The house fronts have been losing their color and the santamarias of the businesses —as the metal folding bars to close business premises are known in Venezuela— remain down most of the time. Only once a month a truck arrives in town stocked with butter, flour, pasta, rice and mayonnaise. That same day, the shelves are empty again. Milk is not available for sale anymore and the supplies of Chinese merchants, who were in every block, have been closing their doors. A restaurant to recommend to those who wish to celebrate a special date and a hotel, which maintains a privileged service in the midst of scarcity, barely survive. Almost all the inns of the Lower Delta went bankrupt and most inhabitants of the city depend on salaries from the Government of Delta Amacuro or the Ministry of Health. Tucupita survives by moonlighting.

Scarcity covers them as well as the inhabitants of the rest of the country. Every morning, there is a line of passers-by in a couple of bakeries hoping to buy bread of the day. Some young people show packages of flour or rice to be paid in cash only to those who pass by their side. There are just a few taxis because the cost of maintaining a car is higher than what can be produced by providing the service in Tucupita.

Despite the widespread poverty of a place with no charm, guests constantly check in and out of Tucupita lodgings. People spend several days there but hardly leave their rooms during the day. They wait for hours sitting on the stairs or in the corridors to the rooms for rent. "That one will certainly go to Trinidad," the employees whisper.

Illegal emigration began to be one of the most lucrative businesses in the area since last year. The departure of people without passports to neighboring Trinidad and Tobago – an English-speaking twin islands - is quoted in US dollars - like all those mentioned in this release - and each police corps charge bribes a vaccine to turn a blind eye to the departure of boats.

Hope Behind Bars

Guillermo Lares left three months ago with his son-in-law Fidel Rojas to Trinidad and Tobago. Fidel did not make ends meet as a construction worker to feed his wife Luisa Lares and their ten, seven, five and two-year old children.

Luz Mary López, Guillermo's wife and Fidel's mother-in-law, says that on the second day on the island, they were both were arrested in Trinidad and Tobago. She managed to find out what happened through a cousin of Fidel, who had also migrated to the island. She has only seen her husband in videos via WhatsApp and other social networks where dozens of Venezuelans under arrest on the island asked the Venezuelan Government to at least help them by deporting them to the country. However, in three months, no Venezuelan authority has contacted the Lares family, and poverty is undermining the family. "All year long we have been eating lentils that arrive in the Clap box [Chávez government's subsidized food distribution program in popular areas] only. My husband left to feed our grandchildren," says López.

The number of Venezuelan citizens entering the island without a passport has been increasing since 2017. In April 2018, an airplane with 82 people deported from Trinidad and Tobago captured the attention of the media. Since then, some videos have leaked in which Venezuelan immigrants are seen clashing with Trinidadian policemen who threaten to throw tear gas bombs, or crammed into rooms while demanding the Venezuelan Government of Venezuela to intervene for their release, as they did not commit serious crimes.

News about the animosity against Venezuelans in Trinidad and Tobago has crossed from shore to shore. Before the recent deportation of Venezuelans, the United Nations Refugee Agency, UNHCR, reminded the Trinidadian Government of its obligation to comply with the treaty of the 1951 Refugees Convention establishing the non-repatriation or expulsion of people who need international protection, regardless of how they entered the territory.

The Trinidadian Prime Minister, Keith Rowley, was not daunted by the appeal. In fact, he emphatically replied, "We cannot and will not allow UN spokespersons to turn us into a refugee camp."

But none of this discourages those on mainland seeking to emigrate.

Misery is a Market

Guillermo and Fidel sailed to Trinidad and Tobago together with 21 people to look for work and send money to their family. Every week, numerous boats with such passengers cross to the island from Tucupita. In the areas of Palo Blanco and El Caigual, where indigenous people of the Warao ethnic group live in extreme poverty, 30 minutes from the center of Tucupita, fish are sold on the street, the only legal sustenance in the area, because the business of illegal traffic of immigrants, merchandise and women is booming among misery.

Twice a week, in the early morning, at least four of the boats that leave get lost in the waters of Macareo River. They make a stop at Punta Pescador to wait for the semidarkness to camouflage the crossing Venezuelans, until they reach Icacos beach on the southwest coast of the island of Trinidad, only eleven kilometers away from Venezuela.

