Advertisement
Published: March 21st 2007
Edit Blog Post
Back on track...
... but feeling f***ed Travelling by bus, usually for several hours on end, means you get to meet and chat to a lot of different and interesting people (In between watching badly dubbed pirate DVDs). On the bus to Mexico I met Keith, an English guy who was sharing with me, in quite some detail, the relative qualities of prostitutes from around the world (Thai are the best, I'm told). Then in Cuba there was Karl Marks (his name, honestly), a boxing coach and Christian fundamentalist (with the emphasis on mentalist) who preached to me about the new world order that God was about to install on the human race. Add to that the American girl in Panama who had just completed a 28 day water-only detox diet. I call it a detox diet, though it was explained to me as a spiritual journey of enlightenment. I should give this water lark a try, as it's a lot cheaper than the local rum, which seems to enlighten me just fine. On the bus to Venezuela I got chatting to Bryan from Seattle. He had driven a motorbike from Alaska to the southern tip of Chile, with the intention of riding back to Seattle. However, on
the way down, he had overstayed his welcome (ie. visa-entitlement) in Costa Rica, and would have to pay a $2000 fine were he to return. So he had shipped his bike back from Colombia to Florida, and was flying over from Caracas to meet it. It all makes me think I need a story too. I'm working on it.
Venezuela was given its name "Little Venice" by the explorer Amerigo Vespucci in 1499, when he sailed into Lake Maracaibo. This is also the man to whom the name "America" is attributed, which makes me think had Francis Drake got his act in gear a little earlier, America might now be called "Francia", and the whole of history would be turned on its head.
The comparisons between Venezuela and "Big" Venice know no beginnings. For starters, Little Venice is about 1000 times larger than Big Venice. Little Venice is oil-rich and has the lowest petrol prices in the world. As such, people drive huge, inefficient, gas-guzzling cars on the well-developed road network; Big Venice's road network has not really taken off yet, and they're going to have to fix their drainage problem first. Venice is proud of its beautiful buildings; Venezuela
is proud of its beautiful women - They have won Miss World 5 times, and Miss Universe 4 times. But I'm pleased to report the men are not in the same league.
Venezuela has suffered increased instability and tensions in recent years. Hugo Chavez has become the President, spouting a lot about a Socialist revolution and trying to nationalise most industries. The problem is that they became so focused on oil-revenue during the boom that other industries suffered, and when oil prices declined, so did the economy. Chavez is Bush's most outspoken critic and the US dollar is no longer officially usable or withdrawable in the country. But its black-market value is far greater than its official exchange rate value - so a tip to anyone planning a trip to Venezuela - bring lots of US dollars.
I first of all visited the city of Merida, a big-kids adventure playground in the Andes. It is America's answer to Queenstown in New Zealand, though a lot cheaper. However, if you stay too long, you'd end up spending a fortune on the numerous activities available. But there's always a way around those costs if you're smart (or as it turned out, stupid).
One such adventure is a guided hike from Merida to a village in the Andes called Los Nevados - about a half-day hike. Now, the Lonely Planet (or the Bible, as I refer to it) suggests that with a little planning and careful preparation, this can be done independently. I mean, what could possibly go wrong? So I filled my rucksack with all the essentials (camera, Gatorade, toothbrush, etc), donned the best hike-wear I could find (Adidas Superstars, Spurs socks, designer cap, etc), invested, begrudgingly, in a map, and set off on my merry way. The first part was easy. I took the Teleferico, the world's longest and highest cable car, up above the clouds to 5000m altitude. From here it's downhill all the way - so long as you go the right way, that is. I didn't. It got to the point where I was contemplating how I was going to survive a night alone in the Andes. I was trying to remember how they did it in 'Alive', but I didn't have a Uruguayan rugby team for company, nor were there any dead people to eat. I was never really "lost" as such, I'd just taken a wrong
turn a few hours before. So some painful back-tracking later, I was on the right path again. Anyway, it was much more pleasant hiking uphill, because you can really appreciate the scenery, instead of watching your footsteps the whole time. Plus it's important to shake yourself out of travel-fatigue every so often. When you have the privalege of seeing so many new and wonderful sights on a near-daily basis, its easy to become complacent.
When I did finally find the village of Los Nevados, isolated in the mountains, it was well worth the panics and blisters that had got me there. It comprised 20 or so houses and a tiny church, all clinging like limpets to the mountain side.
There was one other foreigner already in the village too - Joe, from Hyde near Manchester - the town that brought us such celebrities as Dr Harold Shipman and Myra Hindley. But Joe seemed a nice chap and in no way demonstrated your classic serial-killer characterics, so I took the chance of sharing the dorm with him. The next day was the return hike, 10 miles all uphill. Once we hauled our exhausted bodies back to Merida, we celebrated with a
couple of well-earned "Polar" cervezas - enough to feel quite light-headed at 2000m. I definitely have a liking for being at altitude. I can tolerate the odd bout of giddiness, mild nausea and increased UV exposure for the sake of a mosquito-free environment and cheap drunkedness.
The following day was much more relaxed. All I did was run and jump off a cliff with a parachute tied to my back, and then miss my bus out of town. The latter resulted in me missing the Spurs v Chelsea FA Cup replay that my route had been specifically scheduled around (no bad thing as it transpired. I knew we'd blown our chance in the first match), and also meant I had to make a connection in Caracas, the capital. A few hours in Caracas got my heart racing more than a ponsy paraglide or the mere prospect of being lost in the mountains - I had been advised of its dangerous reputation, and it felt in everyway like the armpit it was described to me as. Also, on the bus there, some wise-crack decided to show us the film Secuestro Express ("Kidnapp Express"). In any other circumstances an excellent Venezuelan film about one of the many gangs in Caracas who target rich-looking types for a 24 hour ransom ordeal. Either their family pays within the day or the hostage gets the bullet. I had to take myself and my bags 30 mins across Caracas on the metro with this fresh in my mind and was trying to look even more of a tramp than usual.
32 hours after leaving Merida my connecting bus trundled into the northern port of Guiria, where I jumped on the ferry to Trinidad for a well earned rest.
Advertisement
Tot: 0.137s; Tpl: 0.013s; cc: 17; qc: 71; dbt: 0.0658s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.2mb
Your King
non-member comment
Your story
I would have thought that you could have come up with a story about you being an international football scout for some grass roots team like Spurs that because of their Bogart persuasion would only pay for you to travel by ghetto wagon....