Letter from Caracas/ Michael McCaughan: In the past two months Caracas has witnessed some unusual thefts: a bust of John Paul II, two businessmen on their way to an investment conference, a dozen metal steps removed from an electric stairway at a metro station.
No one was surprised this week when a half-mile strip of cement separating traffic along a six-lane highway went missing overnight.
Caracas has always been a dangerous place. The streets are overrun with informal traders, whose stalls occupy every inch of pavement, selling pirate CDs and clothes, while also installing open-air beauty salons and computer repair workshops. With a million hungry people and no welfare system, the white-skinned foreigner is a tempting morsel. The visitor is warned not to make any unnecessary excursions on to the streets in daytime and by God don't walk anywhere at night. A Capuchin friar just appealed to the police for a patrol inside his church as beggars were making life miserable for devotees, cursing loudly if charity was refused during Sunday Mass.
The only way to survive the onslaught is to establish a cordon sanitaire around one's movements, borrowing heavily from guerrilla warfare maestro Sun Tzu. The Irish Times Venezuelan Defence Force (ITVDF) currently consists of a homeless Haitian painter who sleeps opposite my apartment block, the entire staff of the bakery at one end of the street, and the heavy metal heads working in the nearby Internet café.
The ITVDF members watch out for me at the most vulnerable moments, entering and leaving home, withdrawing cash from a bank machine, waiting for a taxi.
The Venezuelan thief is an artful dodger, whose ingenuity compensates for the painful relief of one's coppers. One current favourite is the so-called roller coaster by which a gang of thieves switch off a moving metro stairway, provoking freefall among people descending the steep steps, or what's left of the steps. A number of thieves, strategically placed among the falling punters, will clean up on wallets and valuables, making a safe exit in the confusion.
Citizens have no patience with the robbers, who are beaten savagely if caught in the act and occasionally lynched. The police are overwhelmed by the scale of the problem and have opted to join the fray, charging outrageous "taxes" to trainee cops for the privilege of patrolling a lucrative beat.
While government and opposition supporters disagree on which part of the sky the sun rises each day, they never dispute the weekend murder statistics published each Monday, like a body count from a distant battlefield. An enterprising analyst totted up 46,000 violent deaths in the past five years, comparable to the number of US fatalities during the Vietnam war. This year's death rate is 36 bodies a day.
In comparison the volatile political climate, which has provoked a failed coup and permanent street fighting, has caused a paltry 53 deaths in the past year.
The city is divided between rich and poor, but also between pro-government national guard and anti-government metropolitan police. The rival forces recently squared off at a busy shopping plaza when the national guard prevented police from arresting street traders for stealing electricity from nearby poles. Three national guardsmen were shot and injured in the fracas.
The upmarket Plaza Francia is in the hands of dissident army troops, who have constructed a permanent stage and campsite, while downtown Plaza Bolivar belongs to the Chavez supporters who run the esquina caliente (hot spot), a speaker's corner for pro-government militants.
In between the rival bands move millions of Venezuelans, fed up with politics, desperately trying to make a living on brutally inadequate wages.
A woman who cleans hotel rooms told me she earns 40,000 Bolivares a week, about €25, while the bakery staff earn slightly more, working from 7 a.m. to 9 p.m., six days a week.
The average transport time to work is an hour each way, leaving little time for children or leisure.
Venezuelans can never resist the opportunity to run themselves down. "We are selfish and egocentric," they say, yet they are instinctively kind. The Haitian citizen living across the road from me lost his lodgings two months ago, no longer able to pay the rent. Every day a group of neighbours bring him coffee, fruit and water, and allow him the use of a shower.
The government has begun an urban pride campaign, launching a city garden scheme which will see green areas colonised by neighbours to grow vegetables. The pilot project is located in the heart of the city, beside the Hilton hotel, where lettuces and cucumber sprout amidst the car fumes.
In addition a group of schools have begun a conflict resolution programme, training several thousand children in negotiating skills, learning to settle disputes without recourse to violence.
But Venezuela's heated political climate leaves little space between love and hate. When (anti-Chavez) police arrested a gang of grave robbers last week they proudly displayed their find: a sinister altar adorned with bones and skulls. In the middle of it was a pristine, smiling photo of President Hugo Chavez, like a portrait of the Virgin Mary blessing a family home.
Shortly after sending this article from Caracas, Michael McCaughan was mugged by seven youths, who grabbed him by the throat before making off with his money, credit card and mobile phone. Though shaken, he is otherwise unhurt.