MAROA, Venezuela.— Although this town in the Venezuelan state of Amazonas is not that distant from the capital, Puerto Ayacucho, it is the most difficult to reach of the six municipal seats in the jungle.
A recent accident and a sandy runway complicate the landing of the small planes from the "Group 9" fleet, created by the Bolivarian government to serve the region free of charge, and provide emergency services to indigenous communities in the vast jungle, making the arrival and departure of collaborating Cuban healthcare professionals difficult.
To reach Maroa, travelers take a long flight over the jungle from Puerto Ayacucho to San Carlos de Río Negro, and from there a four-hour motorboat trip - if all goes well - against the current, up the river which serves as the border between Venezuela and Colombia
The expedition which has allowed me to tell these stories, followed this route, though we have been delayed several times by trouble on the landing strip, the boat hitting a rock midstream, and an x-ray technician swimming after a box of medicine that went overboard… incidents that serve to make clear the dangers faced by Cuban doctors, nurses, and technicians in their efforts to provide the medical attention needed by the Venezuelan people.
We reached Maroa in the middle of the night, on a boat that in one way or another was all-Cuba, carrying Venezuelan doctors who studied in Cuba, two patients treated by Cuban doctors, and at the helm, a quiet skipper, who only at the end of the trip revealed that his son had been sent to Cuba for surgery.
Given the time of night, and all the emotions experienced during the adventure, one would think little would be left for the arrival, but, no, we were overjoyed to see the three flashlights guiding us to the exact spot on the dock where we were to land in the pitch black darkness.
"There's been no electricity here since December," said a voice, with the tone of a young man, confirmed by his silhouette.
He was the first person to reach the boat and begin to unload the cargo, the medicine and cooking gas. "Excellent," he said, "I thought we would be out in the bush looking for wood."
The "longshoreman" was Abel Pérez, 31, who has been living here for a year and a half now, heading up a staff as young as he is at the local Comprehensive Diagnostic Center (CDI) that serves this municipality and a number of indigenous settlements in the area.
More flashlights and voices let us know that the entire group from the clinic was coming to join the mini-operation on the dock.
"This is always an event - receiving one of our own and helping with the load. Too bad no food has come. Things are getting tight," said nurse Elizabeth Valenciano, a young woman from the Cuban province of Camagüey, slender but ready and willing to carry anything.
Just as in San Carlos de Río Negro, our helpers in Maroa arrive with wheel chairs to carry the boxes of medicine. Everyone is needed, and while the group advances, people introduce themselves: Abdalis Estrella Vázquez and José Luis Zambrano, doctors from Manzanillo; Leonardo Lavigne, statistician from Santiago; nurses Ileana Pavó and Dianik Méndez, from the Isle of Youth and Jagüey Grande, respectively; Aleannis Carrión, doctor from Guamá, in Santiago…
The only person helping who does not speak is the tallest. He is bringing up the rear carrying the tank of cooking gas on his shoulder. Perhaps it is because of the effort, but Alina Gamboa, from Guantánamo, in charge of the clinic's laboratory and pharmacy, does the introduction, "It seems like he doesn't talk much, but he's a joker, and if the topic is food or video games, you have to ask him to be quiet. His name is Juan Ramón Bisset, a physical therapist from Havana. Can't you tell?"
Maroa in the dark, without electricity, seems like a ghost town. The silhouettes of houses, the plaza, paved streets, gave some signs of urbanity, but nothing would be sure until morning.
Everything is completely dark, but turning a corner, an area illuminated by florescent lights suddenly appears, around what seems to be a church. The glass entry reveals hallways filled with people, and a motor roars in the background.
"It's the CDI's generator. At this time, it's the only place in the whole town that has light. We turn it on at 7:00pm, until midnight, depending on how much fuel we have," Abel, the mission's leader from Las Tunas, explains without waiting for my question.
"People are used to the schedule. They come to charge their cell phones and talk, if there's coverage, watch a little TV, and cool off a bit in the air conditioning. The heat, as you can tell, is stifling."
The faces of those who had thus far just been voices and shadows now appear in the light of the walk-in clinic. Everyone is pleased, and my pride swells as I take note of the youth, right in the middle of the jungle, in the most remote place in Venezuela. All eyes are jovial and everyone's skin is wet with sweat. The walk up the hill from the river, and the effort, have left our clothes soaked.
But on Abel's green pants, on the lab coat Aleannis wears, on Elizabeth's shoes, I notice other, darker stains.
"Oh, this?" Abel explains, "Pure amniotic fluid. The boat arrived just as we were finishing a birth, a bit complicated, for sure."
"But I already told you, every person who arrves, if it’s a Cuban, it's an event. There is always something to carry, and we all go down. On the one hand, to help, of course, on the other… homesickness. So far, for so long, easy to say, but not easy to do," he says, as a cry from the end of the hall announces a new life, born just an hour ago.
"You see. This is the result. These are the things that comfort us, and give us strength to go on."
