It’s the last days of February 2025 and it’s pouring rain.
The downpour encourages a 53-year-old fisherman, sheltered under a leafy tree just a few meters from the Orinoco River, to say that the cabañuelas—a traditional method for predicting the year’s weather, widespread in Hispanic America—are coming true.
The man preferred not to fish today in the vast Orinoco River, the largest river in Venezuela and the third most voluminous in the world. The rain keeps the little over 1,500 residents of the small town of Santa Catalina, Delta Amacuro state, confined to their homes, as it lies along the largest branch of the labyrinthine river system through which the so-called father river flows to the Atlantic Ocean.
The man does not wish for the rain to cease. Not for the benefits it may bring to lands hardened by drought or to cattle scattered on the nearby Isla Tórtola, but because—he thinks—perhaps the shower, sometimes a drizzle, will “dispel bad energies” and calm the currently tumultuous area.
Bad energies have not always prevailed in the region. In 1897, James E. York, manager of the American company Orinoco Iron Company, reported after a trip to Santa Catalina that he had never seen iron deposits of such high quality as those in the area, “not even in the Mesaba range in Minnesota,” as described by Luis Ugalde, a Jesuit theologian and philosopher, former rector of the Andrés Bello Catholic University (UCAB), in his studies on colonization projects in the 18th and 19th centuries in Venezuelan Guayana, a jungle region south of the Orinoco. “The quality of the mineral is far superior to that of Spain and Africa, with which it will compete,” York enthused in an article that year in the Venezuelan Herald, a late 19th-century newspaper.
The same journalistic piece cited by Ugalde foresaw a “rosy future” and “a prosperity hitherto unknown in the Delta Territory,” a rugged and almost impregnable region crossed by dozens of waterways. In line with York’s predictions, Santa Catalina, a mission town founded in the 18th century, was designated the heart of the new exploitation where the company would build its headquarters and a 23-room hotel divided into two wings of two stories each. The colony gathered around 200 people, and there were plans to expand its population by offering cheap transportation and free land for those who came to exploit balata, a natural gum resin similar to rubber, and other local resources. Before the Americans, the British attempted to colonize the site with emigrants primarily from Ireland, and even earlier, the Spanish viewed this region as key to strategic defense against foreign incursions, according to Ugalde.
Besides those good prospects and promises of future prosperity, until a few decades ago, Santa Catalina seemed to be a paradise. Not only for its prime location by the Orinoco, but also for being surrounded by lush jungle and its spectacular Amazonian biodiversity and indigenous cultural wealth.
However, the mutations that Santa Catalina would undergo, not always attributable to the sweetness of modernity, unfolded in many directions, many of which proved undesirable. So much so that young and old now say that these territories no longer see visitors: neither municipal nor state authorities, nor tourists, nor adventurous explorers like York. The only regular visitors, both in Santa Catalina and in communities upstream and downstream of the Orinoco, are new colonizers: people in military uniforms, armed and claiming to be ex-members of the demobilized Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC), perhaps dissidents, who have been encroaching on Venezuelan territory from west to east since the peace agreement was signed with the Colombian state in 2016.
The Old Man and the Narco-Stream
The rain has stopped and the sky turns orange. The sound of a motorboat alerts those near the Santa Catalina port. “Here they come,” a couple of young people comment. Just meters away, another pair of children play and dive into the water.
The boat, with a hull adorned with red and green stripes, reaches the shore. Then, 14 armed, uniformed men disembark without a hurry. At least four others remain near the boat. They lift what at first glance seems to be just a box to unload. But it turns out to be a coffin decorated with golden arabesques. Others are carrying black bags. They are flowers.
It’s the river funeral procession for the burial of El viejo, a former guerrilla leader, who died in September 2024. Or was murdered, as several locals—the people of Santa Catalina—point out.
The downpour does not impede the preparations. In the cemetery, the grave has already been dug. Just meters from the port, a dozen uniformed individuals, wearing rubber boots and camouflage t-shirts, prepare soup and skewered meat. Civilians are among them. A couple of women seek out the more senior residents around the church and ask them to attend the wake to say a rosary.
El viejo, the alias of Aldemar Suárez, is set up for wake outside a brewery, just yards from Plaza Bolívar. Every so often, they spray around the coffin, perhaps to dispel foul odors. His armed and uniformed entourage surrounds the coffin. His sons are there: Juan, the oldest; Daniel, who succeeded him in command; and Joandry, the youngest, all of Colombian origin. “The community needs to be grateful because he died for all of us. He fought his whole life, first in Colombia and then in Venezuela for an ideal of freedom. He identified so much with Venezuela that he gave his life for it,” says one of them, dressed in olive green, in front of Suárez’s coffin, a 60-year-old man described by those who met him in life as cultured, charismatic, and humble.
