Roderick Phillips's Blog, page 21

Bogota, Colombia, Day 160

Whether it’s the nervous energy associated with moving on again or the prospect of entering Colombia (a country with a violent recent history) but I sleep poorly.  Even the name Bogota conjures up feelings of tension and danger!  The palm trees along Playa El Agua continue to sway as we drive beside the beach, perhaps they are waving us goodbye and wishing us good luck.  To be honest I’m not that disappointed to be leaving Venezuela.  Travel here is unnecessarily challenging.  Flights back to the mainland and onward to Bogota are remarkably smooth.  Customs and Immigration at Bogota airport are a breeze, which is surprising given the troubles. 

The first thing I notice as we drive the narrow streets of Bogota is the extensive graffiti, which is daubed on many buildings. Despite reassurances from previous travelers, we are taking a few precautions such as staying at a nice hotel – in this case the Hotel de La Opera in La Candelaria (or Centro Historico).  Of course, this may just make Christi and I more desirable targets for potential kidnappers!   

As usual there is no time to dawdle on our Year of Wonder and Christi and I force ourselves out on to the mean, well, traffic-clogged streets of Bogota.   Currently, the congestion stems from a funeral service in the Primada Cathedral in nearby Plaza Bolivar.  President Santos will be attending to honor six soldiers killed recently by FARC terrorists – quite dramatic evidence that Colombia has not completely shed the twin threats of violence and the cocaine industry.  With a little effort we find a taxi to take us to the base of Cerro Monserrate and follow that with a cable car ride to the top for great views of downtown Bogota and La Candelaria.  There’s also a pilgrim route with the Stations of the Cross that culminates in a white church that dominates the skyline. The interior of the church has a chapel dedicated to the Virgin of Monserrate and an altar depicting the Fallen Christ.

Back in La Candelaria, we see many uniformed military patrolling the vast open spaces of Plaza Bolivar, which still sports a huge Christmas tree and about a million pigeons, plus all sorts of demonstrations, hawkers, and assorted characters.  It does not take long for the hawkers to approach us with their wares, but their sales pitches soon lose steam because they don’t know enough English (mainstream tourism is still in its infancy here) and our Spanish remains woeful.  Moving around the area is problematic since police/army/security services are a rather edgy bunch and the presidential palace is nearby.  

Still, it has been a great first day in Colombia and we have now completed the South American loop.  Quito (Ecuador) where we began this crazy journey 5+ months ago is only an overnight bus ride away to the south, but we will focus our activities to the north and west of the country.

Blog post by Roderick Phillips, author of Weary Heart – a gut-wrenching, heart-wrenching, laugh-wrenching ride.

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Playa El Agua, Margarita Island, Day 159

 

Our room at the Costa Linda Beach Hotel in Playa El Agua comes with a free breakfast – if you can drag yourself out of bed by 10:30am. And as Christi and I are feeling rather becalmed in this island paradise, 10.30 am seems awfully early.  Lassitude is seeping into our bones, which is not a good thing when you consider our next destination is Colombia.  We’re a little nervous about visiting a country with such a violent recent history, but all the travelers we’ve met on our grand tour of South America rave about the friendliness of the people.  These are the same travelers who warned Christi and I that Venezuela would be a challenging destination – and they were right about that, so we can only hope that cities with such infamous names as Bogotá and Medellin are really just little slices of heaven.

The only blot on this hot, sunny day is the realization that my fancy Nikon camera has dirt (almost certainly sand) on the sensor, which is showing up on many of my recent photos.  After 5+ months of constant use and abuse my camera is, a bit like Christi and I, worn out and in need of some attention.  I clean it up as best I can and then inform Christi that relaxing by the pool with a good book has to be put on hold because we need to go back to Playa El Agua for another photo shoot.  Christi is…less than thrilled.  Why pay for luxury if we’re not going to indulge she says quite pointedly?  I appeal to her sense of wonder and the tremendous people watching opportunities and when this fails, I resort to begging.

