The bridge of desperation
The humanitarian crisis in Venezuela has led to one of the largest mass migrations in Latin America鈥檚 history.
President Nicol谩s Maduro blames 鈥渋mperialists鈥� - the likes of the US and Europe - for waging 鈥渆conomic war鈥� against Venezuela and imposing sanctions on many members of his government.
But his critics say it is economic mismanagement - first by predecessor Hugo Ch谩vez and now President Maduro himself - that has brought Venezuela to its knees.
The country has the largest proven oil reserves in the world. It was once so rich that Concorde used to fly from Caracas to Paris. Now, its economy is in tatters.
Four in five Venezuelans . People queue for hours to buy food. Much of the time they go without. People are dying from a lack of medicines. Inflation is at 82,766% and there are warnings it could exceed .
Venezuelans are trying to get out. The 2.3 million people have fled the country - 7% of the population. More than a million have arrived in Colombia in the past 18 months.
Many of those Venezuelans have come over the Sim贸n Bol铆var International Bridge.
The gateway
The Simon Bolivar International Bridge photographed in February 2018 (EPA/Rex/Shutterstock)
The bridge is about 300m long and 7m wide. It straddles the Rio T谩chira in the eastern Andes, a river that snakes along the border between Colombia and Venezuela. The river bed can sometimes dry up but heavy rains soon change that.
The two small towns the bridge connects - San Antonio del T谩chira on the Venezuelan side and Villa del Rosario in Colombia - are in two very different worlds.
Colombians rarely pop over the border to do their shopping in Venezuela like they used to. It鈥檚 almost entirely one-way traffic nowadays.
Every day at 05:00 Colombian time, (06:00 in Venezuela), the sound of a fence being dragged across tarmac breaks the silence in the valley and marks the opening of the bridge to pedestrians.
The queue from Venezuela into Colombia usually builds steadily overnight. When the gates open, it鈥檚 like athletes out of the starting blocks. Venezuelans can鈥檛 get over quickly enough.
Some people are stopped by guards and told to open their bags. While most do so without drama, you can see panic in some faces when people realise they are about to be caught.
With Venezuela鈥檚 economy in crisis, there鈥檚 an incentive to smuggle staples like meat and cheese into Colombia so it can be sold for higher prices. The people doing it aren鈥檛 Mr Bigs - they鈥檙e mostly just Venezuelans desperate to raise money to buy other essentials.
Venezuelans pass through migration checks on the bridge
One woman, whose meat is confiscated, wails: 鈥淲hat am I meant to do?鈥� The guard replies gruffly: 鈥淭his is a humanitarian corridor - you can take food into Venezuela but you can鈥檛 take it out.鈥� And so it repeats throughout the day.
Those with nothing to declare - or perhaps just the lucky ones who aren鈥檛 stopped - walk on through. The trundle of suitcase wheels is the soundtrack of this bridge.
When you get to the end of the bridge, you reach what鈥檚 known as La Parada, or 鈥渢he stop鈥� in English. It鈥檚 a bustling community that makes its money from border trade. Market sellers, pharmacies, shops and bus companies all vying for sales from those crossing the bridge. Most of the street traders here used to be Colombians - this is after all Colombia.
But increasingly, Venezuelans have also started setting up shop here, trying to sell their wares in a country where the currency hasn鈥檛 been decimated.
The haircut
Right at the end of the bridge, amid the chorus of street-sellers, one man shouts: 鈥淲ho wants to sell their hair?鈥�
In front of a metal barrier protecting the bridge, Laura Castellanos sits on a plastic stool. The 25-year-old has long wavy brown hair to the bottom of her back. She looks uneasy.
A woman is stood behind her, scissors in hand. Laura is about to lose most of her hair.
She鈥檚 nursing her two-month old daughter Paula who is wrapped up in a big fluffy blanket and wearing a stripy pink hat. She yawns as she lies patiently in her mother鈥檚 arms, unaware of the border chaos around her. Laura鈥檚 husband Jhon Acevedo is nearby looking after their two older daughters.
The hair-cutter is lifting up the top layer of Laura鈥檚 hair and cutting what鈥檚 underneath right back to the roots. She doesn鈥檛 want to talk much. It鈥檚 almost as if she鈥檚 embarrassed.