At El Caigual, nobody openly admits that there are boats for rent to sail to Trinidad apart from the four companies that engaged in making the trip to that country for years. But everyone requests to those who ask to leave their phone number in case they "find out" about something.

And they will do it. At least four organized groups are engaged in bringing immigrants from the areas of Pedernales, Palo Blanco and El Caigual for one hundred dollars per person. The boats do not set sail until there is a group of at least ten passengers.

Among those seeking to embark, the most famous coyote —Mexican word now used here to refer to the organizers of the crossings— is a woman who seems to be 70 years old, although she assures that she has not passed the age of 50. She claims to be a businesswoman, who has fifteen employees, engaged in doing trips for the past six years. "All the security forces have been involved in my business, saved for Sebin [Bolivarian Intelligence Service, political police], but I already controlled them. I will need to start charging more for the trip per person because they already asked me $ 200 for each trip made. At least, the rest of the police charges in bolivars, one hundred million per trip. How much would I earn if I continue to maintain five police forces?" she laughs. The Sebin would indeed arrive looking for the grandmother-coyote in a rural house where the travelers hide their belongings until the boat is ready to leave.

She started her business at a time when tourists crossed the strait to vacation or party in discos. "Then people also traveled illegally, but they spent just one weekend there. They partied in Carnival or Easter and returned, but now, people begged me to take them there because they have sick family here and have no means to pay for medicines. I do this because I like to help. I'm helping," she justifies herself.

Business Peninsula

In Güiria, a port town in the state of Sucre, further north of the Amacuro Delta, is the other starting point to Trinidad. The nearby Irapa beach is only ninety minutes away from the island by boat. It is a 45-minute journey from Macuro, a small town on the eastern end of the Paria Peninsula, relevant in history for being the place where Christopher Columbus set foot for the first and last time in the continental lands of South America in 1498.

Tourism no longer exists, even though the mayor's office is trying to fix the squares and reinforce the motto "I love Güiria" to motivate visitors. There are no cars or taxis during the day. Everybody walks. The open market has 80% of the stalls without merchandise. They sell vegetables, greens, pre-cooked corn meal, and some personal hygiene items brought from Trinidad and Tobago.

In the fishing port of Güiria, which used to be the headquarters of one of the hemisphere's most powerful tuna fleets, remain the ruins of a butcher’s shop that burned down more than a decade ago. There are rusty boats struggling to stay afloat. It has been a long time since one of the two ferry companies that made trips to Trinidad and Tobago went bankrupt. At the moment, company Virgen del Valle continues to cover the route to La Trinidad with the only operating boat it has. "Here, those who are not up to something illegal do not survive," says a relative of the former businessmen who took tourists on ferries to the island.

Although there are no job opportunities, the presence of state oil company Pdvsa decreases, and grocery stores remain empty, on Friday nights a festive atmosphere seizes the port. Some 4x4 SUVs appear with speakers, woofers and stereo systems to keep the town awake all night. The young women wear their short dresses and the rhythm of reggaeton, salsa and bachata rumbles in every block until dawn.

On the boats transporting immigrants, nobody dares to speak or point out. "There is already a shortage of drugs here. It is copper which generates money," says an inhabitant who prefers to remain anonymous. The metal, the new trendy merchandise, is quoted at four dollars per kilo. "The thermoelectric plant (opened in May of this year) is being dismantled. They leave us without electricity at all times. The mafias and security forces do not care about harming the population," he says.

To reach the Trinidadian coasts from here, immigrants take advantage of the rides or lifts of those who traffic in boats with all kinds of merchandise. It is not just copper or people. Honey is quoted at $ 15 dollars, brooms at $ 4.40, a kilo of white cheese a kilo of shrimp at $ 5, while the bottle of Bajo Cero, a popular vodka brand in Venezuela, costs $ 15.

