These times, in Venezuela, are brutal ones: There are anti-government protests every day in cities across the country. At least 67 people, most of them under the age of 30, have been killed in clashes with the National Guard and colectivos, pro-government militia-like groups, since April 1, according to the Attorney General’s office, and more than 1,000 others have been injured. At least 3,000 protesters have been arrested, and 360 have been taken before military tribunals, charged with “treason to the homeland,” for which they face a maximum sentence of 30 years.
For the last two years Norma Camero Reno has been shipping a steady supply of desperately needed medicines from the United States to Venezuela. Reno and other members of her nonprofit, Move Foundation, pack painkillers, cold medicines and other supplies to be distributed to hospitals, health clinics and churches throughout the beleaguered nation.
Two weeks ago, however, that all changed.
Reno, a Venezuelan-born, Tampa-based lawyer and founder of the foundation, said that for years her organization faced very little pushback from the government of Venezuelan President Nicolás Maduro when sending packages of food and medicine to the country. But when she arrived in the small, Venezuelan coastal city of Barcelona two weeks ago, Reno discovered that none of the recent medicine shipments had made it to her contacts in the country.
While the group has in the past had to deal with Venezuelan officials confiscating food shipments, this was the first time that medicine has been stopped from being delivered.
“They are stopping everything from going in,” Reno told Fox News. “They are taking everything for themselves.”
Venezuelans have struggled in recent years to get their hands on all types of medical supplies – from over-the-counter painkillers to infection-fighting antibiotics – as the country grapples with widespread shortages and soaring inflation rates brought on by economic mismanagement from the socialist government in Caracas. The lack of equipment like respirators has become so dire that babies are dying in maternity wards from commonplace infirmities that are now considered life-threatening.
Social media has erupted with pleas from many Venezuelans for groups to send prescription medicines to fight illnesses from diabetes to cancer.
CARACAS, Venezuela — Maikol Mendoza shivered under his flannel blanket, pulling it tightly around him, despite the stuffy, humid conditions in the corridors of Dr. José Manuel de los Ríos Children’s Hospital in Caracas.
A nurse pushed his wheelchair from an emergency dialysis session back to the ICU, wheeling him past bare, peeling blue walls and a bank of broken elevators. When Maikol’s aunt squeezed his shoulder along the way, he reached up, hooked his arm around her neck and pulled her closer.
“I thought I was going to die,” he whispered in her ear, their faces wet with his tears.
Just a week earlier, on Holy Friday, he had been certain of precisely the opposite: In the midst of Venezuela’s dire health crisis, Maikol had been given a new, healthy kidney.
For the first time in two years, the soft-spoken, husky teenager had started making plans. He would finally have the energy to go back to catechism classes, join his neighbor’s foosball games, and plan his 17th birthday celebration.
But then everything went wrong.
Maikol’s relatives could not hunt down all the medicines he needed amid the country's rapidly growing medical shortage, including post-op anti-inflammatory drugs. The hospital ran out of protein-rich food. There were no ambulances available to transfer Maikol to a different facility to get a sonogram done that would evaluate for any complications. When one was finally assigned to him, an anti-government demonstration made it impossible to get there.
Then, Maikol became infected with a highly resistant bacteria borne out of the hospital’s poorly maintained water pipes.
Before he could make sense of what was happening, Maikol, the last transplant patient at the hospital in this dying nation, had to be rushed back to the operating room to remove his new kidney.
“We’re not dogs,” Taina Rodríguez, Maikol’s mother, said angrily. Doctors had told her to prepare for the worst after the transplanted organ began to fail. Rodriguez recently quit her job packaging Doritos to sit by Maikol’s bed in a vigil while the rest of his family has taken turns to visit from Barquisimeto, their hometown, 230 miles west of Caracas.
This left Maikol back at square one, or worse. His life had been snatched from him again, and now his family was left full of uncertainty once more: Would he survive the second surgery? Would they ever find another donor?
Stories like Maikol's are everywhere in Venezuela, where the health care system is on the brink of total collapse and patients who thought they were in the clear are back to fighting a harsh reality. Hospitals have left patients’ families to fend for themselves, scurrying to purchase everything from syringes to anesthesia, often at exuberant black market rates, and forcing doctors to perform surgery with antiquated equipment in operating rooms cleaned with dirty water.
The Health Ministry’s first set of data since July 2015, published earlier this month, should come as no surprise: infant and maternal mortality rose 30% and 65% last year, respectively. The statistics show the country has come a long way from the 1950s to 80s, when Venezuela's vast oil reserves made it one of the wealthiest countries in the region.
The Dr. Jose Manuel de los Rios Children’s Hospital, the gem of Venezuela’s public pediatric care, is a prime example of the health care system’s widespread failure. A report conducted last year by the Universidad Simón Bolívar warned that the hospital’s water tanks had an infestation of rodents and that both the ER and ICU were contaminated by sewage water. It also revealed that in 2015, the hospital received the equivalent of just $39,560 from the federal government for everything from medicine to equipment repair, down from $2.7 million in 2011 (the authors used the parallel, or black market, dollar rate, which has skyrocketed because of currency controls and inflation).
Doctors at the hospital had heard that immunosuppressants, the drugs needed to prevent patients like Maikol from rejecting transplanted organs, were no longer available in the country, but the Health Ministry had yet to make an official announcement.