With every snip she hands a chunk of hair to another woman standing next to her. The hair buyer says nothing and looks away. It feels like a cold transaction, nothing more.
Laura is getting paid 30,000 pesos ($10) for her hair. It鈥檒l be sold on to make extensions or wigs.
鈥淚t鈥檚 the first time I鈥檝e done it,鈥� she says with a mixture of nervousness and embarrassment. She鈥檚 come for the day from the town of Rubio, about an hour from the border.
Laura is selling her hair because her eldest daughter, eight-year-old Andrea, has diabetes and the family needs to raise money to pay for her insulin which she takes three times a day. The family has run out of supplies and it鈥檚 been three days since little Andrea last had her shots. Jhon鈥檚 salary as a saddler doesn鈥檛 always stretch to pay for his daughter鈥檚 drugs.
鈥淭here鈥檚 no medicine, it鈥檚 hard,鈥� says Laura. 鈥淧eople are dying in Venezuela because they can鈥檛 get the medicines they need.鈥�
After five minutes of cutting, the family heads off to find a pharmacy. At first glance you can鈥檛 tell Laura鈥檚 had most of her hair removed. The hair-cutter has left a thin layer of long hair on top to hide the truth. Laura admits she feels a bit sad.
鈥淚t will pay for something at least,鈥� she says. Her husband Jhon says they鈥檙e looking for a 鈥減irate鈥� pharmacy - an informal stall that sells drugs in plastic cabinets on the street. Insulin pens will be cheaper there than in a walk-in drug store.
A Colombian 鈥減irate鈥� pharmacy
But on the streets around La Parada there鈥檚 no way of knowing that what they are buying is the real deal. Counterfeits abound but it鈥檚 a risk Laura and the family think is worth taking.
鈥淭here鈥檚 no insulin back home, you can鈥檛 get it anywhere,鈥� Laura says as she eyes the best-before date on the side of the insulin pen. They pick up two dark blue pens for 8,000 pesos each ($2.65) and go on their way. That will last them nearly two months before they have to begin the search again. It鈥檚 not enough time for Laura鈥檚 hair to grow back.
Andrea with her insulin pen
The shots
On the other side of the road, not more than 10m from where Laura was getting her hair cut, 29-year-old Celene Cacique is sitting on the pavement. The mother-of-three has a black, red and white jacket with a picture of Mickey Mouse. She鈥檚 nursing her youngest - two-month-old baby Isabella who is wrapped up in a pink blanket and has a little hat on.
The sun is strong during the day but the early mornings are crisp here - wrapping up babies is a good idea. The bigger the blanket, the better.
Celene Cacique (second left) and her baby Isabella
Celene got here at 06:45, queuing for the health centre which opens at 08:00. She鈥檚 chatting to other mothers who鈥檝e all come to vaccinate their babies. Lined up along the pavement are brightly-coloured prams and bundled-up babies.
The Colombian government opened the centre at the end of the bridge to attend to the large number of Venezuelans who are coming over the border to get vaccines.
With severe shortages of medicines and vaccines in Venezuela, and diseases that never used to be a problem are now re-emerging. Diphtheria and measles are just some of those making a come-back.
It鈥檚 the second time Celene has had to make the journey over the border.
鈥淚 came eight days ago and there were more than 120 kids,鈥� she says. 鈥淭hey only let 100 in and the other 20 weren鈥檛 served. You have to get here early.鈥�
It鈥檚 been a very tough few months for Celene. When she was just four months pregnant with Isabella, her husband was killed.
Michel worked as a lorry driver, moving cargo across the border between Venezuela and Colombia. Driving home at 10 in the evening on his motorbike, he hit a cow in the middle of the road and was killed instantly. The hospital called her at three in the morning to tell her he was in the mortuary.
鈥淭here are no lights on the road,鈥� explains Celene matter-of-factly. 鈥淭here鈥檚 so much theft, people take cables, copper, they leave nothing. It鈥檚 how they find money to pay for food.鈥�
Venezuela鈥檚 economic problems effectively cost Michel his life.
President Maduro is the worst thing Ch谩vez left us鈥�
That鈥檚 a feeling shared by many. When Hugo Ch谩vez came to power in 1999, there was hope. He was a man who championed the poor in what has always been a deeply divided society. He was a vibrant and controversial figure who wanted to lead a socialist revolution in Venezuela.