Playa El Agua is, as usual, swarming with activity and we plunge right in.  I also take a plunge in the Caribbean and do my best to look like a hunk emerging from the water in one of those adverts for some fancy cologne.  As I scan the resulting images, I realize I need a personal trainer, a better diet, and a camera that lies.

We eventually return to the Costa Linda Beach Hotel to relax by the pool and write our diaries – sadly neglected in the presence of Ashley and Kelvin.  We also have lot s of food that we were planning to eat at the Javimar apartment, so we have tuna and sardine sandwiches for lunch.  The rest of the day is taken up with vegging in front of the TV, lounging in the in-room hammock and ultimately packing.  Tomorrow we head for our ninth (I’m counting Paraguay!) and last country in South America, Colombia, arguably still the cocaine capital of the world.

Blog post by Roderick Phillips, author of Weary Heart, a gut-wrenching, heart-wrenching, laugh-wrenching story.

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Paradise, Margarita-style, Day 158

 

Christi and I get up early to say goodbye to Ashley and Kelvin and never really get back to sleep again.  Both Christi and I wish that we too were leaving, but our onward flight from Caracas to Bogota, Colombia, departs in two days so there seems little point moving on. Still we are leaving the Residencia Vacacional today – and I for one will not be sad to leave the mosquitoes behind.  At least I hope our luxury apartment is devoid of mosquitoes.  Come to think of it, though, neither Christi nor I have actually seen the place and we’re relying on the word of  the Margarita Island Mafia Godfather so who knows if there even is an apartment, let alone whether it is the Paradise we have been dreaming about.

This feeling of unease is exacerbated when an associate of the Godfather, Ciro, who agreed to take us to the apartment this morning, never appears.  After waiting two fruitless hours, we walk in our heavy packs and under a brutal sun to the beach-front offices of Javimar to confront the Godfather (I think we really must have spent too much time in the sun these last few days!).  Ciro arrives soon after we do and complains that we are wasting his time – lying bastard.  The Godfather calms the situation and suggests we (Ciro, Christi, and I) take a taxi (at his expense) over to the apartment, which is located in a gated community miles away from the beach.  Superficially everything looks fine, but then we realize there is no fridge, the TV does not work, and the water is colder than at the Residencia Vacacional.  Return (initially by foot and then taxi) to see the Godfather and explain, quite forcefully, that his associate Ciro is a lying S.O.B.

Remarkably the Godfather caves, returns our 1200B, and Christi and I storm off.  Actually, to be fair, Christi doesn’t storm anywhere and she also wants me to point out that she wasn’t furious either, but I’m sure she gave the Godfather a dirty look!  We stagger, depressed and downtrodden, back to the Residencia Vacacional (boy those mosquitoes suddenly look quite appealing!) only to learn that our old quirky chalet has already been rented out.  Yet again Venezuela is messing with us.  It is the height of the tourist season and we have no accommodation.  We could literally have to sleep on the beach for the next two nights, which real backpackers may think to be a perfectly wonderful idea, but which fills Christi and I with dread on so many levels.  There’s nothing for it but to heft our backpacks onto our shoulders and go door to door or hotel to hotel until one takes pity on us.

An hour later (and after numerous rejections) we stumble hot, sweaty, and bedraggled into the Costa Linda Beach Hotel.  It’s a tastefully decorated complex with a pool and a restaurant and we’re stinking up the place as we stand in the entrance, hoping that a room will be available.  We plead with the English-speaking manager, Grace, who looks at us for a long uncertain minute before admitting us into Paradise.  The rate is B490 per night and she wants the money in advance.  I can’t give her the wretched Bolivars quick enough and then we’re taken to our air-conditioned room, which comes with cable TV, warm water, a double bed, toiletries, fresh towels and lots of space.  We’re so happy.  We even eat dinner in the restaurant and it’s a yummy chicken curry followed by vanilla ice cream.  God, I love backpacking!

Blog post by Roderick Phillips, author of Weary Heart – a gut-wrenching, heart-wrenching, laugh-wrenching story.

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New Year’s Day, Margarita Island, Day 157

 

It’s New Year’s Day – Happy New Year Everyone!

