladies were laughing, taking pictures with us, and we returned the gesture. It was clear that this wasn't a standard procedure for either side, and honestly, they seemed even more excited about it than we were. One could guess that checking us out was probably one of the more interesting things they had dealt with in quite some time. After a thorough search of our gear, a cash count, and filming the entire procedure, we were informed it was time for the next inspection.
At that moment, five uniformed officers entered the station — far less cheerful than our smiling ladies and the grumpy guy. The lighthearted atmosphere quickly disappeared. We were told to pack our belongings into the trunk of yet another SUV and make ourselves comfortable beside it, as this time there was no room for us on the back seat.
After recording a short video to capture the uniqueness of the moment, my phone was confiscated — and so was Jacek’s, just to be sure. Venezuela, the middle of the night, the two of us in the trunk of a police vehicle, with no way of knowing where we were being taken.
After about an hour of driving, we arrived at what turned out to be the main police station for the region. One thing worked in our favor: they’d driven us in the same direction we were headed anyway, so we got an hour’s worth of free transport — in unique style.
We were led into what served as a reception area — in reality, just a desk in the hallway, where a female officer was passionately scrolling through TikTok at 3 a.m. (more on that later). Honestly, no one in this situation really knew what was going on — they didn’t understand why two white guys were at their station in the middle of the night, and we had no idea how thoroughly our documents still needed to be checked for every security agency in Venezuela to be absolutely sure we weren’t a threat to anyone.
Of course, the language barrier — both ours and theirs — didn’t help the situation. Our only linguistic lifeline was our beloved translator app, serving as our last refuge for communication. We were informed that no immigration office operates during the night, and the police weren’t able to verify the things they supposedly needed to check — without being able to explain to us what exactly those things were.
Suddenly, two mattresses appeared at the reception desk, pushed in by one of the officers — the kind of motel-style mattresses you never really want to sleep on. But the plastic wrap covering them at least gave us a minimum sense of reassurance that nothing would crawl out and bite us. Our Venezuelan police station “hotel” was quickly shoved into a small room adjacent to the reception, and we were graciously granted permission to call it a night.
To put it gently — it was the last thing we were dreaming of at that moment, but there wasn’t much room for discussion. Without our passports and with our phones confiscated, we were basically hostages in the hands of the police.
Morning arrived with the familiar sound of TikToks. Not just from one officer — it seemed to be a standard pastime among bored officers at the station. That said, our mood was still surprisingly good. At this point, we saw more of a parody of law enforcement than any real danger around us. I mean — where else would we be safer than surrounded by a bunch of armed officers curious about their two random guests?
We were given breakfast and coffee, which was nice. Friendly attempts at conversation followed — where we were from, what we were doing there, what this was all about. Everyone was wondering why we were even detained — including us.
As time passed, more officers arrived. Hour by hour, we repeated our story — who we were, where we were going, what we were doing. We even had a one-on-one meeting with the station commander, who asked the same questions, warned us about dangers, and seemed genuinely shocked that we were hitchhiking and camping wild. More talks. More hours. Lunch. Coffee. A nap. More questions. Still no answers. We were free to walk around the station and nearby area, though always with someone shadowing us — even to the bathroom. Not really free, not really imprisoned — we were stuck in a strange limbo, full of uncertainty about what was coming next.
Eventually, after yet another round of questions, we were told: "You're now waiting for the special services — they're handling your case." Our case? What case? What was the issue?? Of course — no answers. And so we waited. By now, over 20 hours had passed since our arrival. We had dinner and were pretty sure we’d be spending another night at the station. Our spirits weren’t terrible, though the tragicomic nature of the situation made us uneasy and frustrated. Just when things couldn’t get more surreal, two massive guys walked into the station — human wardrobes, really — wearing bulletproof vests and carrying long rifles. Things were definitely getting interesting. It was immediately clear we were their main interest.
It was fascinating how our presence, wherever we ended up, seemed to stir up the local justice system. There was definitely a story writing itself here, even if it was hard to grasp it while being stared down by an armed "Mr. Wardrobe."
It wasn’t tense or overly cheerful. After almost a full day in this place, we no longer knew what the situation even meant — or what its motive was — or what the police, military, or anyone else really wanted from us. Were we just caught in a strange chain of coincidences ever since crossing the border? Or were there actual files about us circulating through Venezuela’s communist bureaucracy, stirring confusion with every officer we encountered.