“There was no way to know if we could really accept the transplant,” admitted Belen Arteaga, the head of the nephrology department at the children’s hospital. “There’s real misinformation.”
On Friday, over one month after Maikol underwent the first surgery, the government office in charge of transplants, Fundavene, sent a letter to Arteaga announcing that it was suspending kidney transplants from deceased people until further notice.
If the health system is on the brink of collapse it's because Venezuela is systematically and rapidly falling apart. Inflation is expected to hit 2,000% by next year; shortages of everything from milk to chicken have led to people losing an average of 19 pounds; and homicides have soared in the already-violent country. President Nicolás Maduro, the less-than-charismatic and increasingly autocratic successor of Hugo Chavez, has announced that he is pulling the country out of the Organization of American States and set in motion a rewrite of the constitution. Daily protests have convulsed the country for over two months, during which more than 50 demonstrators have been killed.
In a move that seems extraordinary for a country not at war, opposition leaders have asked Maduro to allow a channel of humanitarian aid from abroad, a request echoed by a bipartisan group of US senators. Maduro, instead, has handed control over the distribution of medicine to the country’s armed forces.
Amid this chaos, it is children like Maikol who are left with no idea what their future will look like. His second chance at life dashed by the failed transplant, he doesn’t know if he’ll get another one.
In any case, doctors told him that he will have to wait at least a year to try again. By then, Maikol will be an adult. “He told the doctors he never wants to come back to this hospital,” his mother said.
Venezuela’s health crisis is spilling over to neighboring Colombia, where the border town of Cucuta is struggling to provide the medical care increasingly unavailable in the socialist country.
As a result, Cucuta’s main hospital has amassed a monumental amount of debt as it helps out the thousands of Venezuelan patients that arrive every year from across the border. A large number of those are women in labor.
"In the first quarter of 2017, [Erasmo Meoz Hospital] admitted 1,000 Venezuelans. The increasing rate is worrying, as it could come to 4,000 migrants cared for by the end of this year,” said Health Minister Alejandro Gaviria to Bluradio earlier this month.
He said Venezuelan patients have cost Colombia about $1 million the past year.
By law, any patients who arrive at a hospital in Colombia are admitted to the emergency room at no cost — regardless of their nationality.
"In Venezuela they ask you to bring all the medicines [to the hospital where you are going to be admitted] and yet when you go to the pharmacy there is nothing," Miriam Rivera told Univision. Rivera's teen son fractured his left clavicle recently when he fell off his bicycle.
The woman said that in Ureña, where they reside, the plate needed to repair the fracture would have cost about $100, an astronomical amount in a country where the monthly minimum wage is $15.
According to Univision, Meoz Hospital is carrying a debt $1.3 million dollars for the treatment of Venezuelans.
"Resources are being spent that should be available to the rest of the [Colombian] population," said Meoz hospital administrator Soraya Caceres.
The health minister said the government is committing $3.3 million to keep assisting Venezuelans across the nation’s network of hospitals.
He noted, however, that they can’t provide the resources for patients with costly diseases or conditions.
"For now, we only provide humanitarian aid,” he said.
The heath crisis in Venezuela runs so deep that medications ranging from simple anti-inflammatory drugs to chemotherapy drugs are out of reach for most people.
Patients wait for months to get a procedure.
Home to the world’s largest oil reserves, Venezuela was for decades an economic leader in the western hemisphere. But in 1999, with the rise to power of late leader Hugo Chávez – whose left-leaning policies endeared him to the poor, but also set up an unsustainable system of state spending – Venezuela’s economy began to creep toward a crisis.
In a country where officials face termination for sharing government health statistics, health experts are relying on outside organizations to shed light on the ongoing health crisis in Venezuela.
In its fourth year of a crippling recession, Venezuela is suffering widespread shortages of medicines and basic medical equipment. A leading pharmaceutical association has said that roughly 85 percent of the country’s medicine supplies are running dry.
With widespread food shortages and an inflation rate of more than 700 percent, millions of Venezuelans are struggling to feed themselves and their families.
Catholic charity Caritas Internationalis has been monitoring levels of malnutrition across four states, including the capital Caracas, since October. It found that 11.4 percent of children under 5 are suffering from moderate or severe acute malnutrition. That figure rises to 48 percent when under-5s at risk or already suffering lower levels of malnutrition are included, according to a report released earlier this week.
By World Health Organization standards, Caritas’ findings constitute a crisis that calls for the government to marshal extraordinary aid.
Still, Venezuelan authorities have so far resisted offers of food and aid from abroad.
“Here, for the government, there are no malnourished children,” Livia Machado, a physician and child malnutrition expert, said in a recent interview with the Wall Street Journal. “The reality is this is an epidemic, and everyone should be paying attention to this.”
For the most part, the government appears to be ignoring the health crisis, apart from occasional statements from President Nicolas Maduro. He blames the ongoing medicine shortages on the opposition, which he claims has been hoarding medicines to encourage a coup against him.
His government is limiting the sharing of data that would quantify the scope of the problem.