Today we all finally indulge in the classic Caribbean beach experience.  Remarkably all the trash and used fireworks from last night has been removed by the time we arrive (mid-morning).  It’s also Kelvin and Ashley’s last full day; tomorrow they head back to San Francisco.  In truth,  Playa El Agua is much more how I imagined the beaches of Ipenema and Copacabana to be: there are restaurants and bars virtually on the sand, while everyone and their mother appears to have deckchairs for rent.  The scallop-shaped beach is not as wide as in Rio and neither is the sand as white, but it is a very pleasant beach nonetheless – and very long.  We walk past hundreds of sun-seekers parasurfing, swimming, sunbathing, and playing games.  The swimsuits, especially for the women, are even tinier than those we saw in Rio, although Christi thinks the bodies inside them are not as good!  There certainly is a lot of flab and cellulite on display and much less emphasis on the body as a temple.  And here the games are truly for fun, not competitive and certainly not for exercise.  We eventually find a spot away from the crowds and while Ashley and Kelvin splash in the waves and Christi reads, I photograph life on the beach.

Later we switch around: Kelvin and Ashley look after the bags and play backgammon while Christi and I go swimming.  Then it’s time to explore the beach (the headland is even similar to Rio with another luxury beach the other side) and grab some yummy snacks from the local vendors.  Eventually the four of us settle down to some daft card game called Shithead (or a variation on it).  Either way I lose repeatedly.  Christi and I tire of beach life very quickly, however, so we gather up our bags and go for a late lunch at a local fish restaurant called El Pacifico.  Sadly, the food is poor, but not nearly as poor as our waiter and we leave with more than one bad taste in our mouths.

Back at the chalet Ashley and Kelvin pack and organize a taxi to the airport for 6 am the following morning.  We celebrate the end of our vacation together with a home-cooked pasta meal out of a can.  The meal attracts plenty of interest from the insect population if not the human contingent.

Blog post by Roderick Phillips, author of Weary Heart – a gut-wrenching, heart-wrenching, laugh-wrenching tale. 

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New Year’s Eve, Margarita Island, Day 156

 

Margarita Island, located just off the Venezuelan coast in the Caribbean Sea, is where Venezuelans (and sun worshipers from Europe) come to party over Christmas and New Year.  According to our by now tattered copy of the LP guide to South America, it is an urbanized and highly developed beach vacation experience replete with fancy restaurants, high-rise international hotel chains, and plenty of duty-free shopping.  It’s not quite how I envisaged spending New Year’s Eve, but Venezuela has been exhausting mentally and physically and some mindless beach fun is surprisingly attractive for a few days.  We begin our Margarita Island experience with a visit to the local grocery store to buy food to cook in our fully-equipped kitchen.  The chalet also has cable TV and air-con, but the shower only yields cold water. 

Later, while Ashley and Kelvin head to the beach, Christi and I run a few chores.  And because spontaneous, unplanned travel over the festive season is proving so difficult in Venezuela, Christi and I decide to stay put on Margarita Island for 5 nights.  Kelvin and Ashley will return to San Francisco in two days and when they do, Christi and I hope to find a 5-star shack for our last few nights.  This means we’ll need more money and I am determined to change the bloody Brazilian Reals that are burning a hole in my wallet.  This is easier said than done until we are introduced to the Island’s Godfather.  This guy has clearly modeled his appearance and his operation on the Marlon Brando Mafia character.  Christi and I approach his beach-side office with due deference.  The Don is surrounded by muscle-bound hunks and a smattering of female eye candy, although I curb my wandering eye temporarily.  I’d love to back out of this financial interaction right about now, but I don’t want to offend him.  There’s not much in the way of negotiation.  He offers an exchange rate of 2:1 and we make the deal.  Six hundred Brazilian Reals becomes 1200 Venezuelan Bolivars.  The Don also knows (I didn’t ask how) that we’re looking for better accommodation and rents us a ‘nice apartment’ for 2 nights…for 1200 Bolivars.  We leave with no money and the promise of an apartment.  But at least we’re allowed to leave.  We amble back to our chalet along Playa El Agua. Take a quick dip in the Caribbean along the way. Christi does well to hold on to her bikini top as a particularly large waves drenches her.  Fortunately I catch the moment on camera, although Christi wonders (quite animatedly actually) why I didn’t bother to warn her about the approaching rogue wave.  Oops! 