The boats apparently leave legally; at least, most passengers are seen with a passport. Those who have crossed the waters assure that their identity documents are taken to Saime - the Venezuelan identification and immigration agency - to have the exit stamp without the need for travelers to be present. They set sail in the early morning. "Everyone here is an accomplice. Even the Inea [the National Institute of Aquatic Spaces, which controls maritime traffic] gives a report with the dispatch to the attendant without seeing the crew. There is no way to stop the boats. When you arrive in Port of Spain [the capital of Trinidad and Tobago], you get off and leave without problems, while the owners of the merchandise are checked in immigration," explains the same informant.

Driven by Hunger

Sixto Marcano had never written a letter to his wife in the fifteen years they have together. Not even before, to woo her. Today, she rereads several letters that he wrote by hand and sent to her. She sees the image or facsimile of the letters on the screen of her Canaima computer—also known as Canaimita, the laptop distributed by Chávez’s government among children, for educational purposes— in Tucupita. Handwritten letters is the only way he has to communicate from the maximum security prison where he is confined in Trinidad. Another inmate, who has been in prison for thirteen years, sends him a digital file with the photo of the sheet where Marcano has written to his wife.

The wife replies to Marcano from the capital of Delta Amacuro with the shipment of the photo of his six-year-old daughter, taken at her graduation ceremony when she was promoted to the first grade of elementary school. At the same time, she sews a navy blue pants and a white shirt because she has no money to buy the new school uniforms. She avoids answering how many times a day she gets something to eat.

In November of last year, Marcano confirmed in Venezuela that he had already lost 20 kilos (44 pounds) of his regular weight because his salary as a construction worker was not enough to keep his weight or that of his family members. They ate once a day only. On February 10, he decided to migrate. Since he did not have a passport or money to pay for a ticket to another country, he decided to get on a boat that would take him to the most accessible destination, Trinidad and Tobago, which was only four hours away - between land and sea journeys – from home. The barrier was the one hundred dollars of the passage, but someone borrowed them. Once settled in Trinidad, he could pay off that debt and start sending money to his family. His two brothers-in-law had migrated first and were the ones who encouraged him to cross the waters. Today, all of them are detained.

"He worked for three days only and was immediately able to send me ten million bolivars," recalls the wife he left on dry land. The amount is equal to $ 1.6 based on the official exchange rates recently announced by Venezuelan President Nicolás Maduro. "The first thing I did was buying groceries, filling the fridge that was empty. I did not buy meat to make the money last, but I did buy a chicken, as we had not eaten one at home for a while."

But Sixto Marcano was arrested in Trinidad on February 22, at five in the afternoon, when they raid the residence where he lived. His two brothers-in-law managed to tell what had happened in the night, but a few days later, the police returned and took them and two other people as well.

Genesis Marcano, Sixto's oldest daughter, 22 years old, also migrated to Trinidad in last year’s November to be able to support her six-year-old son. But after what happened with his father, she decided to return to Venezuela in April.

The day she was going to return, they arrested her. 

Women and Children Last

Yoarlin Amares Rojas, 18 years old, migrated on March 5 with five other women and no one heard from her again in a month. Her mother, Arlina Rojas, 37, feeds her one-year-old granddaughter, Yoarlin's daughter, with bottles made of liquefied pasta and the food that comes in the Clap boxes, if it arrives.

When Yoarlin was able to call, she warned that on March 8, barely three days after her arrival, she had been arrested. The authorities found her in a house where she was hiding since she was "sold" to a Trinidadian. She was sentenced to pay $ 3,000 within a certain period or, otherwise, spend three years in jail for the crime of being an illegal immigrant.

"A woman came here offering her a job and telling her that she would lend her money for the trip, and then she could pay the debt little by little. That woman had a brother in Trinidad who sent the boat to take the girls," says Arlina, her mother.

In another nearby home, they tell a similar story. It is the story of Norlismar Cedeño, of 26 years of age, and mother of a 10 and a 7-year old. Norlismar migrated three months to Boa Vista, in the border department of Roraima, in Brazil, to raise money that would allow her to buy medicine for her mother, who had two strokes. After that adventure in the South, she returned to Venezuela and was offered to be taken to Trinidad and Tobago, a week of lodging and food while she got a job. Her cousin Edianny Alvarado, 24 years old and a mother of two 3-year old twins, and two neighbors left with her.