Which is why it was unusual that earlier this month the Venezuelan Health Ministry released its first report since July 2015. The report painted an alarming picture: a steep rise in infant and maternal mortality rates and a sharp rise in illnesses such as diphtheria, Zika and malaria.
That reporting came at a cost. Just a few days later, the government announced it was sacking Antonieta Caporale, a gynecologist who held the post of health minister for four months. Vice President Tareck El Aissami announced the move on Twitterwithout citing a reason for the firing.
With no government statistics available, the task of gathering and releasing data on malnutrition has been picked up by doctors, hospitals, individual health experts, international NGOs and Catholic charities.
“We are extremely worried, which is why we are going public with this series of reports,” Caritas country director Janeth Márquez said in a statement.
“Our results clearly show that general levels of malnutrition are rising and acute malnutrition in children has crossed the crisis threshold,” she added. “If we don’t respond soon, it will become very difficult for these children ever to get back onto their nutritional growth curve.”
Caritas has been distributing medicines and food kits to fight malnutrition across the country, but says the efforts of in-country actors are insufficient when considering the scope of the crisis. The report shows one in 12 households were eating leftover food from restaurants and rubbish bins – a dire picture an inflation-crippled economy in which a basic food basket now costs 16 times the minimum wage.
“It’s a major crisis and needs national and international help to manage the scale of the disaster at the highest decision-making levels,” Susana Rafalli, a humanitarian specialist in food emergencies working for Caritas in Venezuela, said in a statement. “Livelihoods have been degraded to such an extent, that the very poor have no means to cope – everything has broken down.”
“Jobs, health care, the family, home – poor people have lost everything as they move about in search of a lifeline,” she added. “The humanitarian community and the people of Venezuela need to begin a full-scale response now.”
Caracas, Venezuela - Luis Alberto Machado can barely sustain a conversation, let alone remember the day he attacked his mother by hitting her over the head with a rock.
The 34-year-old was diagnosed with schizophrenia in his mid-teens. Back then he was still a boy but today his gangly frame towers over his petite 60-year-old mother, Maria Machado, making her an easy target for his violent psychosis.
"We've had to lose the fear and learn to hold him down," explained Luis's 28-year-old sister Maria Ruli. "[He's broken] the fridge, the blender. My mother has no life because of him."
"It's gotten worse because there's a lack of Sinogan," said Maria Machado in reference to a sedative widely used for psychiatric illnesses.
Who is to blame for Venezuela’s economic collapse?
The three family members were sitting in the afternoon heat, the last in a line of patients waiting outside the emergency department of one of Caracas' psychiatric hospitals. Ahead of them a handful of parents and carers also waited, hoping to receive anti-psychotic medication for their patients.
In 2013 Venezuelans had access to 70 types of anti-psychotics; today there are only five, according to Wadalberto Rodriguez, president of the Venezuelan Society of Psychiatry.
"There's a 95 percent shortage of anti-psychotics," said Dr Rodriguez. "It's an extremely complex situation because one anti-depressant cannot cure a variety of depressions."
As is the case with staple foods, many Venezuelans are often forced to turn to the black market to buy medication at exorbitant prices.
"All patients are receiving the same kind of treatment, which means that many of them aren't getting any better and the symptoms then become chronic," explained Rodriguez.
The steep reduction in anti-psychotics in Venezuela is partly a result of the country's financial strife.
According to Rodriguez, President Nicolas Maduro's socialist government has often been unable to pay the foreign companies providing Venezuela with medication.
"As a result [the companies] have stopped dispatching [the drugs]," he said.
The failed Vatican-brokered talks between the government and the opposition saw the latter demand the opening of a humanitarian channel to allow medicine into the country, but that channel never materialised.
As a result, many mental health patients in Venezuela are regressing to a state of psychosis and anguish that cannot easily be treated. And although helplines and counselling groups have become increasingly common, this has not halted the rising suicide rate.
While there are no accurate figures yet, psychologist Dr Yorelis Acosta is adamant that there has been a stark rise in suicides.
"We're starting to see more information on suicides and keeping count of it," said Acosta. "In the month of January, 32 suicides were registered in Caracas alone. This is an alarming number that should grab the government's attention."
The shortage of drugs, which began in mid-2016, has resulted in a large number of patients being re-admitted into under-equipped hospitals.
"We've more and more patients each day," said 32-year-old nurse Carlos, whose real name has been changed to protect his identity.
Before 2016 the clinic received an average of five emergency cases per day. On the day Al Jazeera visited, they received about 20 during a single afternoon, in addition to those already hospitalised.
"Almost all the patients we have at the moment have been re-admitted because they couldn't find their [prescribed] medicine," explained the nurse, sitting outside the psychiatric hospital he has worked at for eight years. "The last medications we received came through a month ago and before that we hadn't received any in four months."
Despite a surge in people needing to be hospitalised, doctors have been forced to turn away desperate cases owing to lack of food, water, medical equipment and even staff.
Carlos is one of four nurses per 30 patients in a hospital with poor ventilation, and where there is running water for just half an hour each morning and 10 minutes each afternoon.
"The rooms are fetid and sometimes the patients can't shower. People wet themselves and we've no diapers," said Carlos.
"There are 60 [hospitalised] patients at the moment, but we've capacity for 90,. We have had to block places because there are no doctors. They've left," added the young nurse.