It was under the banner of freedom that they arrived in Santa Catalina—the capital of the Rómulo Gallegos parish, Casacoima municipality, Delta Amacuro state—in 2020, shortly before the COVID-19 pandemic reached the country. The first thing they did was call the community to an assembly, attended by about 30 people. “They said they wanted to live here. The leader then identified himself as Commander Camilo, he had a Colombian accent and said, ‘How nice it would be if when I came by, they said ‘Don Camilo, let’s have a coffee’.’ They asked for support from the community; no one said no, but no one said yes either,” recalls a 61-year-old local.
—Right now they have problems with electricity, they have problems with water; we can fix all that—continued Camilo, tempting his audience.
“We all just looked at each other,” recalls the man, with brown skin and a soft voice, surprised along with his neighbors by the newcomers’ knowledge of the area because, indeed, Santa Catalina has had no water or electricity for over a decade.
—Yes, whether you want to believe it or not. You can’t imagine what goes on right in front of your nose. If we charged for everything that happens, you’d have three or four power plants—emphasized the commander.
What Don Camilo referred to was the movement of drugs and, to a lesser extent, minerals and other goods, along the Orinoco River, the main source of income for the FARC dissidents.
Moving through the Orinoco River to control the drug and gold trade was not a casual endeavor. Several incidents confirm the strategic nature of this waterway for illicit economies and their Caribbean or transatlantic routes. For example, in early March 2023, Domingo Hernández Lárez, the Strategic Operational Commander of the Bolivarian National Armed Force (FANB), disseminated news via X about intervention through military operations in the Orinoco Delta against “camps of criminal groups linked to drug trafficking” and about the seizure of a “semi-submersible submarine” used for drug trafficking.
In December 2020, a prosecutor from the Public Ministry in Delta Amacuro, Guerlys Hernández Urrieta, and her husband, Jorge Luis Hernández, were detained for their alleged involvement with the seizure of 2,012 pills of drugs known as ecstasy (MDMA) aboard a boat in the Orinoco waters. “The proximity of Delta Amacuro’s coasts to Trinidad and Tobago makes this entity favorable for drug trafficking. Drugs reach there in smaller loads that travel in smaller boats,” Transparency Venezuela noted in a 2024 report.
The illicit trafficking of controlled substances explains much of this phenomenon. The Coast Guard of Trinidad and Tobago, the English-speaking island nation located just two hours by boat from Delta Amacuro, performs sporadic monitoring in the area. The French Navy, responsible for maritime surveillance from Cayenne—French Guiana, also patrols those Atlantic waters. Nevertheless, their efforts prove insufficient. Besides the fast boats with powerful outboard engines transporting or picking up loads from unidentified planes dropping them into the sea, the already famous artisanal semi-submersibles transporting cocaine across open water also manage to evade authorities.
Caribbean intelligence sources indicated for this coverage that these vessels roam the region to then transfer their cargo to oceanic fishing boats and container ships bound for Europe and West Africa. A mechanism that, they say, goes unnoticed as the goods end up traveling in foreign vessels with no direct links to Venezuela, despite originating from that country, a hotbed of narcotics, and its natural conduit, the Orinoco.
The transit of cocaine to Venezuela typically begins in the Andean producer countries, as reported by the 2021 Report of the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime (UNODC). From there, three distribution routes have been identified for the international market: the eastern Pacific route, believed to represent 74% of the total; the western Caribbean route (16%), which originates from Colombia; and the Caribbean route (8%), which comes from both Colombia and Venezuela. On this last route, both fast boats and aircraft are often used for drug transport.
UNODC does not identify Venezuela as a country of origin or destination, but rather as a transit country for cocaine, unlike neighboring Colombia, which is considered a country of origin for seized cocaine shipments between 2016 and 2020. The main destinations include South America, the Caribbean, Central America, and Central Europe.
Armed Toll and Wake
A native of Santa Catalina says that after that first assembly, “visitors started coming (…) since they arrived in town, they say they come on behalf of the government.” In the initial months of their presence, he recalls, people preferred not to go out. They feared clashes between the newcomers and the Barrancas cartel, another criminal group with Venezuelan leaders controlling the drug and goods traffic along the river passage between Barrancas del Orinoco, on the north bank in Monagas state, and Piacoa, on the south bank in Delta Amacuro.