They were recruited in the same way as Yoarlin. When they arrived in Trinidad and saw that they would be forced to prostitute themselves, they fled. That same night, they were arrested by the Trinidadian police in a house where they spent the night. The mothers complain that, although their daughters said that they wanted to prostitute them, their complaints have not been addressed by the authorities.

Carmen Herrera, 49 years old, is the mother of another arrested woman, who used to live in Tucupita. She says that her daughter told her on the last call from jail that she had been hospitalized before because she was beaten for "misbehaving" inside the prison. Something that Carmen, of course, has not been able to verify.

A man, who was detained for two years and was deported in April after serving his sentence, claimed that women are mistreated in detention centers. "Men and women were separated by a tin wall, and there was a net above. We could climb and see them. They asked for help for us to protest when they were mistreated. I got to see how they beat a pregnant woman," he said.

In Güiria, they offer a slightly different version about sexual recruitment. A man who until a year ago was engaged in attracting women explained, under the condition of remaining anonymous, that each recruited woman entails a cost of 800 dollars, 200 of which correspond to his own fees for the task of persuading girls and sending them to Trinidad. The rest goes to the transfer logistics. He states they all know their intended job when arriving and that they barely stay for an average of three months on the island.

The Venezuelans who are arrested and brought before Trinidadian courts often face the dilemma of paying up to $ 1,500 in fines or serving a sentence behind bars. The penalty can vary from six months to three years in prison, at the discretion of the judge on duty.

International calls are not allowed in the men’s jail. However, some have managed to smuggle cell phones that they share to send WhatsApp messages. It is unknown how many have crossed and remain illegal. They have recorded and written the names of each detainee in videos and letters to make a handmade census and distribute it among their relatives through WhatsApp in the hope that the information will reach the official Venezuelan agencies, like the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, to motivate them to act.

The first list of 174 arrested men that was made public was made in prison by hand. The inmates took a photo of her. They sent it to her relatives, who spread it on social media. But every day, more and more Venezuelans go to jail and the figures and identities change. The unperturbed government of Trinidad and Tobago neither informs nor makes statements.

Female inmates do have regular access to a telephone number which their relatives from Venezuela can call to, also by WhatsApp, twice a month. Each conversation is monitored by a Trinidadian prison officer. Censorship prevents detainees from telling what they live or eat in jail. To the contrary, the authorities instruct those who call from Venezuela to avoid stories about the political situation or the crisis in the South American country. The pretext… to "not alter those deprived of liberty."

She helped in a courier company and cleaned houses. She left the school where she taught in Venezuela and displayed her knowledge as a Bachelor of Education with a Master’s degree in Educational Psychology behind. She was not making ends meet. When she returns to mainland, she hopes to live off what she buys with the sale of the dollars, little by little, for at least six months, to return to Trinidad and repeat the operation. She hopes to support her family in hyperinflationary Venezuela under this architecture of seasonal travels.

At first sight, Cedros, on the Trinidadian coast, is like any Venezuelan beach, Higuerote, Cuyagua or Punta Arenas, but without reggaeton in the background or "empanadas". The sand is fine and brown, the water is warm.

On a long concrete jetty that serves as a pier, the line of those who have their papers to enter legally is formed. Around four boats arrive every Thursday, each with at least 20 Venezuelans seeking to escape from hunger and shortages, which represent their homeland these days. Family or friends wait for them under a tree to prove, if necessary, that they are invited by someone.

Yes, the landscape reminds us of Venezuela but everything suddenly changes. A Trinidadian official shouts the names of the newcomers with a strong English accent. If anyone is waiting for Venezuelans when called, they are sent back.

Once you set foot in Trinidad, the real odyssey begins. Arriving Venezuelans usually make one of these two decisions: the one made by Andrea, entering legally, staying a while and returning, or remain indefinitely seeking international protection as a refugee.

Those who do not have passports disembark on the beaches of Icacos -even farther west than Cedros- or Erin -more to the south-, where there are no official entry points and the welcome is offered by the gentle beach, the night and the silence. The fishermen of the area acknowledge that many Venezuelans enter "but less and less from here," according to Selwyn Joseph, who lives in Icacos, "There are more surveillance patrols lately." Regardless of the strategy, most come to Trinidad with a single goal: to work and earn in dollars to help those who stay at home.