Working to take care of the mentally ill has become an ordeal in Venezuela's understaffed hospitals.
With sedatives no longer readily available, physical restraint has become a common practice, which also has its hazards for the staff.
"We've no measures to protect ourselves; a patient with psychosis [can] self-harm, harm other patients and throw the ward into chaos," explained Carlos.
Outside the emergency ward was a young carer with scars inflicted by her unmedicated patient on her forearms. The patient, an elderly woman with spots of dry blood on her earlobes and a mass of dishevelled hair, sat beside her, mumbling unintelligible phrases.
WATCH MORE: Patients going without treatment in Venezuela's public hospitals.
Next to the carer and her patient, an elderly mother clutched a brown folder containing years of medical bills belonging to her schizophrenic son, a pale 62-year-old man with large brown eyes. His mother had spent the past day and a half searching for his medication in several pharmacies to no avail.
Her son was diagnosed with schizophrenia at 28, but he went on to study law and was employed for many years. "He worked in a court with top lawyers, but because of the shortage of medication he became ill again," said Clara, whose real name has been changed to protect her privacy.
Clara explained that she has spent more than $5,000 in healthcare for her son in a year and lost 20kg in the same space of time as a result of the country's dire food shortage.
"Three months ago the situation got worse, he stopped eating and he doesn't go to the toilet any more. He's going to die of malnourishment," she added.
"Either [the government should] give me the medicine or pay me back what they owe me."
That warm February afternoon the mother-of-three had tried to hospitalise her son, but a shortage of staff and medication meant that they were turned away and forced to try other hospitals.
While patients and their dwindling access to drugs is a prime concern in a country where mental health problems are on the rise, family members have also become victims of scarcity, forced to supervise patients in an almost oppressive manner in the hope that they will not slip into psychosis and harm themselves or others. On the way into the emergency ward a leaflet on the door offers counselling sessions to family members.
Nicole plans to attend these meetings to help her cope with her 24-year-old schizophrenic son's bouts of psychosis. "Sometimes I feel like my head is under too much pressure and that my veins might explode," she explained.
Sometimes Nicole - who asked that her real name not be used - spends entire mornings searching for her son's antipsychotic medication instead of working her morning shift.
"I do what I can, I even owe [people] money in order to buy the medicine. Right now I'm searching for one medication, but you never know if you're going to find it, so when he gets down to three or four pills you start to feel anguish and anxiety," explained the 60-year-old mother whose son regularly slips into psychosis, a state that sees him tormented by visual and auditory hallucinations.
"Sometimes I spend one or two days [searching for the medication]. I worry because if I don't work I don't earn," said Nicole, who cares for her son alone.
Patients often halve the the dosage of their medication to make it last longer [Sofia Barbarani/Al Jazeera]
Those who can afford to leave Venezuela have done so in large numbers, travelling to neighbouring countries or to the US. Patricia, a 35-year-old stylist, has plans to migrate soon to find financial stability and a functioning health system for her depression and anxiety attacks.
"The state of the country is affecting me, so I've decided to go to Colombia," explained Patricia, who had been unable to find two of her three prescribed drugs.
One mother, who was also desperately searching for medication for her son, interjected: "They didn't send us an atomic bomb, but they left us without medication - which is the same."
Source: Al Jazeera News
PARIAGUAN, Venezuela (Reuters) - Eliannys Vivas, 9, started to get a sore throat on a Friday last month in this languid Venezuelan town where papaya trees shade poor cinder-block homes.
Five days later, Eliannys was dead, likely a victim of diphtheria, a serious bacterial infection that is fatal in 5 to 10 percent of cases and particularly lethal for children.
Her death and a wider Venezuelan outbreak of diphtheria, once a major global cause of child death but increasingly rare due to immunizations, shows how vulnerable the country is to health risks amid a major economic crisis that has sparked shortages of basic medicines and vaccines.
Eliannys' story is also one of misdiagnoses and missed signals worsened by government secrecy around the disease. Her family had never heard of diphtheria and local doctors did not immediately suspect it, despite the infection having affected hundreds of people just a few hours away in Bolivar.
After Eliannys was taken to a local hospital, doctors, thinking the disease was asthma, used a sort of inhaler on her.
But the usually chatty girl – "a little parrot," in the words of her day-laborer father — kept weakening, so doctors transferred her to a larger government hospital once an ambulance became available hours later.
An aunt of Eliannys Vivas collects money to pay a loan used for the funeral of Eliannys, who died from diphtheria, along a main street in Pariaguan, Venezuela, January 26, 2017.REUTERS/Marco Bello
At El Tigre hospital, all the devices to examine throats had broken three years ago, so no one checked her properly, according to a nursing assistant.
"They said it was asthma, asthma, asthma," said her mother, Jennifer Vivas. But as Eliannys struggled to speak, she was rushed to a third and then a fourth hospital in neighboring Bolivar state.
There, doctors discovered with horror Eliannys suffered from grossly inflamed throat membranes — the classic symptom of diphtheria.
But even the fourth hospital lacked adequate treatment for the infection, so she received only a half dose of antitoxins and no penicillin at all, according to a medical professional who treated her there.
As Eliannys' airwaves blocked up, she suffered two successive heart failures and died on Jan. 18.
