In a Caracas without Maduro, ‘everything is a priority right now’

On a Saturday evening, in an upscale Caracas neighborhood, a bar fills up. Well-dressed men, smelling of cologne, recount their week. Women with sleek hair and long eyelashes take selfies in the bathroom. People on the street talk on their cell phones, engaging in heated discussions about current events, while a DJ spins vinyl records. There are signature cocktails being served. Everything is in its usual place.

Above the rooftops, a flock of blue macaws crosses the sky, making their raucous cries. The Venezuelan capital — at least, in some parts — feels like any other city again. And since January 3, 2026, it seems safer and freer, though not richer. The image of the trendy bar coexists with another recurring one: people struggling to get ahead.

On January 3, the United States ousted Nicolás Maduro. And, although the operation left his vice president — Delcy Rodríguez — as his successor, it flooded Venezuela with expectations. Within weeks, the idea took hold that the country would begin to grow thanks to U.S. intervention; that investments would pour in and that oil money would finally reach millions of struggling families. But this expectation has greatly outpaced reality. The money still hasn’t come in.

Sitting behind the wheel of an old bus, Oscar Alexander Ulloa receives a visit from his wife and two children, ages five and eight. She brings him lunch, and he hands her his day’s earnings — a huge wad of bolívars that isn’t even enough to buy a bottle of moisturizer. “I work from 3 a.m. until 5 p.m., Monday through Saturday. And I don’t earn more than $300 a month. And that’s if I’m lucky. We haven’t eaten meat in years. It costs $12 a kilo.” The family can’t remember the last time they went to a restaurant.

Ulloa and his wife, Nairobi Pérez, were among the eight million Venezuelans who left the country in recent years. For more than seven years, they lived in Bogotá and Quito. They even slept on the floor of several bus stations, but to them, the experience seemed like “paradise.”

“A day’s work was enough for us to do our weekly shopping,” Ulloa recalls. They returned to Venezuela four years ago. They came to say goodbye to their loved ones before attempting to cross the dangerous Darién jungle, heading toward the United States. But today, they’re still here. And now, whatever they earn is gone the same day. It’s used to buy a little flour, some oil, half a carton of eggs. “We need change. A radical change,” Nairobi dares to say.

Just a few blocks away from that bus, the police are breaking up a demonstration full of workers, students and retirees, who are demanding improvements to the economic situation. While the demonstration was forcefully broken up, the image of Venezuelans protesting against the government seemed impossible just 100 days ago. No one would have dared to challenge the authorities back then. Today, however, the government faces constant pressure. But the fear of many of those in power — in Caracas and in Washington — is that this image will become all too commonplace.

Retired accountant Luis Amundaraín tries to reach the center of the demonstration. He spent 18 months in hiding after the 2024 elections, in which Nicolás Maduro proclaimed himself president, contrary to the results presented by the opposition. “They’ve turned Venezuela into a brutal communist state. They kill people. They imprison them when they haven’t even done anything,” says Amundaraín. In Caracas, he’s the secretary general of an opposition party, Alianza Bravo Pueblo. At age 70, he’s supported by his children, who live abroad. His pension is equivalent to $0.30 a month.

Just 10 minutes away by motorbike, 50-year-old Betty Obayes watches another demonstration from her sewing workshop. It’s a march that’s been organized by the ruling United Socialist Party of Venezuela (PSUV) to counter its critics. In the shop window, a poster with the image of Maduro and his wife, Cilia Flores, reads: “We want them to be free.” Obayes is a lifelong Chavista and is grateful to former President Hugo Chávez — who governed Venezuela from 1999 until his death in 2013 — for the apartment she lives in. The economic situation under Maduro’s administration (2013-2026) was a disaster, but she still defends him. “There are things that need fixing here, of course, because the country will only be fixed when they fix the economy,” she concedes. “But we need Maduro.”

While U.S. President Donald Trump claims that Venezuela “is making more money than they’ve ever made before,” on the street — like the one that Obayes observes from her shop window — the problems remain the same. Salaries aren’t enough to pay the exorbitant prices of anything: $7 for a juice in a nice neighborhood, $18 for a lunch special, $4 for four rolls of toilet paper… meanwhile, the roads smell of exhaust fumes from cars and dilapidated buses that lurch through chaotic traffic.