Just like Santa Catalina, Piacoa is in the Casacoima municipality and also holds a strategic location accessible by both land and water. When in 1884 the then-Venezuelan president, Antonio Guzmán Blanco, established the Federal Delta Territory, these two towns, along with Sacupana, were proposed as regional capitals to concentrate the operations of the fledgling Manoa Company, incorporated in New York but granted exclusive rights to establish a colony in the Delta and exploit its riches.
From Piacoa eastward, armed control is held by the alleged FARC dissidents, who initially set up their base in an area known as Catalinita and later in Mena. They now reach the Amanoco creek, about 20 minutes from Santa Catalina, and maintain a presence in La Fe, a community close to Piacoa. They move, always with their weapons and uniforms, in boats with up to two engines. In fact, residents in Santa Catalina already recognize them by the sound of their boats. Previously, a local reports, they arrived wearing FARC bracelets, but lately they no longer wear them: “I think they’ve become more autonomous and dissident. They identify with the leader.”
Until September 2024, that leader was El viejo. Locals say he was betrayed and assassinated by members of his own faction. “He was at the camp when they told him they were going to replace him with someone else. He dissolved the camp and took down everyone. Still, those wanting to replace him came, tricked him, and shot him to take control,” a local recounted.
Then, the testimonies agree, the commander’s sons returned for their own, regrouped, counterattacked, avenged him, and regained control of the group. “They discovered where he was buried [‘El viejo’], between La Fe and Piacoa, they dug him up and brought him back to bury him,” another local reported.
The armed individuals often come to Santa Catalina to search for food, drink alcohol, and party at night. Most times they pay in dollars, although locals also accept bolívares, the official currency of Venezuela. Since their arrival, residents acknowledge that cattle and chicken thefts have ceased. Still, this improvement was not enough for the community to stop rejecting them, although they cannot do so openly.
“The community just listens. We have not dared to tell them no, and at the same time, it’s true that there are people in the community who have established relationships with them. At one point, they began to take away young boys, probing them, offering payments in dollars, cell phones, and even balls,” says a housewife aged 43. “One has to learn to greet nicely. ‘How are you? Good evening.’ Sometimes they remain quiet or might ask something, and then give a little talk: ‘We are here to protect the community, don’t worry, this is peaceful territory.’”
One concern for Santa Catalina’s residents is that there are neither police, nor National Guard, nor river patrol in the area. The Organic Law against the Illicit Trafficking and Consumption of Narcotic and Psychotropic Substances, enacted in 2005 but repealed just five years later, in 2010, established in its article 104 that Delta Amacuro, given its characteristics, would have an integrated system of intelligence, prevention, and prosecution against drug trafficking formed by the Navy, the Bolivarian National Guard (GNB), the Scientific, Penal and Criminal Investigations Corps (Cicpc), and the Public Ministry, which would constitute a Special Task Force for the control and monitoring of rivers and streams and, thus, “prevent the Delta, due to its vulnerability, from becoming a preferred area for drug trafficking activities and the corruption of civil society and the institutions of this border state, including protecting the habitat of the indigenous peoples settled there,” as outlined in the document. But the intention remained just that: a mere theory.
In the small commercial building across from El viejo’s wake, a National Guard command used to operate until a couple of years ago. In the 90s, they recall, there was one police officer assigned. Just one.
“Now, it’s not just that there’s no police force; there’s not even any state entity for the defense of children or protection of women, nothing at all, which is why there will be roosters and violence against children and women because, where are you going to complain? With what boat, with what internet?” laments a 50-year-old homemaker.
The list of shortcomings is long. There’s been no electricity for over 10 years, and those who do have power only have it thanks to gas generators or small solar panels. There’s also no running water, despite the community being right in front of the mighty Orinoco and having a giant tank that could supply all of Santa Catalina. Public transportation is lacking for medical emergencies or to acquire food and supplies. Dozens of homes have been abandoned due to emigration.
Just over a century ago, the community “looked towards the future,” as period reports cited by Father Ugalde indicated: the Orinoco Company, successor to the Manoa Company, established a steam plant for processing balata, advanced the construction of a road intended to reach the El Palmar municipality in Bolívar state, and the Minnesota Street, as the main road of the town was called during the colonization project, led potential colonists to the company’s headquarters and hotel. Also, at that time, there was police.
