In Venezuela’s recent history, the state of Carabobo has stood as the industrial heartland. Following the economic collapse over the past decade, numerous factories have shut down or function below their full potential. In this narrative, Jorge Barragán visits an industrial facility in the region to participate in its Christmas celebration.
Jorge Barragán is an international analyst who graduated from the Central University of Venezuela (UCV).
Guacamaya, December 21, 2025. I depart from Caracas before dawn, heading towards the heart of the country. The sun is just rising along the Central Regional Highway, connecting Valencia and the capital. We’re headed to a manufacturing plant that is hosting its Christmas party today. Traveling to Venezuela’s industrial core is akin to a journey into both the past and the future simultaneously.
I’m here to meet the workers, witness their daily lives, and hear firsthand the heartbeat of an industry that has endured nearly everything. Today, I’m not focused on technical analysis but rather enjoying hallaca with those who keep the machines running.
Upon crossing the factory gate, the external noise dissipates. It’s not just the sound of machinery; it’s about the mindset. Here, the confrontational dynamics that long divided the “boss” and the “worker” have faded amid a reality that has affected both. The rentier state has collapsed, and the importance of the private sector is now a matter of survival.
This shift has a tangible economic impact. While public sector salaries have dwindled to barely US$ 4 or 5 monthly (even with bonuses that cover less than 30% of the basic food basket), the private industry has emerged as a “refuge” for Venezuelan labor.
According to Conindustria data for the third quarter of 2025, the average monthly income for a private industrial laborer is approximately US$ 217 to 235. While this still struggles against the soaring cost of living, it exceeds public sector compensation by over 150%, which hardly reaches a comprehensive income of US$ 161 (largely composed of bonuses without contributing to the base salary).
Today, the industrial sector is the highest-paying in the country. When entering the plant, I don’t see employees clocking in; I see individuals protecting a treasure. Capitalism didn’t just succeed in theories; it triumphed around the worker’s table, where they understand their welfare hinges on the machines remaining operational.
The nation built its factories with oil money, experienced a rapid boom, faced numerous challenges including nationalizations, devaluation, hyperinflation, and stifling regulations leading many companies to close. However, some have remained resilient thanks to the determination of both their owners and their employees to keep production going, even when oil no longer subsidized everything.
The managers clearly express as we walk through the production line: “People first, brand and machinery afterward.” In a climate where goods are hard to distinguish and competition from imports is intense, the only competitive edge lies in human efficiency.
Many manufacturing plants surrounding this one have shut down; it is one of the few still operational. Others have been purchased by Chinese capital, as employees note, “likely to set up a warehouse, but not to resume production.”
A quiet yet significant change is happening in Venezuelan society. The rentier state, once promising security for loyalty, has deteriorated. Consequently, Venezuelan workers have rediscovered the importance of private enterprise.
When lunchtime arrives, there’s music, a birthday celebration, and the familiar aroma of hallaca fills the dining room. Yet, discussions around the tables remain grounded in reality. Everyone acknowledges: 2025 has been more challenging than 2024. The devaluation weighs heavily, and the electricity crisis forces the plant to burn diesel to continue operations. Still, there’s a sense of resilience, an almost stubborn energy, a hopefulness that good things will happen.
Amid my first hallaca of the year, I chatted with Carlos and Juan, union members with 30 years in the industry. They shared the obstacles they faced this year at the plant and how they’ve managed to overcome them. When we broach union topics, their expressions shift; the ideological fervor of the past seems absent.
“It’s not like it used to be,” Carlos tells me, a mix of realism and relief in his tone. He explains that the government’s efforts to control every union movement ultimately stifled them. His conclusion encapsulates the new Venezuela: “What I most want is for the company to prosper next year. If the company thrives, we all benefit.”
After the meal, the boss addresses the group. His speech doesn’t dive into politics but rather speaks of growth despite the country’s challenges. It’s the philosophy of survival: to navigate the circumstances without being overwhelmed by them. They are eager to launch new products next year, which brings joy and pride to all the employees.
During the celebrations, I meet Andrea, the company’s head of purchasing, who has spent 35 years advancing within the organization. She began at age 15 through the INCES program, a practical training initiative founded in 1959 by Master Luis Beltrán Prieto Figueroa, a notable political figure.
She has endured monetary reconversions, shortages, and severe devaluations, but her focus has always been on growing the factory. Andrea isn’t just a manager; she serves as a role model. Her colleagues look at her with a blend of affection and respect. For her, and for many others, the company is an anchor; a pathway to progress in a turbulent sea.
The most touching moment was the award presentations. Management called the veterans to the stage. Names were accompanied by figures that seem astonishing in such an unstable nation: 25, 30, 35 years of service. The applause was long, heartfelt, and profound. In a country where everything feels transient, these men and women demonstrate that something can indeed be lasting.
As the day ends, and as dusk descends over the parking lot while workers bid farewell, I reflect on what this place signifies. It’s not merely a factory that endures; it’s a Venezuela that has learned, the hard way, the importance of work—recognizing that without work, there is no future. A Venezuela that doesn’t rely on oil miracles but instead invests in discipline, routine, and effort to create something self-sustaining. This is achieved only through harmony and collaboration between employees and employers.
Here, far from Caracas and the political clamor, lies a country eager to produce. It recognizes it can do it. And it remains committed to rebuilding itself from the ground up.
For years, official narratives fostered the notion that the private sector was the people’s enemy and that entrepreneurs were “exploitative bosses.” Public employment was seen as the ultimate goal of the rentier state. That model has fallen apart. The irony is clear: the very project aimed at eliminating private enterprise has inadvertently elevated its social standing.