I Was Born There, But I Come From Elsewhere
I am not your typical Marabinian. Perhaps I would have made sense in a different time—when Maracaibo was a kind of tropical Athens, full of poets, writers, and thinkers. A city that pioneered electric public lighting, that stood proudly as a port, that dared to imagine itself at the forefront of Latin American modernity before the curse of oil hollowed out its promise.
Today, most proudly call themselves maracuchos, embracing a demonym that—if we’re honest—began as a diminutive. A playful insult turned badge of honor. And while I understand the warmth and vibrancy behind the term, I can’t help but feel disconnected from it. The loudness, the bravado, the contradictions. A deep love for the homeland paired with a participation in its slow unraveling.
I returned in 2018. What I found was a city that felt ghosted by its own greatness. Rusted vehicles, pillars of smoke from burning garbage, a yellow haze of dust and heat. The green was gone. The lake—once proud—continued to be a repository of sewage and spilled oil. It no longer reflected the sky, only our failures.
But I don’t despise Maracaibo. I don’t mock its people.
I grieve.
I mourn a version of the city that maybe never quite existed—at least not in the way I imagine it. I fell in love with photographs and architecture, with fragments of letters and books. I fell in love with a promise.
I am a Marabinian who believes in elegance, in dignity, in craftsmanship. I find comfort in Art Déco curves and Art Nouveau flourishes. I cherish the lost refinement of proper voseo. I still believe in poetry, and in the quiet power of restraint.
Once, people wore linen suits at 38°C and quoted Udón Pérez by heart.
The Marabinian exists because some dreams deserve to echo—even if all we have left are echoes.