Helpless

Unlike other countries bordering Venezuela, which for months have had some legal and logistical apparatus to receive the growing flow of those escaping the crisis, Trinidad and Tobago hardly improvises. According to the Chief of the Immigration Office, Charmaine Gandhi-Andrews, in 2015 only six Venezuelans had requested asylum, but the number rocketed to 2,000 applicants in 2017, mostly processed by the Catholic refugee service agency Living Water Community (LWC), a sort of an executive branch of the United Nations Agency for Refugees (UNHCR).

Although they do not offer information on the number of applicants, the LWC spokespersons slip a calculation: each week they receive 150 to 180 Venezuelans requesting asylum, and their projection for year end is that at least 10,100 will be in the island asking for protection. According to the Trinidadian authorities, in 2017 alone, 27,000 Venezuelans entered through the official ports of entry.

However, being on the LWC list does not represent a solution for Venezuelans seeking protection and refuge in Trinidad and Tobago. The legal scaffolding of the Caribbean country to deal with migration is limited to the Immigration Act of 1969, amended for the last time in 1995, and where there is not a single reference to the figure of asylum or refuge. The misalignment of this law with the present time dates back to the use of an archaic and discriminatory language, like the express prohibition to enter the country for "people who are persons who are idiots, imbeciles, feeble-minded and insane persons, and who are likely to be a charge on public funds” (article 8(a)),"persons who are dumb, blind or otherwise physically defective, or physically handicapped, which might endanger their ability to earn a livelihood" (article 8(c)), or "prostitutes, homosexuals or persons living on the earnings of prostitutes or homosexuals" (article 8(e)).

A strong flow of Cuban migrants who arrived in Trinidad in 2014 finally led to the creation of an Immigration Unit. In 2016, Acnur opened an office in Port of Spain, the capital of this Caribbean nation that comprises of two islands. But these instances were soon surprised by the arrival of Venezuelans en masse. "There had never been a migration of Venezuelans like that," explains Rochelle Nakhid, director of LWC. "We are receiving more and more people without passports. They always show the identity card. Some arrive by plane, but most of those who enter by sea do not have documentation, and almost all say that they are looking for a better life, ways to send food to their homes or medicines."

Without regulations or laws that support the status of asylum or refugee, Trinidad and Tobago does not grant this status to anyone, despite being a signatory to the Convention relating to the Status of Refugees, created in 1951 by the United Nations. LWC just provides a paper warning that the bearer is an asylum seeker and the Immigration Office of Trinidad and Tobago provides a similar document, although printed on yellow paper and with a couple of conditions: Venezuelans must submit their passport to the Immigration Office and appear before that instance on a regular basis.

This last document is known as "order of supervision" and they usually give it also to migrants who were arrested because they entered the country illegally and had not requested asylum. The detainees in these conditions, who want to request protection once arrested, can only obtain the "yellow paper" if they pay a fine or serve their time in prison.

In practice, none of these papers is equal to obtaining refugee status. Nor do they imply a formal residence and, worse still, they do not mean a permit to work or study, in the case of minors. "The paper from LWC or the yellow paper generally is an alternative to being arrested. It provides them with protection from being deported or under arrest. It is the only mechanism available," Nakhid points out.

Suspended Lives

But to Jean Carlos Anaya, for example, the paper provided by LWC did not help him. He has an associate degree in IT, born in Valencia, capital of the state of Carabobo (center of Venezuela), is a prisoner in the IDC, Immigration Detention Center, built in 2009 in Aripo, almost an hour from Port of Spain. He arrived in Erin without a passport when the boat trip from Tucupita, in last year’s November, could still be paid in bolivars. Soon he settled in a room and started working in a chicken farm, then in a hardware store, in both cases, as an illegal and earning up to 1,500 Trinidadian dollars a week (214 US dollars), which he distributed so that he managed to send money to his fourteen and six-year old children.