"If the diphtheria diagnosis had been made earlier and she had gotten antitoxins, she would have had a chance of surviving," the source who treated her said, asking to remain anonymous because the government has banned health professionals from speaking to the media.
Venezuela controlled diphtheria in the 1990s, but it reappeared in the vast jungle state of Bolivar in mid-2016.
At least two dozen children died last year, doctors say, and cases are now thought to have spread to a half-dozen other states.
Shortages of basic drugs and vaccines, emigration of underpaid doctors, and crumbling infrastructure have made it easier for diseases to spread, medical associations said.
A woman holds a placard in front of riot police during a rally of health-sector workers and opposition supporters, due to the shortages of basic medical supplies and against Venezuelan President Nicolas Maduro's government in Caracas, Venezuela, February 7, 2017. The placard reads, "Help us, the patients are dying." REUTERS/Carlos Garcia Rawlins
Many poor and middle-class Venezuelans also have weakened immune systems because they are no longer able to eat three meals a day or bathe regularly due to product scarcity, reduced water supply and raging inflation.
Government secrecy has compounded the problem.
"The fact people don't know (about diphtheria) helps the bacteria spread," said Caracas-based epidemiologist Julio Castro, who has been tracking the diphtheria outbreak and who showed photos sent to him of patients with thick white membranes coating their throat.
The unpopular leftist government of President Nicolas Maduro said in October there were no proven cases of diphtheria and admonished those seeking to spread "panic."
An opposition supporter wearing a costume that reads "Venezuelans starve" and "Venezuela agonizes," at a rally against Venezuelan President Nicolas Maduro's government and to commemorate the 59th anniversary of the end of the dictatorship of Marcos Perez Jimenez in Caracas, Venezuela, January 23, 2017. REUTERS/Christian Veron
It has since informed the World Health Organization of 20 confirmed diphtheria cases and five deaths, and emphasized there is a major vaccination drive under way, but has yet to provide a full national picture of the disease's effects amid a generalized clampdown on data.
The Information and Health Ministries, as well as the Venezuelan Social Security Institute, which is in charge of some drug distribution and hospitals, did not respond to multiple requests for comment about Eliannys' case and diphtheria more generally.
The only other country in the region with a significant number of confirmed diphtheria cases last year was Haiti with 33, the WHO said in December.
More illness ahead?
Doctors think diphtheria first spread from the rough-and-tumble illegal gold mines in Bolivar state, which are attracting poor Venezuelans as the minimum monthly wage languishes around $30.
After Eliannys' family was forced to start skipping dinner in December, her father, Tulio Medina, decided to work in Bolivar's yucca and yams plantation where he made more money but might have brought the infection home.
The disease has already spread to capital Caracas, where doctors say a 32-year-old mother died last year, and could yet affect more states.
Patients lie on beds in an aisle of the emergency room at the Universitary Hospital in Merida, Venezuela. Marco Bello/Reuters
With the Venezuelan pharmaceutical association estimating that roughly 85 percent of drugs are unavailable at any given time and in light of the short supply of vaccines, doctors are bracing for further increases in illnesses like malaria, pneumonia and tuberculosis.
Venezuela's rate of immunization with the pentavalent vaccine, which protects children from five major infections including diphtheria, had slipped to 78 percent between January and November 2016, according to Health Ministry figures leaked to former Health Minister José Felix Oletta and seen by Reuters.
"At this rate, we're going to see more illnesses, more deaths, more doctors leaving the country," said pediatrician Hugo Lezama, the head of Bolivar's doctors association, who himself earns only a handful of dollars a month.
"Those of us who stay are going hysterical trying to perform miracles so our patients don't die."
(By Alexandra Ulmer and Maria Ramirez; editing by Christian Plumb and Matthew Lewis)
Our hospital source just kept repeating, “There are almost zero antibiotics, no surgical gowns, no internal sutures, no gauze, no hypertension meds, no chemotherapy. Hospitals don’t have bed sheets, food or water.”
There’s no soap. There’s no air conditioning. In short, he said, performing surgery is like practicing battlefield medicine.
We were sitting at a hotel in a country that sits atop more oil than Saudi Arabia -- Venezuela. By all rights, Venezuela should be one of the world’s wealthiest nations. But it’s not.
Just a decade ago, Venezuela was renowned for pumping out oil and 13 titles for Miss Universe and Miss World, for being a plastic surgery mecca and culinary capital. It has since become the world’s worst-performing economy, and watchdog groups say, Caracas the world’s most dangerous city.
The country is so broke that even its hospitals have ceased to function -- which was the reason we were having this late night meeting with a local resident who couldn’t take it anymore.
In order to protect members of my team, I’m not going to mention their names. Our contact told us he’d drive us through the darkened streets to the city’s struggling main hospital. As we navigated the eerily dark streets -- demarcated by hedgerows of trash, he reminded us that public hospitals in Venezuela had been militarized just days earlier.
We knew the government posted guards at the doors -- we were told to keep doctors and nurses from organizing, to prevent the influx of donations (which would have to be handed over to the military) and to keep reporters from wading into the sea of misery inside.