But Chavez was helped by strong commodity prices that funded his ambitious social programmes. With a fall in oil prices, President Maduro has had no such luck - and little of the charisma his predecessor had. During his leadership, the country has fallen into economic decline.
鈥淭he government does whatever it wants, it has all the power,鈥� says Celene. 鈥淥nly God can help us - it鈥檚 the only thing left.鈥�
But Celene has a lifeline. Her mother-in-law lives in the US and sends back $500 every couple of months. With her new baby, and two older children who are four and eight, Celene is unable to work. So she relies on that money to keep her afloat. It鈥檚 money that she also shares with her sister, her brother-in-law and their baby.
The hospital
Warning: This chapter contains images of injury
While pop-up health centres by the bridge can deal with less serious illnesses, 10 minutes鈥� drive away into the centre of the nearest city C煤cuta, the Erasmo Meoz hospital is struggling with far bigger problems.
The red-brick university hospital is creaking under the pressure.
In the emergency ward, patients are lined up in hospital beds along the wall and in front of doors. Family members are gathered around the beds, comforting their relatives.
Those who are able to are sitting on a row of plastic chairs. Other patients are in wheelchairs, attached to drips. Outside the ward, in the hospital courtyard, more people are waiting. In among the mass of people, a group of prisoners, chained by the wrists, is guided to another part of hospital for treatment.
The emergency ward has capacity for 75 beds. But there are currently 100 patients in this room. There鈥檚 hardly any space to move.
In a room off the main ward, a dead body lies waiting. Covered in a white cotton sheet, and tied tight around the neck and feet, it鈥檚 there for all to see until a member of staff finally wheels it through the crowds of beds and on to the mortuary. There鈥檚 no space or time for a peaceful exit in this chaotic hospital.
Each bed is marked with the patient鈥檚 nationality.
脕ngel Escobar, 28, is one of the Venezuelans. His mother is wrapping bandages around arms which are red-raw, blistered and weeping.
脕ngel Escobar
脕ngel, his brother Teobaldo and their mother Cecilia recently made the journey from the city of Barinas, 350km from the border. They didn鈥檛 have the money for a bus ticket, so instead they hitched several rides, nursing 脕ngel and his wounds along the way.
脕ngel used to be a motorcycle mechanic. Five years ago, he was fixing a bike in his workshop when a spark caused a petrol tank to explode.
鈥淚 got second and third degree burns,鈥� he explains. 鈥淚 waited in hospital in Venezuela for help - it never came.鈥�
Instead his situation got worse. He contracted three infections in hospital and he went downhill rapidly.
The injuries he鈥檚 got look so red and recent but this has been five years of daily pain. The seeping raw skin is the aftermath of the infections, not the burns themselves.
鈥淭hey didn鈥檛 treat him because they didn鈥檛 have supplies,鈥� Cecilia explains. She says there wasn鈥檛 even an infection specialist at the hospital to help.
脕ngel has got large scaly scabs on top of his skin that are slowly coming off now he鈥檚 in hospital.
His arms are deformed because of an error made by the doctors in Venezuela. In Colombia he says he鈥檚 being looked after at last.
Dr Andr茅s Eloy Galvis Jaimes, who is in charge of the emergencies ward, says the situation is getting out of hand.
鈥淭hirty per cent of our patients in emergencies are Venezuelans,鈥� he says. 鈥淭he national government isn鈥檛 giving us extra money. There鈥檒l come a moment that we won鈥檛 have any more resources for anyone. That鈥檚 a real fear.鈥�
The long walk
On the Ruta Nacional 55, a main road leading south out of C煤cuta, a group of seven Venezuelans are walking along the side of the road, hoping to hitch a lift. Their belongings are in holdalls strapped across their backs or in small rucksacks. A couple have bags of water.
Eliane Pedrique took a bus from Valencia, Venezuela鈥檚 third largest city, to the border with Colombia. From there, her only option was to walk to the city of Pamplona to find work. It鈥檚 about 60km.
She鈥檚 not very well-equipped and only has sandals to wear. But with the bus fare costing 100,000 pesos ($33 dollars), it鈥檚 a luxury she can鈥檛 afford.
Eliane Pedrique and her friend walking to Pamplona
Eliane has left her two children, aged five and two, with her mother.
鈥淚 feel really sad,鈥� she says, crying.