34 Amazons in Curiara to the Rescue
When a 16-year-old female student left with the guerrillas one night in late May 2023 never to return, her family found no police or guard to seek help from. So they had to go look for her the next morning with the support of community women. One of them recalls being told plainly that her goddaughter “left with a bad guy.”
—Did they take her by force? —she asked.
—No, she left.
The student had willingly gone off with Juan, the oldest of El viejo’s three sons. They both walked to the guerrilla camp through a muddy, overgrown path. Her family claims Juan charmed her over the phone.
The morning after the flight, the women organized themselves. They spread out through the few streets of the town and gathered others. “There were men, but we didn’t think it was wise for them to go. We thought no harm would come to us and that bringing men could be seen as a provocation,” recounts a 53-year-old woman who participated in the venture. “‘Let’s go, nothing is going to happen to us,’ I told them, and so we went, 34 women in a huge curiara [a wooden boat, long and light, generally hollowed out from a single trunk, native to Orinoquia and Amazonia]. Apart from us, there were just three men: her father, the driver, and a minor who knew the route.” Along the way, the women cried.
The chief they had to speak with to bring the young woman back was none other than El viejo, now deceased. The woman recalls that they arrived at the shore, and as they walked toward the camp, they noticed that some uniformed individuals were keeping watch, trying not to be seen in the underbrush. Before the women, El viejo insisted that the young woman had not come under duress.
The women asked to see her. They waited two hours. The young woman, dressed in civilian clothes, finally appeared, escorted by two women. She stopped 200 meters away from the women of Santa Catalina. She didn’t want to walk any further. She didn’t speak or answer questions. “I gathered my courage and passed through the midst of the armed men blocking our way. I grabbed her and carried her by the arms. She resisted, she wanted to stay.” They carried her and put her aboard.
On the way back to Santa Catalina, the student attempted to throw herself into the river. Two guerrilla boats followed them, but the women hurried their navigation and reached the town first. “When we arrived, there were so many people; we took her in and left her at home.” They had to sedate her for her to calm down.
Taking advantage of the guerrillas’ presence in the community, the residents immediately called for a meeting; they estimate it was the third since those arrived in the area. The native group wanted to put a stop to the guerrillas’ settlement. This could not continue.
Thus, on May 23, 2023, at 11 a.m., the assembly began. “We don’t want you in Catalina,” they finally dared to say to the guerrillas.
“One of the women confronted them, telling them that if they wanted to recruit children, they should go to Colombia where they are used to that, ‘respect our children, there are laws here, and you are violating their rights,’” recalls a 45-year-old merchant.
—We prayed a lot for you to leave the community —insisted the woman, according to the merchant’s account.
—We are here because the government has allowed it. We are not here by chance; we are here because the government wants us here —responded one of the uniformed individuals.
—We are neither from collectives nor the guerrilla. We don’t want to thank you, but also not any cartel. The fact that you are here puts us at risk —interjected another resident of Santa Catalina in the exchange, who, despite that brave stance, now admits that the situation terrifies her, keeping her awake at night.
Three meters from El viejo’s coffin, while a dozen women pray the rosary, some children run, shout, and jump; none older than 10 years. In one corner, locals are drinking beer; in another, they’re playing dominoes. The funeral fuels today’s gossip. “It’s starting to be seen as normal. The children grow up seeing this. They idolize them, see them as figures and that’s worrying,” says a local fisherman regarding the guerrillas.
—Are they guards, mommy? Are they police? —an eight-year-old girl asked her mother, a 45-year-old woman, upon seeing a group of armed, uniformed men on the old Minnesota Street for the first time.
—They are police —she replied curtly so as not to get into details about the reasons behind the presence of these individuals, details that could turn out to be inconvenient.
—And what if they kill us, mommy? God will punish them, right? —the curious girl insisted.
“That’s why we want to leave. For her,” says the girl’s mother, now with her brown eyes welling up with tears as she recalls for this coverage her daughter’s first encounters with the armed men.
It’s late at night, and all signs point to the burial being next Sunday. Armed men and women remain around the coffin. The people of Santa Catalina have gone to sleep, but some will later recount that their sleep was interrupted by shots fired into the air, at least eight. The new colonizers are claiming territory in a wild region that, according to the old colonizers, seemed destined by nature to be the most productive province in America.
For safety reasons, the names of the reporters and sources on the ground have been omitted from this story.