"I was good with money. The first week I paid for the room, the second and third week I bought food, and I sent to Venezuela what I earned in the fourth week," he says in a telephone call from the IDC. "I worked from sunrise to sunset. I could settle and was happy. Two months later, I went to LWC and obtained my paper as an asylum seeker, like my brother, who arrived with me and is also in prison here." Both were arrested after a party in the coastal area of ??Los Iros, despite of showing their asylum seeker certificates — "I didn’t know that there was so much patrolling," he complains. The police overrode. "They asked for a $ 1,000 each to let us go. I only had TT$ 700 cash, so they arrested us."

That happened in June 2017. Anaya was imprisoned in the IDC before he was presented in court. After verifying that he was an asylum seeker registered with LWC, the court decided to give him a verbal reprimand only and ordered his release "in the next few days". But the native of Valencia was transferred to the maximum security prison (MSP) with common criminals. He stayed there for seven days without receiving any explanation and then back to the IDC, where he remains imprisoned to date. His brother, who entered Trinidad like him and was arrested in the same circumstances, has not even been brought before a court.

"I know my rights. The court ordered my release, but I am still here. I asked for international protection and I have a paper that guarantees it. I'm just waiting to get out of here and I'm going to sue Trinidad and Tobago," says Jean Carlo, who despite being holed up, does not want to return to Venezuela. "With much grief I must say that I cannot go back. I need to keep working, earn money and send it to my home. You need to understand my desperation. My children and my mother depend on me."

Most of the arrested immigrants must pay a penalty of up to three years in prison or a fine of up to 2,100 Trinidadian dollars (about US $ 300), equivalent to a potential return ticket to their country of origin. Between loneliness and poverty, not everyone has friends or resources to cover that expense. In addition, the amounts of the fines are sometimes set discretionally, as well as the bails.

José Heredia, has spent exactly six months trying to collect the 3,000 US dollars (21,000 Trinidadian or titi dollars) required to get his friend Ericson out of prison, arrested in December 2017 and sentenced in less than a week to three years in jail for entering Trinidad illegally. "It was all very fast, without a lawyer, nothing," says Heredia, "They told us that if he doesn’t pay the fine he will have to pay the penalty in the maximum security prison, but the amount is high and it has been difficult for me to collect it."

A ‘Spanish’ is Worse than a Burden

Not long ago, the transit of Venezuelans was a routine matter in Trinidad and Tobago because it was just that, transit. In Cedros and Icacos, almost everyone remembers that arrival routine of Venezuelans on Fridays to party or go to the beach on the weekend, buy something and return on Sunday. Another of the classic activities of Venezuelans, especially middle class, was to go for a few months to study English. On the other hand, many Trinidadians remember that they liked to travel to Margarita Island and Cumana, and those with more resources, to Puerto La Cruz - all tourist enclaves of the Venezuelan northeast - or to Caracas, where they could enjoy the frenzy of a big city that used to emanate from the Venezuelan capital.

The change began in 2015 with the collapse of both oil-dependent economies -a catastrophic fall in Venezuela’s case- and the growing number of Venezuelans arriving and remaining in a country whose native population was going through the lean times. The smile that was reserved for the tourist transmuted into distrust for the immigrant, a little fairer in skin than the Trinidadian, with little understanding of English and definitely with less available resources than the Venezuelans in the past. The constant police patrol on the street, especially in Port of Spain, the legal limbo of their situation and the scrutinizing looks of the locals keep Venezuelans hidden in their homes or jobs. "Hello Spanish," as a greeting on the street, is not exactly welcoming.

Norka Delgado and her two children do not speak Spanish when they go to the city center, and they hardly go out. "We whisper. We do not want to attract attention. Here we are Spanish, Latin." The Trinidadian Government is so rigid with immigrants that even if an alien has a resident status, their children are not admitted to the formal education system unless they have the same status. Norka, a Venezuelan resident—because her father is Trinidadian—, an administrator by profession and a waitress by necessity, has over a year in Port of Spain, but her 14 and 16-year old children are not admitted to any school.

"That greeting implies that you are an alien, different," explains Arnaldo Gómez, a Venezuelan journalist caught in the legal limbo of being an asylum seeker without the right to study or work, "it is a phenotype observation." Gómez arrived in 2016, and claims to be one of the first Venezuelans to apply for asylum in Trinidad. He started organizing boxes in a shop, of which he is a sort of a manager today, because he earned the trust of the owners. Considering the time elapsed, he can affirm that the treatment of the Trinidadians has deteriorated rapidly. In a recent release, the Newsday newspaper of Port of Spain dared to describe the Venezuelan migration as an "invasion."

