Venezuelans take rescue into own hands as official response lags after quakes kill 1,719

Devastation along the coast

The drive from Caracas down to the coast reveals a line where the destruction begins. Before that line, damage seems minor; beyond it, entire blocks of residential buildings and hotels have been flattened. No building stands unscathed. The coastal stretch from La Guaira eastward was most affected. Official figures: 1,719 dead, over 5,000 injured, nearly 16,000 made homeless, and tens of thousands still missing. The smell of decay pervades every intersection.

“Neighbours say they saw my brother trying to get out, but we haven't found him in the apartments. Maybe he was on the stairs.”

Gabriela Pérez, whose four children and mother are trapped, has barely slept, sitting vigil by the rubble of her home. "I'm not leaving. We cannot lose hope," she says, her voice hoarse.

Ad hoc rescue by locals

Without central government coordination, local volunteers and family members became the first wave of rescue. They arrived from Caracas and other parts with water, food, and tools. In Caraballeda, a cluster of waiting relatives scanned building after building. Groups wearing helmets and luminous vests dug through debris by hand. Municipal authorities are absent, and many direct their frustration at a state they feel abandoned them.

“The government? I don't see them here. Yes, lots of police and military, but they mainly manage traffic. We do a lot ourselves.”

Marcano's family has been digging a 12-metre tunnel, surviving on bread and coffee, hoping to find relatives. A video circulating on WhatsApp from the ground floor of a collapsed building whispered of sweets and water enough to survive a bit longer, keeping hope alive.

International teams race the clock

By Monday, 51 international rescue teams were at work. The Dutch USAR team, funded with €2 million from the Netherlands, arrived Saturday and set up a self-contained camp at a sports hall. Its 64 members work in four shifts around the clock, with eight search dogs scanning debris. The team also handles coordination at the airport, directing arriving teams to sites in consultation with local authorities.

On Sunday, a family tipped them about a victim still signalling under a 10-storey apartment block. A Dutch dog alerted, and when bystanders quieted, tapping could be heard. "For three hours there was hope. Then the tapping stopped and it fell silent," Redelijkheid says.

“Then you know: someone is still alive. We have to do this.”

The following day, an American team pulled a woman and her infant alive from the rubble, 85 hours after the quake, drawing a round of applause from rescuers. "You stand there with everyone clapping and being grateful. This is what we're here for," Redelijkheid recalled.

Fading hope and resilience

Conditions are grim. Constructing buildings here often lack structural resilience, and the tropical heat above 30°C accelerates dehydration for anyone trapped. Redelijkheid notes that in the 2023 Turkey quake, cold bought more time; here survival chances are smaller. The standard 10-day rescue window will soon close. After that, heavy machinery will clear the wreckage. The team has supplies for 10 days but will leave earlier if no signs of life remain.

Yet the Venezuelans, hardened by years of hardship, show striking solidarity. They translate, carry tools, and spend nights on the street to maintain the search.

“The local people do not sit back, they help each other and help us. They are remarkably united.”