In Petare, a vast barrio — a low‑income neighborhood — clinging to a hillside, María Velázquez tends her empanada stand. “Here, after January 3, things are still the same,” she laments. “What’s killing us all is the dollar. One day it has one price; the next day, it’s another. We want drastic changes for a better life. Our salaries aren’t enough.” Velázquez lives off the proceeds from selling her empanadas at 50 cents each, because her pension is equivalent to just 30 cents a month.

When asked what she can buy with that, she shrugs: “Nothing. Just a piece of candy.”

Between fixing the economy and calling elections as quickly as possible, Velázquez hesitates. She seems to be saying: “both.” “Right now, in Venezuela,” she notes, “everything is a priority.”

The so-called “war bonus” — a monthly government subsidy of $150 — continues to be a lifeline for a large part of the population. At least, for those who receive it.

On the other side of Caracas — a few miles from Petare, but in a different world — the Dos Puntos bar (where everyone wants to be seen on Saturdays) has its own interpretation of the current situation. It was opened three years ago by several partners, including two Venezuelans who had lived abroad — one in Colombia, the other in Miami — and who returned to invest in their country. Four years ago, says Óscar Fonseca, 48, “you wouldn’t even stop here.” But today, there’s more light on the street; there are more restaurants and lots of people walking around. The change, he insists, didn’t begin on January 3: it stems from the de facto dollarization, a certain improvement in security, and Venezuelans who began returning or at least looking toward Caracas again.

Although, of course, January 3 did accelerate some changes. “There are a lot of people visiting from abroad: more direct flights are opening up, the airport is being renovated, there’s a lot of foreign interest in doing business… and, importantly, we feel less police harassment. At least, in some areas,” says Fonseca. He also mentions greater stability, proper rules and the ability to work. “As far as I’m concerned, I hope things stay this way for as long as they need to.”

The current dilemma for many Venezuelans is how much leeway to give the two siblings who effectively control the country — Jorge and Delcy Rodríguez, the head of the National Assembly and the president, respectively — to implement reforms before demanding elections. Pressure from opposition leader María Corina Machado is intense: she maintains that no investor will put their money where their mouth is until they know who will govern Venezuela in the coming years and under what rules.

Some Venezuelan investment scouts consulted by EL PAÍS agree with her, but so far, Washington — which is setting the pace — has prioritized stability over a rapid push toward democracy. “For Trump, money comes first; that’s why María Corina isn’t here anymore,” a key player in the oil business opines. Investor enthusiasm is impressive, but it hasn’t yet translated into checks.

Back on the streets of Petare, 14-year-old Valeria Matos opens her enormous green eyes — which are adorned with false eyelashes — at the mention of the word “journalist.” “I want to give you an interview, please, please,” she says.

A few months ago, her mother wouldn’t have let her say a word. But today, the two of them sit down with EL PAÍS in a modest bar near the empanada stand. “I only go to school three days a week, because there aren’t any teachers. They leave because they’re paid so little, like 500 boílvars a month [equivalent to $1],” Valeria explains. “We don’t have a math teacher; he left because of the salary.”

Her mother, worried sick about her daughter’s education, advocates for Machado to return from exile and calls for elections as soon as possible. “People want money to come, but as long as these people are here, the money isn’t going to come,” she sighs. “We want change. We’re exhausted.”

These days, in Venezuela, people talk more about money than politics. The speed of the economic recovery will determine the future of the Rodríguez family and that of Venezuela itself. People are in a hurry. However, it’s possible that the period of prosperity — which took place from the 1950s until the early-1980s, when Venezuela was chugging along like a high-speed train on the back of oil — isn’t coming back.

While Velázquez prepares her empanadas and debates whether Venezuela needs elections now or if they can wait, water begins to flow from the taps in Petare. Drop by drop, after 15 days without water. It’s not an exceptional outage; it’s simply the normality that’s imposed on the homes of the poorest.

A few minutes after leaving the neighborhood, it starts to pour. On one side of the highway, Petare — a barrio that lacks access to running water — encroaches on the hillside. On the other side, a handful of sprinklers generously water newly-planted grass under a bridge that hardly anyone notices. Meanwhile, one of the last reminders of Maduro is fading: a billboard with his face and that of his wife, asking to be brought back.

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