"From the moment I asked for asylum, they told me that I could not stay, but they offered to send me to another country in a resettlement process. We chose Canada. I had a very cordial interview at the immigration office. I appeared at the office every three months. Then, in the second interview, they took my passport and asked me to appear every month. In last year’s July, they should have helped me with the resettlement or at least give us the residence or work permit, but nothing happened. They told me that there will be no resettlement. It is a legal nonsense. They push people towards illegality and they know it. We do not exist in Trinidad," he explains.

In this context, Venezuelans do not adapt, they feel in an eternal transition. Most expect to be able to save and go elsewhere, but many, like Gómez, face another problem, the expiration of their passports and the impossibility of obtaining a new one through the website of the Venezuelan Immigration and Naturalization Service (Saime), because when filling out the electronic form, there are the tourist and resident categories only, there is no refugee category. Venezuelan immigrants in Trinidad are neither tourists nor residents.

Out of the Radar

With no work permits, arriving Venezuelans can only relocate in jobs as taxi drivers, construction workers, masons, waiters, household employees. Trinidadians express fear that this flow of immigrants will fill the jobs; hence, many applaud the official tightening policy towards immigrants declared by the prime minister in late July. However, not everyone panics. "People think that Venezuelans will take our jobs. They get scared because the economy is bad," says a Trinidadian taxi driver with a strong Hindu accent during a long trip, "but the truth is that there is a lot to do here and a little help would not hurt."

The condition of illegality to work - with asylum seeker paper or not - usually means that the payments received by Venezuelan immigrants are well below the minimum wage. On the coast, where the most common trades are related to work in the country, on farms, in fishing or in informal commerce, is even worse. But Venezuelans accept it. Any dollar multiplies exponentially when sent home. "Trinidadians work for 350 titis a day (US$ 50), but we are paid 150 titis, depending on the work," says Magda Estaba, a 45-year-old Venezuelan who lives in Icacos, but who has also become a kind of guide or leader for the growing community of newcomer compatriots.

"I help as I can. Sometimes I lend money for them to show that they can be on the island and then they pay me back, but mostly, I try to help them find work. In the coconut processing plant at the beach alone there are five Venezuelans, and I got them the job," she says proudly, although not trying to idealize that work. She knows, for example, that the work in the country could entail a twelve-hour day. "Those who want to stay obtain their paper as asylum seekers in Port of Spain and stay in those jobs, but many, especially those who come with the family, end up returning because the children cannot attend school."

In Port of Spain, wages improve a little. But the costs of living in the city are also higher. You can find at least one Venezuelan waiting tables in almost every restaurant in the capital of Trinidad, which by some prodigy seem to be exempt from police raids. However, a great vulnerability is perceived even among these privileged immigrants, who enjoy regular employment and salary.

Women take care of each other with dedication, because, since they look different, they are in great demand in the business of sex slavery. Malena Rodríguez is a girl from the island of Margarita who has been an immigrant for nearly two years. She entered the island of Tobago, more rugged and northern than Trinidad, but today, she lives on the main island. She has the marks and scratches from what she describes as an attempt to kidnap her in April of this year, when she took a taxi on the street. "I was going from home to work, a route that I do all the time, but the taxi got diverted and turn off and drove through an unknown area. I asked the taxi driver where were we going and he did not answer me. The second time, he accelerated and I jumped off the car while still in motion. Luckily, I could stand up and run. Who knows what he was going to do to me," she recalls.

Now, she only uses an Uber-like taxi service, which is the same used by all of her co-workers, waitresses at the bar on Ariapita Avenue in Port of Spain. She hopes to save enough to leave soon. "Trinidadians does not treat aliens well," she says. Nearby, at least five Venezuelans work in prostitution guarded by burly Trinidadians. They look very young and their accent stands out, like that of two Cuban girls. None of them wants to tell how they got there.

* The identities of all Venezuelans quoted in this report have been changed to protect their immigration status and procedures before the government of Trinidad and Tobago.