On a Saturday evening, in an upscale Caracas neighborhood, a bar fills up. Well-dressed men, smelling of cologne, recount their week. Women with sleek hair and long eyelashes take selfies in the bathroom. People on the street talk on their cell phones, engaging in heated discussions about current events, while a DJ spins vinyl records. There are signature cocktails being served. Everything is in its usual place.

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At 8 a.m., the 20 Marines staying at the JW Marriott in Caracas go down for breakfast. It is a unique spectacle. They are between 30 and 40 years old and almost all of them sport a chevron mustache, Freddie-Mercury-style. The tattoos reach the elbow, sometimes the knees. Caps, shorts and T-shirts are emblazoned with slogans that sit oddly in Donald Trump’s war-mongering era. “No war team,” read one of them last week.

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