Count down the Old Year with Kelvin and Ashley in our swanky chalet with lots of happy, excited mosquitoes and when the clocks strike midnight the beach is suddenly lit with a million fireworks.  The beach is packed with New Year’s Eve revelers and fireworks zooming in every direction.  It’s a crazy, drunken, thong-bikini rich orgy – and I love it!

Blog post by Roderick Phillips, author of Weary Heart – a gut wrenching, heart-wrenching, laugh-wrenching drama.

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Margarita Island, Day 155

Flights from Puerto Ordaz to Margarita Island (with a change of plane in Caracas) are straightforward – perhaps one of the few things that are in this country.  During the layover in Caracas I try to exchange the Brazilian Reals I acquired in Santa Elena de Uarien for Venezuelan Bolivars, but no black market moneychanger wants them.  And the official exchange rate is 1 Brazilian Real = 0.65 Venezuelan Bolivar- absolutely ridiculous (in Santa Elena the black market rate was 3 Venezuelan Bolivars for one Brazilian Real).  In hindsight I should have converted all my Brazilian Reals in Santa Elena where the exchange rates were at their most competitive, but at that time Christi and I had no firm plans beyond the trip to Angel Falls and the last thing I wanted was to leave Venezuela with a wallet bulging with useless Bolivars.  Reluctantly I now retrieve a stash of US$ (US$580 to be exact) from the security pouch (wrapped around my stomach beneath my shirt)  and line up at an official exchange booth to buy the dreaded Bolivars. This time, though, the black market moneychangers are literally falling over themselves to get hold of my dollars and I’m quickly spirited away to a secluded nook where a rather nervous and furtive transaction takes place.  The black market rate is 5:1, whereas the official government sanctioned rate is 1:1.  How does the Venezuelan economy survive?

While we languished in Puerto Ordaz airport yesterday, Kelvin somehow made friends with the owner of the Hard Rock cafe on Margarita Island.  The guy assured us that his staff would help us find accommodation.  Once we land at the grandly named Santiago Marino Caribbean International Airport on Margarita Island, therefore, we taxi to the café with high expectations. But of course none of the staff are expecting us.   And they certainly don’t have a list of fancy rooms at backpacker prices for this the busiest season of the year on the most popular island destination in the Venezuelan Caribbean.  

It is actually quite remarkable that Christi and I have stood on the most southerly point of the South American continent and now we are about as far north as you can get in South America – a distance of some 4,500 miles as the crow flies (and a lot further the way we did it!). By the way, the most northerly point on the mainland of South America is, technically, Punta Gallinas in Colombia. 

Anyway, back to our predicament at the Hard Rock Cafe.  While the staff have no hard intel on accommodation on the island they do have a few leads and they let us use the boss’s phone (thanks boss!).  Kelvin and Christi then take it in turns to cold call the potential leads, until against all odds, they find something in Playa El Agua.  We don’t really know where we are going or what we can expect when we get there, but we say thank you to the staff at the Hard Rock Cafe, jump into yet another taxi, and head for a beach on the north-east tip of the island. Our chalet, a couple of blocks back from the street, comprises two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom for 300B per night (which is either US$60 per night or $300 per night depending on the exchange rate you use – and let me tell you this ain’t no US$300 per night luxury suite). The chalet does come with abundant and quite vicious mosquitoes, however.  I hate these things and spend hours killing those that call our bedroom home before they can feast on my tasty white flesh.  If you recall I already gave a pint of blood in the Estero del Ibera, Argentina, and I don’t plan on giving another pint any time soon.

Blog post by Roderick Phillips, author of Weary Heart – a gut-wrenching, heart-wrenching, laugh-wrenching story.