鈥淭here鈥檚 no way of earning money. There鈥檚 no work and the small amount you can earn doesn鈥檛 even stretch to buy rice,鈥� she says. 鈥淵ou have to leave to be able to earn that little extra money so you can help.鈥�
In Venezuela she sold ice cream and fruit on the streets. She used to sell fruit juice too but with the price of sugar going up so much, she had to stop.
She couldn鈥檛 afford nappies for her baby so instead she used bits of cloth, known as 鈥済uayucos鈥� and then a plastic bag wrapped around it to keep the urine from leaking.
鈥淭hey didn鈥檛 want me to go,鈥� she says of her family she鈥檚 left behind. 鈥淭hey asked me to be careful but they have faith. We have to go forward for the sake of our children.鈥�
She鈥檚 going to Pamplona unsure of what she will do but willing to try anything.
鈥淚f you don鈥檛 work, you don鈥檛 eat,鈥� she says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 one of the terrible consequences of this awful government we have in Venezuela. In truth, it鈥檚 hit us hard and it鈥檚 been even worse since he won the elections again in May,鈥� she says of President Maduro.
She wants to go home in two months to give her family the money she has earned, and then return to Colombia once again.
If she goes back to Venezuela, she鈥檒l notice some big changes. The president has overhauled the country鈥檚 currency, the bolivar, slashing five zeroes off it and pegging it to a state-backed cryptocurrency called the Petro. He also raised the minimum wage by over 3,000%.
While these changes have been justified as an attempt by the Maduro administration to rein in spiralling inflation and improve the lives of millions, few people have faith they will alter the economic realities of the country.
In the heat, the walk isn鈥檛 easy. Some people along the way have been kind, giving the walkers fruit and water. But not everyone is friendly. The day they arrived, one man gave them water with plant fertiliser in it.
On the Ruta Nacional 55, a main road leading south out of Cucuta, a group of seven Venezuelans are walking along the side of the road, hoping to hitch a lift. Their belongings are in holdalls strapped across their backs or in small rucksacks. A couple have bags of water.
Eliane Pedrique took a bus from Valencia, Venezuela鈥檚 third largest city, to the border with Colombia. From there, her only option was to walk to the city of Pamplona to find work. It鈥檚 about 60km.
Eliane Pedrique and her friend walking to Pamplona
She鈥檚 not very well-equipped and only has sandals to wear. But with the bus fare costing 100,000 pesos ($33 dollars), it鈥檚 a luxury she can鈥檛 afford.
Eliane has left her two children, aged five and two, with her mother.
鈥淚 feel really sad,鈥� she says, crying.
鈥淭here鈥檚 no way of earning money. There鈥檚 no work and the small amount you can earn doesn鈥檛 even stretch to buy rice,鈥� she says. 鈥淵ou have to leave to be able to earn that little extra money so you can help.鈥�
In Venezuela she sold ice cream and fruit on the streets. She used to sell fruit juice too but with the price of sugar going up so much, she had to stop.
She couldn鈥檛 afford nappies for her baby so instead she used bits of cloth, known as 鈥済uayucos鈥� and then a plastic bag wrapped around it to keep the urine from leaking.
鈥淭hey didn鈥檛 want me to go,鈥� she says of her family she鈥檚 left behind. 鈥淭hey asked me to be careful but they have faith. We have to go forward for the sake of our children.鈥�
She鈥檚 going to Pamplona unsure of what she will do but willing to try anything.
鈥淚f you don鈥檛 work, you don鈥檛 eat,鈥� she says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 one of the terrible consequences of this awful government we have in Venezuela. In truth, it鈥檚 hit us hard and it鈥檚 been even worse since he won the elections again in May.鈥�
She wants to go home in two months to give her family the money she has earned, and then return to Colombia once again.
In the heat, the walk isn鈥檛 easy. Some people along the way have been kind, giving the walkers fruit and water. But not everyone is friendly. The day they arrived, one man gave them water with plant fertiliser in it.
Edgar Centeno met Eliane on the border and they鈥檝e joined up for moral support along the walk. Edgar is 21 with a partner and two-year-old boy back home. In Venezuela he worked in various jobs - fixing air-conditioning units was just one of his lines of work.
Edgar Centeno
鈥淵ou need at least 10 jobs to be able to survive,鈥� he says.
