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Nestled along the northeastern coast of Venezuela, the state of Anzoátegui is a fascinating blend of indigenous heritage, colonial history, and contemporary struggles. From the bustling streets of Barcelona (its capital) to the serene beaches of Puerto La Cruz, Anzoátegui offers a microcosm of Venezuela’s cultural richness—and its modern-day crises.
Music is the soul of Anzoátegui, and nowhere is this more evident than in the region’s love for tambor (drumming) and gaita (a traditional folk genre). Gaita, often associated with Christmas, has evolved into a year-round expression of identity. In recent years, it has also become a subtle form of protest. Lyrics now often allude to Venezuela’s economic collapse, with artists using metaphor to critique the government without facing outright censorship.
Local festivals, like the Feria de la Chinita, showcase these traditions. But even here, the impact of hyperinflation is visible—fewer attendees, scaled-back performances, and a reliance on community donations to keep the culture alive.
While the joropo is traditionally linked to the Venezuelan plains, Anzoátegui has its own spin. The joropo anzoatiguense incorporates Afro-Venezuelan rhythms, reflecting the state’s coastal influences. Dance schools still operate, but many have turned to virtual classes due to migration—a bittersweet adaptation to the diaspora.
Anzoátegui’s take on Venezuela’s national dish, pabellón criollo, often includes fresh seafood like cazón (shark) or guasa (a local fish). But with fish prices soaring, many families substitute cheaper proteins or skip the dish altogether. Street vendors now sell arepas stuffed with whatever’s affordable—sometimes just beans and plantains.
Once ubiquitous, coconut-based sweets like cocada and pan de tunja (a cornbread-like treat) are becoming rarer. The collapse of local agriculture means ingredients are imported at exorbitant prices. Some bakeries have pivoted to using cassava flour, a more accessible alternative.
Anzoátegui is a hotspot for the syncretic religion of María Lionza, blending indigenous, African, and Catholic beliefs. Followers gather at makeshift altars, seeking protection and prosperity—a poignant contrast to the state’s crumbling infrastructure. In 2023, a record number of pilgrims visited the Montaña de Sorte, many praying for visas or safe passage abroad.
Despite economic hardship, the Cathedral of Barcelona remains a pillar of community life. Processions for Semana Santa (Holy Week) still draw crowds, but the church now doubles as a de facto aid center, distributing food and medicine.
Migration has stripped Anzoátegui of much of its creative class. Musicians like El Potro Álvarez (a gaita star) now perform in Miami or Madrid, sending remittances home. Social media keeps traditions alive, with virtual peñas (folk gatherings) attracting global audiences.
With over 7 million Venezuelans abroad, remittances are a lifeline. In Anzoátegui, this has created a paradoxical economy—families rely on dollars from relatives overseas while struggling to preserve local traditions. Some festivals are now funded by expats, a modern twist on cultural preservation.
Anzoátegui sits atop Venezuela’s oil belt, but mismanagement has turned this blessing into a curse. Spills and blackouts are routine, damaging fishing communities. The irony? Locals who once worked for PDVSA (the state oil company) now fish to survive.
Before the crisis, destinations like Mochima National Park drew tourists. Today, litter and abandoned boats mar the coastline. Grassroots groups try to clean up, but without government support, their efforts are Band-Aids on a bullet wound.
Anzoátegui’s culture is resilient, but it’s also at a tipping point. The question isn’t just about survival—it’s about what gets lost in the process. Will gaita lyrics one day forget the pain of the 2020s? Will the next generation know the taste of real pan de tunja?
For now, the people of Anzoátegui dance, cook, and pray—not just to remember, but to resist.