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Carrao River, Canaima national park, Day 153

And so begins our next adventure: a journey to the base of the highest waterfall in the world.  We’re in a long narrow speedboat and on the Carrao River by 8:30 am – earlier than any other tour group.  We are the same group as yesterday and team for this trip comprises Elliott (our English-speaking guide) plus two crew.  The river levels are low at this time of year and there will be some shallow spots where we will need to get out of the boat and push to protect the propeller.  The plan is to reach the Angel Falls campsite by 2:30 pm and then trek to the base of the falls today so that we can be back in Canaima tomorrow with enough time for our free scenic flight.

The boat ride begins easily enough: the Carrao River is wide and deep and we power along.  Problems begin, however, when we encounter rapids.  The first couple we actually get out and walk around while our team takes the boat through.  The other boats on the river (probably about 8 of them) all seem to have more power than us and are making better time than we are despite our early departure.  We stop for lunch on Orchid Island, 3 hours into our 50 km journey.  While we eat, our guides have removed the propeller and are pounding on its mangled form with a stone – although they assure us there is nothing to worry about.

 It is at this point, of course, where things begin to go wrong.  Kelvin, George, and I spend more time out of the boat pushing it through the rapids than actually riding inside it.  Sometimes the water is genuinely too shallow to use the motor, but mostly the engine is too weak to propel us up river against the current.  Often I find myself waist-deep in a strong current, trying to heave the boat forward while maintaining my balance on slippery rocks and moss.  Then I have to clamber back in the boat ASAP so that we don’t lose momentum.  Many times I bang and scrape my legs and cuts and bruises begin to appear.  At 2.30 pm we are still a long way from our destination.  We become progressively more tired hauling ourselves in and out of the boat and driving it forward.  The engine provides a secondary form of motion to our own muscles.  We have no choice but to keep going because there is nowhere to camp on the thickly vegetated banks of the Carrao River. 

The views of Auyantepui (off which Angel Falls plummets a total of 979m {807m is an uninterrupted drop}) are truly breathtaking as are the gorgeous reflections in the often glassy-calm water.  Under less trying conditions I would be photographing like crazy, but I’m so tired and worried I might irreparably damage my camera that I rely on Ashley and her point and shoot digital camera to capture the grandeur and essence of the place (Note all photos today are courtesy of Ashley Thompson).  Darkness falls and still we continue to limp along; thankfully there is a full-moon to guide us.  Eventually another boat takes pity on us and speeds us to our campsite without further issues or delays – the way God intended.  We arrive at 7 pm, 10 hours after leaving Canaima.  Our campsite is the furthest from the river and we pass several established camps with fires, dinner cooking, and hammocks erected.  When our crew finally arrives with provisions and equipment, they silently begin to set up our camp.  The food finally arrives by 9:30 and by 10 pm I’m fast asleep in my hammock.  This has been the most exhausting day of the journey since hiking Dead Woman’s Pass on the Inca Trail.

Blog post by Roderick Phillips, author of Weary Heart – a gut-wrenching, heart-wrenching, laugh-wrenching tale.

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Canaima, Venezuela, Day 152

Our overnight bus ride to Puerto Ordaz is literally a frigid experience as the air-con is set to maximum.  All interior lights are switched off, making reading impossible.  The seats don’t recline very far and neither is there much room making sleep problematic.  We pass through numerous army checkpoints and one in the middle of the night insists we disembark – at gun point.  Men are segregated to the left of the bus, women to the right while the bus is searched (for who knows what) – no exceptions.  I cannot see Christi and the whole scene is a little worrying.  The search is very thorough and very time consuming.  Then it’s the turn of the passengers.  I show my passport and a light is flashed in my face.  The soldier then moves on to the next passenger.  More time passes as each passenger is evaluated before we are finally all allowed to re-board the bus and I’m reunited with Christi.  Despite the constant security checks, our bus arrives early into Puerto Ordaz and a quick taxi ride puts us at the local airport by 6 am.  The next stage of this busy day is a flight to Canaima (only accessible by air), which is the starting point for trips upriver to Angel Falls.

