Venezuela overland to Colombia

After leaving Buenos Aires, There was definitely a dark cloud a-hanging. A stupid amount of time was spent travelling to get to Caracas. But, once I got there; as the planes wheels hit the tarmac my instant thought was "What am I doing in Venezuela?" Yes, it had all been worth it.

After escaping the clutches of a few uniformed con men, myself and a couple of Argentines got a lift into town with a friend of theirs. Oscar took us off in a swirl of leather interior, plush oil money surrounds, while giving us a complete run down on Chávez and the economic and political situation here (this was two months ago) In Spanish and in English. I felt extremely lucky to have such a good introduction to a place generally off the map of western understanding. Caracas has a nice climate and is surrounded by Barrio covered hills. Getting into town was like Valparaiso all over again. The hills were lit up like Christmas.

Once I checked into my love hotel, complete with almost abusive owners and no hot water. The Argentines and I went of to get some food. South American cuisine has been mostly a hunt and gather affair, you need to hunt like crazy to get something cheap, and GOOD for you. But Venez wins! One word; Sushi. I thought i´d imagined Sushi. But there it was, along with salads! Not just a plate of lettuce or tomatoes and a blank expression when you suggest perhaps mixing them up with a few other ingredients and maybe a dressing. Real salads, one actually had orange pieces in it. I was amazed. These foods were however in the regrettably familiar surrounds of a mall. They have big self serve restaurants, and you pay by weight.

I spent a few good days trying to sort out whether to go to Trinidad for Carnival, or what. I lost my month in BA, by having a rather good time, and hence booked nothing in Trinidad. All communication was done on the phone, and people telling me that I can have a double room for US$200 a night. Coupled with no concrete evidence of a ferry from Venezuela to the Port of Spain. I decided to head to Colombia! Overland, through Valencia, Marracoi, Tucacas, Coro, Maracaibo and through to the Colombian town Maico.

So, my impressions of Caracas, probably retain a little cynicism, as I was staying in a bad neighbourhood and my mood was significantly over shadowing.

However the balance remained uneven. Great Contempory Art Museum, but in general, expensive. Good food, not an attractive city, overall. Really good coffee, really awful machismo. The men in all Latin American countries, are of course very´direct´ with women. But so far for me, it has been done with a cocky arrogance, and cheesy come-ons. All fairly harmless, and done with bravado and good humour. But Venezuelan men have been the worst. There are no smiles, just dirty, dirty come-ons. Attempting to touch you, and even learning some choice phrases in English, that were a real shock.

The yogurt is good. The public transport system is very efficient... perhaps i´m pulling at straws.

Venezuela has the 4th largest resource of oil. It has therefore always been a wealthy country; the government anyway. So it has imported everything from the beginning. It does not have a strong individual culture of say, Peru or Argentina. The land has never been developed before, and Chavez has begun putting in infrastructure. They are STARTING to use the land for crops and cattle, and Chavez's face on the billboards constantly remind the people it is all his doing. Also community housing is going up rapidly, there are projects to help unemployment, and if it wasn't for the fact that he is insane, then Venezuela may get on it´s feet.

Caracas is filled with expensive imported cars. The price of fuel is something like 20c a litre. The local and regional buses are newer mini buses, old North American style school buses or aged mini buses that i´m sure have seen their share of asses. What is striking is that they are all PIMPED. Salsa blares out of them, for the full 3-4 hour trip, There are flares down the sides, tinted windows. They are named things like "Lara Mi Amore Siempre," religious stickers adorn them to ward off frequent crashes, complete with disco balls, UV lights, some made in honour of Jesus, Bolivar or Che. They are generally made to be the big mans mobile of ego.

I travelled by these buses between the above towns. Squished onto seats with two other kids or my pack, the rides were often rough, loud and dangerous. Now this was the South America I came to see.

From Tucacas, I hopped on the wrong boat to one of the outlying islands, apart of the Morrocoy National Park. I spent the night camped all alone on a Caribbean island, life´s hard. Then got kicked off in the morning, as I was on the wrong island. Having given way too much money to get out there, with no return ticket even though I paid to return. I waited for my return boat, promised at 2pm, all day. Before paying a tiny amount to get back. Scammed. The Island was picture perfect, though.