Colombia though is a place of opportunity. On Edgar鈥檚 back is a red, yellow and blue rucksack. They鈥檙e the colours of the Venezuelan flag. It鈥檚 a bag given to Venezuelan school children by the government but it鈥檚 become a common sight among migrants.
鈥淢y aim is not to go back empty-handed,鈥� he says, as he walks along the road. 鈥淚 made a promise to myself that I have to provide a good future for my son. Whatever happens, I need to support him.鈥�
He doesn鈥檛 know where he鈥檒l end up, he may carry on through South America to find the right job. He鈥檚 weighing up Peru as an option.
That dream though may not be easy to achieve. Venezuela鈥檚 neighbours are tightening their borders. Ecuador has declared a state of emergency with more than 4,000 Venezuelans crossing the Colombia-Ecuador border every day. Both Ecuador and Peru have also said Venezuelans will need passports to enter their countries - until now, an ID card had been enough.
All of the walkers blame the president for the crisis the country鈥檚 in. Edgar struggles to articulate what he feels and then comes out with it.
鈥淗e鈥檚 useless, he鈥檚 scum,鈥� he says.
鈥淗e blames everyone apart from himself,鈥� adds Elaine. 鈥淗e doesn鈥檛 take any responsibility. He just needs to go.鈥�
You would expect people like Eliane and Edgar, who are leaving Venezuela, to have an anti-Maduro bent. But the government maintains that the criticisms regularly levelled against it are unfair - that if it wasn鈥檛 for the US 鈥渋mperialists鈥� who want to control Venezuela, or the sanctions imposed on members of President Maduro's government and an opposition he says is hell-bent on destroying the country, then Venezuela would be in much better shape.
President Maduro and his administration often paint themselves as the innocent victims in this story of Venezuela鈥檚 decline. And they paint those who leave as deserters of the socialist cause.
Edgar, Elaine and their friends don鈥檛 want to stick around. They have ground to cover before the day ends. They cross the road and start walking towards their new - and unknown - future.
Those who wait
As the day goes on, the queues carry on building on the border. Hundreds of people wait in line at immigration for a stamp in their passport to make their onward journey more straightforward.
There are queues at money transfer houses where Venezuelans wait patiently to pick up much-needed funds from relatives and friends who live abroad.
And there are queues for buses - people waiting with suitcases piled up high, their entire possessions carefully packed as they head to meet their friends and families across South America.
But for every Venezuelan lucky enough to be moving on, there remain dozens who don鈥檛 have the resources to go anywhere.
Johnny, Angel and Yember are hanging around the middle of the bridge, waiting for Venezuelans to come over. Dressed in T-shirts, ripped jeans and trainers, they鈥檝e each got a luggage trolley in hand with rope wrapped around the handles - they鈥檙e ready to tie up the heavy bags of incoming Venezuelans and help them get to the nearest bus stop.
They鈥檙e all recent arrivals from the capital Caracas, Valencia and San Cristobal. They鈥檝e stayed by the border to earn some money before moving on. But business as a 鈥渕aletero鈥� is slow.
鈥淭he people coming from Venezuela are immigrants with nothing,鈥� they say. They鈥檙e coming in search of money and better lives so few nowadays have the spare change for a luggage-handler.
On a good day, they earn 15,000 pesos ($5) but on a bad one, not even a cent.
They鈥檝e given up hope of change back home. With President Maduro winning the elections, he now has another six-year term they think he鈥檒l complete.
鈥淚f things could end peacefully, then that would be the best thing,鈥� says Johnny. He dismisses the idea of the military turning against the president. 鈥淎 coup could mean lots of people, including children, would die. But if things could end, well...鈥� he trails off, thinking of the options.
From the bridge where the maleteros are, you can see a blue-painted cage. Inside is a figure of the Our Lady of Mount Carmel (Virgen del Carmen). She鈥檚 the patron saint of drivers and of the Army in the Andes. In a part of the world where hope is fading, faith remains strong. Fitting too that her home is an insecure frontier town, an area where soldiers operate around the clock.
A figure of the Our Lady of Mount Carmel
The virgin sits across a dirt road, in front of a metal yard where Pompilio Rinc贸n is throwing slabs of aluminium on to a scrap heap.
He says there are lots of metal collectors that come over from Venezuela.