Stuck in a state of speculation, every scenario conjured by the mind seemed plausible — which was hardly comforting. Thankfully, there were two of us — and together, we managed to hold on to clear judgment and a sense of inner calm, so crucial in this wildly unpredictable comedy.
The rifle guys spent more than an hour going through our phones, photos, messages — everything that might not fit into their government-approved worldview. My camera roll was full of photos from our last few weeks of traveling, and that led to more questions: Who are you? What do your tattoos mean? Where do you get money for your travels? Who are your parents? Do you agree with Venezuelan government policies? Would you delete any photos that show inappropriate things — like, say… a biologically contaminated lake? Do you have family in the military? Do you use drugs? Why are you traveling from Colombia to Venezuela and back?
Translator in hand, we answered every question one by one. None of our answers triggered any clear response to indicate where this was all going. We were told that medical staff would arrive to test us for drugs — and then we were asked whether we wanted to be deported or preferred to leave the country on our own. After this charming conversation, we all stepped outside. The rifle guys suddenly became friendly, even joking with us and showing us TikTok videos of Venezuelans visiting Poland.
Naturally, they still had their rifles slung over their shoulders.
No medics ever showed up. By then, we had spent our second night at the station and had become somewhat of a local attraction. Another breakfast. More coffee. More TikToks. But then, something finally happened. Our assigned “guardian,” who was actually a decent guy and had been with us from the beginning, came in holding a document in Spanish. He told us that if we signed it — we’d be free. We translated the text and saw that it stated we had not been tortured and had been treated with respect. Another line said we had changed our destination — initially heading north, then south. That wasn’t exactly true, since we never said we were going to the coast. There was also a declaration stating we’d go straight to the nearest Colombian border and leave Venezuela immediately.
Honestly, they didn’t have to convince us on that point.
The document was vague overall. We weren’t allowed to keep a copy or take photos. We were simply shown that it would go into a drawer — and the case would be closed. We’d get our identity anchors back — our passports.
Two signatures. A few handshakes. The last echoes of TikTok videos — and we were being driven in a familiar police SUV to the local bus terminal. One last look exchanged — and they disappeared. There was no bus heading for the border, so we took a taxi for 200 Colombian pesos. No one wanted bolívars — not even the taxi driver. An hour’s ride later, we were there. Window. Passport. Stamp.
Goodbye, Venezuela. Hello again, Colombia.
When I first began writing about this multi-layered story, I wasn’t entirely sure what kind of moral — if any — I’d want to land on in the end. Because ultimately, we never found out the real reason behind the repeated checks and being held for a total of 36 hours at the police station. Trying to come up with explanations based solely on speculation doesn't add anything valuable to the story. And dwelling on the injustice of the whole ordeal doesn’t seem accurate either, because when we try to apply the standards we're used to in Europe to the communist, Venezuelan reality, we inevitably create a cognitive dissonance.
The only concrete and worthwhile conclusion to draw here is the mental attitude that helped us get through the events described above without any significant damage to our mental health. In fact — it went even further — it allowed us to extract incredible value from every obstacle we encountered.
From the first issue at the border to every escalating moment — where we saw the comedic absurdity of Venezuelan communist control — we kept telling ourselves: They have a problem with us. We don’t have a problem with them.
We knew we were clean and they had nothing on us that could derail our overall travel plans. We approached every interaction with the authorities with humor, never allowing ourselves to be intimidated or drawn into a space where tension could build on either side. We were constantly supporting each other, reassuring one another that the only thing we had to do was stay calm and remain centered within ourselves. Which — in situations where we were left to the guesses and wild visualizations of our minds — was no small feat.
It was all a psychological game — an attempt to intimidate us, though to this day we don’t really know why. Still, we didn’t allow ourselves to sink into frustration or a sense of injustice. Instead, we held firm together, maintaining our inner discipline.
And for that, Jacek, I thank you deeply — because I know you’ll be reading this. You were the best anchor I could’ve possibly wished for in that moment.
Several months have passed since those events, but as I return to them in writing — everything feels vivid once again. With time and distance, I now see that whole journey through Venezuela as a deep mental training, teaching me how to remain calm in moments when a person loses any point of reference to the situation they’ve found themselves in. It was something I had to navigate in real time, without the luxury of preparation.
Once again, I found myself tested in a completely new and unforeseen situation — and through it, I learned how to both give and receive support. I realized how crucial it is to have the right person by your side in critical moments.
And that’s where I’ll end this incredible story.
Let’s keep our center strong. Let’s stay disciplined — every single day. Because we never know when life will suddenly whisper… “your turn.”