I was officially off the Gringo/a trail, and didn't see another weird looking point of interest like me, for the next week or two. Once I did in Santa Marta, Colombia; they WERE really interesting and weird looking. I'd become phobic.

The next week is a blur of bus terminals, love hotels and dirty looks. The trips were always really interesting, 2 or 4 hours long, hanging with the locals, winding through hills and over dry plains. Meeting more people, and the further away from Caracas the nicer the people seemed to be, I spent two days in the Colonial town Coro. Which was beautiful, a great little historical area, really good Contemporary Art Museum and a nice relaxing Portado. Complete with hammocks, a pet kitty and a book swap, to refresh my well worn supply.

On to the border! All information that I had, said I could get a plush bus straight from Maracaibo to the Colombian resort town of Santa Marta. Seven hours straight. How nice that all sounded. Once I got into Maracaibo, ready to take the early morning bus the next day. I am told all of the companies that usually do go through to Columbia have stopped their service. This is due to Chávez cutting ties with Colombia. I need to get a regular bus.

This is of course is fine, but by morning, there are only group taxi's leaving for Maico, the first Columbian town. It is descibed as very unsafe and you are advised to not leave the bus terminal. So, I hop in next to a man of 50 and the driver, behind us is the man's wife, her grey long haired lap dog, and the woman's sister. Road tripping Venez style. We were in an old brown Ford for three hours. 70´s, the seats are long and couch like, the rust and battered body seem to grind against the complaining machinery, and it generally looked like it would really just like to die.

On other overland crossings, the process is very straight forward. I hadn't quite understood what Chavez's actions of cutting ties with Columbia, and being a mediator for FARC would have on my little insignificant day. We were stopped by a road block, run by police and we had to show our passports, or ID cards. The dog in the back went for the policemen, much to the delight of his mother. Laughing and restraining him at the same time. He then decided to take the little lost Australian girl off, into his office, proclaiming that I must leave Venezuela by air, not by road. In my flawless Spanish I argued that that was crap, and all the information I had, said I could leave anyway I want. He said, not by Taxi. Bus, yes. But a Taxi was also public transport. Ok, he said, then not by THIS road, by the main road. Meanwhile the Taxi driver argued for me. I was facing being left and undoubtedly scammed, just to get back to the bus terminal. After he played with my passport and ummed and ahhed, talked to his superior and did his impression of a good man in a tight corner. He got to the point and asked me how much money I had. I gave him what I thought was half of what I had. About AU$50. I in fact gave him more than most of the money I had left, and was left at the actual border with $2 left after paying the ever fluctuating "Exit Tax."

My first bribe! I guess it had to happen eventually. Back in the car, I cursed and fumed as the women consoled and the men shook their heads knowingly. I will not be the last.

The rest of the trip became steadily more and more creepy. We passed through seven similar checkpoints, although the fashion for machine guns was definitely on the rise, as was tanks, truck loads of soliders, random searches and traffic line ups. It continued for 2 hours of our trip, I had to keep asking where the actual boarder was, as the nationals in the car, didn't need a visa. Chavez's smiling face on the regular propaganda billboards was the only reassurance that I was still in Venezuela.

At every checkpoint, the man next to me would only get out his ID when absolutely necessary so then I would follow. I continued to keep my head in my book and be as invisible as possible. It was defiantly the most scared I´ve been here, and just knowing that I had absolutely no control, or options in any event. It made me nervous.

As soon as we entered Colombia, the mood changed significantly. Between the official borders, people were living. In a kilometre of no mans land. Selling food off the street, running their shops, raising their children. I have no idea how this works, and especially now, as this crossing between Venezuela and Colombia, 2 months later; is closed.

I was left to get a bus in Micao, for Santa Marta. Here, my first Colombian town, people were wonderful. I didn't feel unsafe there at all. Perhaps in comparison to the previous few hours, at least. I got a motorbike taxi into town to pick up some cash and chatted to some locals. Who were all open, and warm. In the bus terminal, a young guy was walking around with what looked like a long chain of beads. I asked my new friend; an 84 year old coffee seller, what they were. Iguana eggs. They were for sale and tied together with string. Incredible.

I was so happy to get into Colombia, there were some girls dancing for the traffic for change. Music was everywhere, and in fact a band on the back of a truck drove past my bus. Could it get any more endearing?

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