鈥淏efore, Venezuelans would come in their cars and trucks,鈥� he says. Now, people are bringing metal on their backs - women and children too.鈥�
As he chats, a young teenager in a smart checked short-sleeved t-shirt comes in with a big bag and dumps his treasure on to the massive set of scales on the floor of the warehouse. He hopes to get 1,500 pesos (50 cents) per kilo of his metal.
Scrap metal dealer Pompilio Rinc贸n with young collector Breiner Hern谩ndez
Breiner Hern谩ndez, 15, comes from San Crist贸bal in Venezuela. He goes to school in the morning and when he鈥檚 not studying, he鈥檚 looking for metal. Every few days he jumps on the bus with his bag to sell on the other side of the border here in La Parada.
鈥淲ith scrap metal, what I make in one month in Venezuela, I make in one day here,鈥� he explains, adding that the money goes to help his family eat. He lives with his grandfather who looks after Breiner's two younger siblings so his salary matters.
He鈥檚 been doing this since the start of the year.
鈥淭he situation is really difficult,鈥� he says. He can鈥檛 vote but it doesn鈥檛 stop him having an opinion on his country鈥檚 politics.
鈥淣o one wants Maduro, he treats people really badly,鈥� he says. 鈥淲e need a change.鈥�
As the sun starts to set, more and more Venezuelans head back over the bridge, their jobs done for the day. Food purchased, medical appointments met. One passer-by loaded with nappies shouts 鈥渨hat a humiliation鈥� - people having to leave their country to buy basic goods so they can survive.
But even as the afternoon fades, there are still plenty of people still trying to enter Colombia. They鈥檙e queuing up along a bright yellow metal fence, like corralled cattle, waiting for their turn to show their documents and be allowed in.
From the bridge where the maleteros are, you can see a blue-painted cage. Inside is a figure of the Our Lady of Mount Carmel (Virgen del Carmen). She鈥檚 the patron saint of drivers and of the Army in the Andes. In a part of the world where hope is fading, faith remains strong. Fitting too that her home is an insecure frontier town, an area where soldiers operate around the clock.
A figure of the Our Lady of Mount Carmel
The virgin sits across a dirt road, in front of a metal yard where Pompilio Rincon is throwing slabs of aluminium on to a scrap heap.
He says there are lots of metal collectors that come over from Venezuela.
鈥淏efore, Venezuelans would come in their cars and trucks,鈥� he says. Now, people are bringing metal on their backs - women and children too.鈥�
As he chats, a young teenager in a smart checked short-sleeved t-shirt comes in with a big bag and dumps his treasure on to the massive set of scales on the floor of the warehouse. He hopes to get 1,500 pesos (50 cents) per kilo of his metal.
Scrap metal dealer Pompilio Rincon with young collector Breiner Hernandez
Breiner Hernandez, 15, comes from San Cristobal in Venezuela. He goes to school in the morning and when he鈥檚 not studying, he鈥檚 looking for metal. Every few days he jumps on the bus with his bag to sell on the other side of the border here in La Parada.
鈥淲ith scrap metal, what I make in one month in Venezuela, I make in one day here,鈥� he explains, adding that the money goes to help his family eat. He lives with his grandfather who looks after his two younger siblings so Breiner鈥檚 salary matters.
He鈥檚 been doing this since the start of the year.
鈥淭he situation is really difficult,鈥� he says. He can鈥檛 vote but it doesn鈥檛 stop him having an opinion on his country鈥檚 politics.
鈥淣o one wants Maduro, he treats people really badly,鈥� he says. 鈥淲e need a change.鈥�
The Bolivarian National Guard - Venezuela's army - usher them through to the Colombian side. On one fence, there鈥檚 a billboard.
![The sign reads "Territorio de Paz" or Territory of Peace.](https://news.files.bbci.co.uk/include/shorthand/41928/media/sign-peace_obxhgwq-lr_xk4aknj.jpg "The sign reads "Territorio de Paz" or Territory of Peace.")
The sign reads "Territorio de Paz" or Territory of Peace.
鈥淭erritory of peace鈥� it reads. But one soldier mutters. He sounds fed up. He may work for the government but he suffers the same as his compatriots. His salary doesn鈥檛 stretch and he can鈥檛 eat a decent meal.
鈥淚 wonder how long I can last here,鈥� he tells me as he too contemplates his escape.
