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The man wouldn’t look at me. His eyes remained downcast as he guided my friend and I to our room in his otherwise desolate bed and breakfast in the town of Santa Elena de Uairen, Venezuela. He mumbled a few words, gave me the key, and left. Lauren and I had travelled from Boa Vista, Brazil that morning, crossing the border on foot with the idea of climbing the immense Mount Roraima in the coming days. Despite warnings from other travellers, nothing could have prepared us for the desperation we would encounter on the other side. While our border crossing was relatively straightforward, the queue’s to leave the country on the opposite side were indicative of an entirely different experience. I could see entire families forced to condense their lives in to a broken suitcase; and the closer we got to the town, the easier it became to understand why. Petrol stations were surrounded for miles by gridlocked cars to collect a rationed amount of fuel once they arrived at the pump. Meanwhile because the ATM’s were all empty, men stood at the side of the street selling cash to anyone with a spare buck. I took the advice of our taxi driver and approached a man standing near a supermarket to buy some Venezuelan Bolivars. The rate of inflation was so high, that I could only buy $20 worth of local currency before by rucksack overflowed. If I hadn’t of been so nervous, I might have appreciated the fact that this scene was worthy of Pablo Escobar’s praise. After dropping off our bags, Lauren and I decided to walk back in to town to find some groceries for our journey. Our trip around the supermarket was short and sweet, mainly because the threadbare offerings on display left little to no choice. Nonetheless as we were leaving the store, we were stopped by a middle-aged couple who were interested as to why we were there. I tried to explain in somewhat broken Spanish that we wanted to climb Mount Roraima, and we were staying in town to organise our trip. They were curious and kind, telling us it was nice to see some tourists in town for it had been so quiet in the previous months. Before we left, they asked me to explain what the world thought of Venezuela in the midst of their current political turmoil; and when I struggled to reply, it led me to think about the question for the remainder of the evening. The next morning I woke early and went to sit at the breakfast table, to find our elusive host was already there. He worked silently and diligently, with the quiet purpose of someone who had done the task a thousand times before. Nosy and intrigued, I asked for how long he had owned the B&B, to which he replied earnestly that he had built the property and business 25 years ago. That was all it took for the silence to be broken. He divulged that he had lived in Venezuela his whole life, and how he had never seen it get to a state such as the one it was in now. At some points he had gone weeks without a single person staying at his B&B, and he wondered how his family would survive. But most importantly, he was adamant that the last thing he would do was leave his beautiful country behind, no matter how ashamed he was by how difficult it is to survive. We talked for over an hour about Venezuela: how it was perceived, what had changed and what would have to happen for it to rebuild itself to its former glory. Only 5 years ago in 2015, it had been the richest country in South America. We arranged to stay at his B&B the following week after our hike, and we were met warmly with more riveting conversation. This man was full of pride for his country, and given the opportunity to speak was gracious in a way that I am learning most people are the more I travel and see of the world. For when we parted, he looked me in the eye and smiled.