According to the Committee to Protect Journalists, the Venezuelan government detained scores of journalists in 2016. This has been a “clear attempt by the Venezuelan government to control the flow of information and to restrict dissent. This has been very problematic for journalists in order to report the news. Venezuela clearly ranks as one of the most repressive countries in the Western Hemisphere.” Venezuela also holds more than 2,000 political prisoners, according to the watchdog group Foro Penal.
Driving up to that hospital, we saw ghostly figures moving zombie-like in the dark. They were spilling out of the emergency room. When we parked on a darkened drive, we saw figures slumped in the shadows. We were told they were family members of those hospitalized trying to sleep in shrubbery and concrete benches.
At the hospital’s entrance, there was a desk with a security guard and a droopy-eyed cop from the National Police -- his 9 mm pistol and extended ammunition clip jutting from his hip. The officer looked like a kid to me, with a mouth full of braces, hair that was spiked and gelled and bad posture. He half-raised an eyelid when I walked past the security check, but otherwise remained statue still.
Inside, it was basically a dormitory for the dying.
We made our way to the pediatric critical care unit. There we found a 4-year-old named Jonaical with a swollen abdomen, whose mother led us to his bedside. He had been waiting for tests for two months, his mother said. In the meantime, she and the other mothers there had to provide their children and themselves with everything but the IV drips. Everything including the bedding.
It wasn’t always this way. Venezuela’s public health system used to provide some of the best free health care in Latin America, beefed up by a small army of Cuban doctors.
After we had spoken to some of the mothers, our guide told us we had to move. On the way out we stopped at the packed waiting room -- full of desperate parents.
One mother kneeled by the inert form of her son, hands seemingly clasped in prayer. Suddenly loud voices broke that pieta -- an officer pointed at me. The security guard made a beeline for me. I flowed with the crowd towards the exit. But another cop had me.
The guards quickly surrounded me and told me to hand over the GoProcamera and my iPhone.
I told them I was shooting a story about sick children but they insisted we come with them.
Clearly me being a “gringo,” as they kept calling me, made them wary. After some time, I was taken outside to a supervisor’s office.
A pickup truck full of additional officers arrived. I was briefly cuffed when they found my mic pack. An officer asked which hand I wrote with -- then cuffed it. They began ordering me to sign a report that they had compiled.
I knew being cuffed was a dangerous sign and demanded a call to the U.S. Embassy. After a quick discussion, they unlocked me.
I later learned it only worked because the system is geared toward denying the detained and the arrested their rights -- meaning they could unlawfully detain someone as long as they didn’t officially “arrest them.” They ordered me onto the flatbed of a pickup and drove me 20 minutes away to police headquarters.
Along with seven cops, I was stuffed into a room. A few officers and I stood. After a couple of hours, one of them brought in a truck dipstick -- yes, the kind you use to check your oil, and began tapping it against his hand.
Yet, I think, this time being a “gringo” may have helped. Had I been a Venezuelan I might have been roughed up or worse.
The officers were obsessed with the gear, the GoPro, my phone and the mic pack. They didn’t know they could easily access the GoPro. I refused to give them access to the phone.
Unlike so many other reporters caught in similar situations, I knew I had the backing of one of the largest news organizations. I had seen the ABC News machine roll into action before on behalf of its other reporters. And I knew, implicitly, that hopefully, in a short while the company would be alerted.
The room was frigid -- because despite it being cool outside, having the AC on full blast was one of the benefits of living in a country where energy is nearly free.
What followed were hours of browbeating and intimidation -- one of the cops that had handcuffed me earlier kept miming clasping one hand over the wrist of his other hand and then wagging his finger at me. He was basically saying, "you’re going to jail."
They kept telling me, 'you are in big trouble.' They would likely have to call SEBIN -- the dreaded secret police -- unless I cooperated fully. But as morning approached their behavior began to change.
Suddenly they started talking about a deal. The ringleader of the officers began an hours-long lecture justifying bribe taking. He said that on his $30-a-month salary, corruption was the only way to survive. He had a wife and 2-year-old son. It was hard to make ends meet. He almost fell off his chair when I told him that in the U.S. there’s very little corruption in law enforcement. He also expressed shock at how infrequently (compared to his experience) American officers are gunned down.
In fact, Venezuela is one of the most dangerous countries in the world to be police officer. It’s also a place where the vast majority of officers are poor and grossly overworked. One of my guards slept outside the door folded like a laptop, another one passed out on a patch of cardboard on the floor inside the fetid bathroom.
I eventually was made to understand that the various officers concocted this together. They wanted a bribe. They said they could spring me and make all of this go away for $3,000. Then a few hours later it became $5,000 -- a huge amount of money in today’s Venezuela. The price went up because by now it was morning. I heard reveille called outside.
The first reports leaked by police to reporters about 12 hours later, said that we had been robbed and that they were helping us file a report.
They began coaching me -- giving “tips” on what to tell their higher-ups. But it turned out that even the highest ranking officers were in on it, too. At least one of those higher ranking officers even directed them to cook the official documents so that I’d seem less “suspicious.”
Again, the “crime” was trying to tell the truth about the suffering in a country these very officers kept telling us was a hellhole. It was at this point that mug shots were taken.
After an hours-long questioning by the police chief, he ordered a group picture. Assembling all the higher ranking officers and the arresting officers to mug with the “gringo." Then he handed me over to the secret police.