We have agreed to do the next leg of our trip with two friends – Kelvin and Ashley.  They arrive at 7.30 am looking every bit as frazzled as Christi and me.  They have been in Venezuela for a week already and encountered adventures and logistical nightmares with equal measure.  This seems to be the way of life in this socialist nirvana.  And the challenges continue when we check-in as our flight to Canaima is delayed by 3 hours (our boarding passes are actually advertising flyers!).  When we eventually depart our 60-minute flight is smooth with beautiful views over the savanna and tepuis. 

Our accommodation in Canaima is at Posada Kusari, a basic place run by Miriam and her family.  We eat a quick lunch and then begin our excursions.  The first is across Laguna de Canaima.  Again the challenges surface as the guide assigned to us and two other guests Greek Cypriot George (who looks and acts like Joe Pesci) and Japanese girl Chow-lung fails to materialize.  Instead a young boy takes us on a wild goose chase.  By tagging along with other tour groups and using our own initiative we eventuallysee most of what is intended.  The big draw is a series of 7 medium-sized waterfalls, some full, others with only a trickle of water (it’s the dry season), including el Sapo, Sapito and Hacha.  We can walk behind some of the falls, particularly Hacha which is great fun.  We also get to swim in the tannin-brown-colored clear water of Laguna de Canaima, a great beach/watering hole.

The boat that took us the start of the excursion never materializes for the return journey, leaving us to bum a ride off another boat.  We are furious; Miriam is mortified.  Apparently there were insufficient pemon (indigenous indian) guides, but the pemon did not want to admit it.  Miriam agrees to pay for us all to do the scenic flight over Angel Falls once we return from our boat adventure to the base of the highest falls in the world.  She even pays extra for a team to get us up river and back in time for the scenic flight and before our return flight to Puerto Ordaz.  Everyone is happy and thankful to Miriam for her efforts.  Tomorrow will be a big day.

Blog post by Roderick Phillips, author of Weary Heart – a gut-wrenching, heart-wrenching, laugh-wrenching ride

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Angel Falls, Venezuela, Day 154

Our guide, Elliott, wants us to begin hiking to the base of Angel Falls at 5:30 am.  The neighboring camp sites have a different plan, however, and loud voices disturb me at 4.15 am as hikers stumble past our hammocks.  Elliott suggests we follow along and we scramble to comply.  Elliott hikes fast through the root-infested rainforest, eventually leaving George, our Joe Pesci look-alike, lost in his wake.  I complain, not for the first time, to Elliott who is not impressed with me.  The hike is longer and steeper than I expected, but after 45 minutes we finally reach the Angel Falls lookout; there is still another 30 minutes to the base of the falls and the ‘swimming pool’ but no one in our tired, bedraggled group has the enthusiasm to continue.  The lookout, a precipitous, rocky outcrop, is overly packed with tourists making movement dangerous and photography problematic.  The falls are clear of fog, but the water levels are very low giving rise to a thin ribbon flowing off of Auyantepui that disappears into mist before reaching the bottom of the cliff.  At one point the wind catches the ribbon of water sending it swirling off to the side.  The falls themselves are 979 m (3,212 ft) high, with an uninterrupted descent of 807 m (2,648 ft).  In total therefore Angel Falls are 19x higher than Niagra Falls and 12x higher than Iguazu Falls. 

Having spent so much time and energy to get here it would have been nice to enjoy the spectacle a little longer, but Elliott insists we start back down the Carroa River.  The return journey is much easier.  Kelvin and I only get out of the boat twice on the 4-hour ride, although our failing boat is till the last to arrive at the docks in Canaima at 12:45 pm.  Our local tour operator, Miriam, greets us with the news that there is insufficient time for our free scenic flight (a 350B pp value) before we return to Puerto Ordaz on our scheduled flight at 1:30 pm.  Well that’s just dandy, isn’t it.  We voice our disappointment that nothing she has organized has panned out as promised and Miriam reluctantly agrees to give Kelvin, Ashley, Christi, and I a partial refund.  I feel bad for Kelvin and Ashley.  I tell them that of all the countries we have visited in South America to date Venezuela is the most challenging.  Apparently my fears are groundless as Kelvin and Ashley assure Christi and I that they are having a fantastic time!