They were far more professional and far more terrifying. They drove me to another base, and kept me waiting for hours.
Like any TV reporter I had been wearing a mic wire. It had been hooked up to the mic pack. Early on that first night, thinking a simple mea culpa and profuse apology would defuse the situation, I had stuffed it into my underwear. But now that I knew the police were handing us over to the SEBIN I feared we’d be subjected to body searches. I had to get rid of the wire. So I asked to go to one of the fetid bathrooms. I stuffed the wire down the gullet of the toilet as far as my hand would reach -- fearing that the plumbing would spit it back up. Luckily, it stayed down.
After 24 hours of detention, I was finally fed at the intelligence base. But right across from the chair where the intelligence agents has deposited me was what the agents called their “dungeon.” It was six feet from the seat I would inhabit for most of the next three days -- it was about 30 inches wide. All I saw were bony knees and hands sticking out. The men slept on mats on the floor, feet to face. The secret police required their families (in a country where food is desperately short) to provide all their meals -- so their food was stacked, stinking in the heat, in the front of the cell.
After that first day, I ate meals in a whitewashed hut next to the “dungeon.” I tried talking to the men -- but was told by our guards to be quiet and keep moving. There is no system of bail in Venezuela. I was told some of the men I saw had been languishing without trial in that dank, dark corridor for two years.
On the second day there, a commissioner reportedly in charge of spying on millions of Venezuelans came in. He didn’t introduce himself, but just started talking to me. He asked if I was CIA, or if I’d ever been a Marine.
My response: "Look at me! I’m 5-foot-8. I’m half a Marine!" They laughed.
He then asked why I was caught snooping around a “sensitive installation.”
“A hospital is a sensitive installation?” I asked.
“It is in Venezuela,” acknowledged the chief candidly, “mostly because of the political situation. There are many forces trying to destabilize this country.”
The agents had pored through my internet and Twitter history. They would come to question me every time they found something new. Perhaps as a form of intimidation, they told me they knew who my mother and father were. They got my mother right but not my father, who died in a 1990 plane crash.
They seemed most concerned by my reporting from other countries -- particularly Russia. The irony is that while I’ve covered conflict zones from Afghanistan to Iraq to Syria, in Russia I solely reported on the Olympics.
Clearly, I’m not a spy. And I think after a just a day together the secret police believed that I was who I am: a reporter for ABC News.
Like the vast majority of detainees, I was denied my right to a phone call or contact with the outside world. I was told that if they chose to keep me there indefinitely, they could easily do so. It didn’t require much imagination: since the men in the dungeon sat less than six feet away from me.
I’d heard the horror stories about hundreds of people locked away in the intelligence agency’s dungeons. That’s what they are doing right now to another American -- Joshua Holt. He’s in a jail in Caracas beneath the secret police’s headquarters dubbed "La Tumba," The Tomb.
Perhaps the most astounding thing about being a detainee of the agency whose official role is ensuring the survival of the socialist Bolivarian revolution was the class structure there. The higher ups dressed meticulously in conspicuously branded clothes -- Hugo Boss, Polo and Izod etc. The mid-level guys had brands like Jeep, and Bass Pro shops. The rank-and-file had no brand names.
As ostentatious as their clothes -- their gadgetry. High-level officials all had iPhone7s, which had just come out in the U.S. -- phones worth nearly five times the yearly salary of police.
Some of the young agents tasked with watching me confided that they signed up for the benefits. One had been a physical therapist for five years. Another had finished law school. Everyone told me they needed the perks and the food offered by being part of the elite establishment.
I spent the next 20 hours in Venezuela shuttled from Valencia to the Caracas headquarters of the SEBIN. At one point, I was cuffed for five hours -- partly because the intelligence agents refused to coordinate with the U.S. Embassy.
Finally, I was sent to the arrivals hall with an entourage of 10 officers. I took possession of my passport only when I boarded the plane. I had the clothes on my back, but unlike so many others, I had what I valued most -- my freedom.
Once I got home, I got in touch with Joshua Holt’s mother. She has never stopped fighting for him. February 19th will mark eight months since his arrest and detention.
"This is like a medical facility in a war zone," says Huniades Urbina-Medina, describing the Jose Manuel de Los Rios children's hospital in the Venezuelan capital, Caracas.
"This used to be the best hospital, not just in the country, but in all of Latin America. We used to welcome patients from all over the region. And look at it now."
As he walks through the building, Dr Urbina-Medina points to the peeling paintwork, the exposed pipes and electricity cables.
"This isn't what a hospital should be, he says, it looks more like a building site."
Venezuela's economic crisis has hit the country hard and the health care system is crumbling.
As politicians argue over the rights and wrongs of recalling President Nicolas Maduro, doctors and nurses are struggling to cope.
"We don't have enough drugs to treat the sick," explains Dr Urbina-Medina as he points to the empty shelves in the hospital pharmacy.
"Five years ago, we had an average of 200 patients waiting to be operated on. At the last count, there were more than 5,500 names on the waiting list. We have nine operating rooms, but, today, only four are fully functional."
Image captionDespite his decrepit facilities, Dr Urbina-Medina is determined to stay in Venezuela
In one of the few wards that can can still be used, a young child lies listless on the bed, his mother by his side. He is called Alejandro and is 11 years old, but he looks half that age.
He has meningitis. His oversized skull bears witness to the tell-tale signs of hydrocephaly. His eyes are gaunt, he is painfully thin.
His body cannot fight the disease. It is weakened by malnutrition. Alejandro has been here for 12 days. His mother does not know how long his ordeal will last, his agony prolonged by the shortages of medicine.
But doctors are doing all they can to keep him comfortable.
"Venezuela has the highest rate of teenage pregnancies in the world," says Maritza Landaeta of the Fundacion Bengoa, an NGO which works in poor communities affected by malnutrition.
Image captionThe outpatient ward at Jose Manuel de Los Rios hospital has seen better days
"Many babies have a high chance of dying.
"Young mothers can't find the powdered milk and basic nutrients needed to guarantee their children's wellbeing. The shops are empty. Instead of milk, children are being fed with the water used for cooking potatoes or rice. We're now seeing an increasing number of children showing symptoms of starvation," says Ms Landaeta.
She has worked in this field for close to 40 years. She is a trained paediatrician and she's never seen a situation as bad as this before.
So who is to blame? She points a finger at the government, accused of taking measures to control the production, the distribution and the access to food.
"It isn't working," she says, "funds are going missing, there are food shortages, the authorities aren't doing their job.
"The state has to understand that this is a nutrition emergency."
Asked if children are dying because of political mismanagement and corruption, Maritza Landaeta sighs wearily and, with an air of resignation, says: "Yes."
In the heart of Caracas, behind high walls and a locked gate and almost hidden from view, there is a place of refuge for young Venezuelans hoping to escape poverty.
The Casa Don Bosco foster home is one of 86 such institutions across the country. It welcomes about 30 children, mostly adolescents.
"More and more children being put in foster homes because their families simply can't cope," says its director, Leonardo Rodriguez Angola, who holds up an official document.
Image captionCasa Don Bosco is home to 30 children whose families cannot look after them
"This is a request for us to take in three brothers, aged 13, 11 and eight. They live in poverty. Their mother has four other children."
Mr Rodriguez has been pleading with the government to get more help, but his appeals have fallen on deaf ears. "When we petition the authorities, they just laugh at us," he explains.
"Three years ago, the government created a new ministry of supreme social happiness. I thought that minister would help us. But when we went to ask for money to buy food, she replied that we had to ration what we had, adding: 'The whole country is on a diet.' The government wants to make the issue of poverty and hunger 'invisible'."
At the Jose Manuel de Los Rios children's hospital, Dr Urbina-Medina is continuing his rounds.
He comes across a room piled high with beds and monitors. Nothing works. Laughing, he says: "We call this our cemetery for medical equipment."
He's putting on a brave face, but he knows that the situation is desperate.
Huniades Urbina-Medina is four years away from retirement, he has received offers to work at other hospitals abroad.
Has he never been tempted to leave?
His answer is emphatic: "I want to stay here, our patients need our help. Life is tough, but I won't give up!"
Photos released by Venezuela's opposition this week show a dramatically different scene than you'd expect to see in a hospital nursery.
The images show newborn babies in cardboard boxes, lined up on a counter.
A hospital employee took the photos, according to the opposition group that released them.
The images purportedly were taken at the government-run Domingo Guzmán Lander Hospital in the coastal city of Barcelona, about 315 kilometers (195 miles) east of Caracas. CNN has not been able to independently verify the authenticity of the photos and it is unclear when they were taken.
Mesa de la Unidad Democratica, the coalition of opposition organizations that released the images, says the scene is another sign of a crisis hitting the country's health care system.
Authorities are investigating, according to the government official who runs the institute that oversees the Barcelona hospital and others across the country.
"We in no way justify the actions taken," Venezuelan Social Security Institute President Carlos Rotondaro said on Twitter Tuesday.
But he also defended the health care system.
"Our hospitals take care of hundreds of patients, despite what some media are hiding. We recognize the failures and continue," he wrote.
The government hospital system later tweeted what officials said were current photos and a video showing plastic hospital bassinets in the nursery.
Since January, officials said, the hospital has delivered more than 4,000 babies.
Venezuela is battling an economic crisis, and many Venezuelans are fed up with widespread shortages of basic goods and medical supplies, factory shutdowns and blackouts. Protests over the government have been raging for months, culminating in a push to recall President Nicolas Maduro.
In May, the opposition-controlled National Assembly declared that Venezuela was suffering a national humanitarian health crisis. The next month, a group of doctors speaking in the National Assembly decried shortages of medicines and supplies.
Venezuela's health care crisis 03:31
"Getting sick in Venezuela is synonymous with death," Dr. Cristian Pino told lawmakers at the time.
According to statistics released by the Venezuelan Pharmaceutical Federation in June, the country is facing a shortage of more than 80% of the medicines doctors need. And more than 13,000 doctors -- about 20% of the country's medical workforce, have left the country in recent years due to the collapse of the health sector.
The government denies there is a health care crisis and says Maduro's administration has opened more than 2,000 urgent care facilities throughout the country. The President also accuses the opposition of plotting to privatize the national health care system.
CNN's Julia Jones, Michael Roa, Euan McKirdy, Paula Newton and Flora Charner contributed to this report.