We leave Miriam on remarkably good terms, eating a packed lunch at a hut at the airport that doubles as the check-in center.  Naturally, we proceed to board the wrong flight to Puerto Ordaz and have to return, rather embarrassed, to the ‘departure’ hut and wait for the next plane!  Once we do find the correct airplane, the return flight to Puerto Ordaz is smooth and arrives on time. 

For the first time on our Year of Wonder we have no plans and no onward connection.  We are in the height of the Venezuelan tourist season and flights are at a premium.  Ashley, Christi, and Kelvin trawl the airline offices in Puerto Ordaz looking for 4 seats to any where in Venezuela and eventually find a flight to Margarita Island (via Caracas) for the following day.  We are lucky to have flights at all, but accommodation is a whole other issue that will need to be faced tomorrow.  In the meantime we spend the night in a hotel in suburban Puerto Ordaz, but there are no restaurants nearby and we are left to forage for dinner at a local convenience store.  All in all quite a frustrating day.

Blog post by Roderick Phillips, author of Weary Heart – a gut-wrenching, heart-wrenching, laugh-wrenching tale

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socialist nirvana, Venezuela, Day 151

Another frustrating day in the socialist nirvana that is Venezuela.  Things normally work out here, but only with extravagant effort.  First, our laundry barely arrives in time for us to checkout.  Second Miraye was able to get us on a bus to Puerto Ordaz, but it’s another night bus (and according to Miraye not a very good one).  Next Ya-Koo wants to charge us 200 Bolivars for yesterdays lunch; we think that’s outrageous and with Miraye’s help we get the bill down to 80 Bolivars.  Miraye then very kindly drives us the 5 miles back to the border to get more Brazilian Real (although she is convinced the ATM, which is inside the bank, will be closed since it is Boxing Day).  Fortunately the ATM is accessible and I take out R$1000; Christi grabs another R$500.  We hope this will be sufficient cash to get us through the rest of Venezuela. 

On returning to the town center, Christi immediately exchanges her Reals on the open black market for 1500B.  We then have lunch at a crazy busy Chinese restaurant.  It’s amazing that you can buy Chinese food in virtually every country, but it always tastes different.  The Chinese really are like chameleons when it comes to tailoring their food to local customs.  Which is a long-winded way of saying it wasn’t the Americanized Chinese food that Christi and I normally eat!  Now we have a choice of either aimlessly wandering the streets of Santa Elena until the evening bus departs or hunker down at a slow internet café.  We choose the slow internet cafe and the very slow news is that New Frontiers Adventures have still not been paid.  Frankly, this socialist nirvana sucks when you actually want to accomplish anything.  Unless of course you happen to be Hugo Sanchez, the Great Dictator.  He has decreed that gasoline should be free – well near as damn it. One liter of petrol costs B0.07 (or about 2 cents) which means you can fill up any gas-guzzling vehicle for less than a buck.  Not that our buddy Hugo is in any way trying to bribe voters you understand.  By comparison, across the border in Brazil petrol costs the equivalent of B3 per liter.  Not surprisingly, illegal petrol trafficking to Brazil is big business, which has the ironic knock on effect of causing long lines and petrol shortages in Santa Elena de Uairen.  Fast fact number two.  Hugo Chavez gave every child under the age of 11 a bike for Christmas this year.  Even though I don’t own a car or have a child under 11, I just want you to know Hugo that I can also be bought so next year bribe me! Please bribe me!  Although corruption is endemic and the people are mere pawns as far as the Great Dictator is concerned, there is so much beauty here – from magnificent tepuis to thunderous waterfalls and beautiful beaches. Perhaps it is a socialist nirvana after all.

We finally escape the seductive embrace of Santa Elena de Uairen on the 7 pm night bus to Puerto Ordaz.  Phew!

Blog post by Roderick Phillips, author of Weary Heart – a gut-wrenching, heart-wrenching, laugh-wrenching tale.  

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