Through Caracas with care

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Arrival in Caracas, Day 1:

About 4 steps out of customs, an extremely short and unshaven Airport "Official" approaches and asks "Necesitamos Cambiar dinero?" (Do you need to change money?) Of course, our immediate response is silence and confused looks, but eventually we say "Yes" and are escorted to the left side of the building. It seems we are approaching the official Change counter, and all we've managed to garner at this point is assistance walking across the maybe 100 foot terminal. Fortunately, we take an abrupt turn at the right of the official counter, to the man standing directly behind. This man states openly and with little subtle that he will offer us 4000 Bolivares to 1 US Dollar. We had read enough online before our trip to know this was the current "unofficial" rate (Officially it is 2150 - 1), and we gladly exchanged several hundred dollars. Fortunately, being about 5 feet away from the Official exchange counter meant that we could look and see the "real" currency hanging in the window, which hopefully prevented our getting obviously ripped off with monopoly money.

Time spent in Venezuela - Five minutes
Black Market Exchanges - One

We ask the money exchanger if he has a friend that drives taxis, as we are without a hotel for the night and need to get into the city ASAP. Of course he knows a guy!

Daniel, our boisterous, friendly cabi, immediately whisks us off towards Caracas at a speed one would think his '78 Buick could never possibly reach. He is immensely proud of his "American-made" car. He is using both hands to point out everything he can, and despite my furious attempts to get him to speak slowly, he goes a mile a minute in blurred Caracan spanish.

We pull over to get a tank of gas, where he pulls in 13 gallons for about 3300 Bolivares (call it $1.50). He talks about Chavez and how at least the gas is cheap (Seems to be about the only thing he likes about him). He also rhetorically asks all of us why everyone in Venezuela immediately lights up a cigerette whenever they fill up. As we progress towards the city, we ask Daniel if he lives in the city, and he responds with a scowl and a "I would never live in Caracas....it is too dangerous". Super.

As we approach, Daniel begins pointing out sections of the city and saying "Over there, it is very dangerous. I would not go there". Some places even rank a description including young children with automatic weapons. Since we don't have a hotel, we encourage him to take us to the safest part of the city, which apparently is all the way through on the East side. Unlit shanty-towns and well-lit high-rises blend together oddly and whiz by as we take the highway to the eastern portion, known as Altimira. Daniel assures us we will find something there.

In Altimira, after maybe 10 stops, we are unable to find a hotel with vacancy. Apparently, a conference is in town and is filling everything. But Daniel knows a place that will take us!

As we approach "The Penthouse Hotel", some giggle begin to erupt in the back seat. Apparently Matt and Bobby have seen something like this before; they know where we're headed. An "unabashed love hotel", our residence of the evening clearly primarily caters to those looking for an hourly rate, not an overnight rate. Red lights, mirrors, and a fridge full of red bull and beer. Let's just say we were happy to be off the street.

Thursday, Day 2:

It is imperative that we find a new hotel. Anywhere, at any cost. Out comes the tour book, and Josh and I start calling down the list. 32 Hotels later, we manage to find a Backpacker in the middle of the city with room for 4. Let's head out.

Since it's still early, we decide to explore the Metro on the way to the new hotel. Every Metro system in the world has been better than MARTA, and this one, built by the French in the 80's, is no different. For about 30 cents, we come out 2 blocks from our new home. Named "Nuestro Hotel", which will cause much confusion with every cab driver for the duration of our stay, is run by a kind, elderly couple from Portugal. No English is spoken here (nor anywhere else in Caracas), but we manage to both settle a room and change more money.

Upstairs, on a little balcony with overgrown trees and ivy, we meet Marit, from Norway, and John, from Australia. Both are wandering around South America, and have just arrived in Caracas. They are still catching their breath, so Bobby, Josh, Matt and I head out to explore the city. It's easy to tell that Caracas was like many 3rd world cities before the discovery of oil; poverty and unkept historical sites still abound even now. Shanty towns cover every hill surrounding the city, and there are many beggars and homeless still in the streets. Nonetheless, the city has several modern universities, a strong mix of 5 star hotels and restaurants, and a handful of big-city skyscrapers. We wander around each section of the city, and take the time to do a scripted walk of the historic district found in our guide book. The venezuelans are very big fans of their hero, Simon Bolivar, and it is not possible to walk more than 50 feet in the historic area without being confronted by a statue, plaque, dedication, or sign in his honor. Simon Bolivar regalia, or an ice cream vendor, every 50 feet. It's not even hot out. I do appreciate the penchant here for taking leisure outdoors. Small park-like chess tables abound, as do benches and little cafes to eat at. Everywhere advertises empenadas, but upon asking each store owner, it is "not the right time" for an empenanda. 10am, 1pm, 4pm...there is some empenanda secret that I am clearly not a party to.

Is it interesting to note, however, that around 5pm all the store fronts put up a grate, but do not close. you can still go up to the grate and purchase anything in the store, which a young boy will then usually bring to you. At around 7-8 most stores close, and by 9 the streets are completely empty, even in the historic district. After 9, the city definitely has a much grittier, dirty feel to it, as all the garbage made invisible by trampling feet now lies in the open, and the blocked up store fronts seem more abandoned that closed. Unsafe after dark, we're told.

We return to the Hotel, and pick up Marit, and proceed out for dinner and drinks in Las Mercedes, the upscale entertainment portion of the city. Rumba rules here, as does some Karoake, and some Techno. We visit several places in Las Mercedes as well as the business-mannered portion of northern Altimira called San Ignacio, and decide to call it a night relatively late. Unfortunately, in our confusion with directions, the taxi ends up dropping us off 2 blocks from our hotel, and little did we know this is exactly what somebody was looking for.

The cops.

As we were walking directly to our hotel, we were intercepted by 2 policemen who wanted to see identification. we showed passports, then they wanted to see our Custom declaration forms. Strange, but OK. Then they wanted to see the stamps for our entry into Venezuela in our passports. Mind you, it's about 3am, and we are well dressed, but they insist, so OK. After reviewing this, they are still not satisfied. They ask us to follow them to the check point down the block (which we can see), where they have more questions. All of this takes place in Spanish, and Josh and I get the impression that it may be a better idea to start to "not understand" quite as much. Maybe increasing their level of frustration could get us out of this...since it looks like they're looking for a bribe anyway. We proceed down the block to their check station, where we have to dump everything on us on a table. They are looking very hard for drugs. Several pat downs result in cameras, money belts, probably $1000 in US cash, cards of all types, etc. being dumped on this table. They repeat they are looking for drugs and are really concerned for our safety, but it's even clearer now they want a little something for their time. However, the original 2 "officers" have now spawned several more, including one with some decoration that would perhaps indicate a more significat rank. We are questioned individually, throughout which our mastering of spanish dwindles mysteriously to a drip. After about an hour, they simply tire and let us go. Everyone is shocked that we got out of there without greasing a few palms, considering the money of the table represented half an annual salary.

Friday Day 3:

The sky can't decide between rain, just cloudly, or sunshine. After seeing 7 minutes of straight sun, it's decided and we're headed up the mountain to catch a view of the city. Taxis, if you haven't gotten the impression, are extremely inexpensive, so we take one straight to the Teleferico (Cable Car) and head up the mountain. The Austrian-built cable system is extremely impressive, to rival the best out in the American West, and in no time we pass straight through the clouds, into the fog and rain, to the top of the mountain. Since there is only about 100 feet of visibility, to only saving grace on the top of the mountain is a few descriptions of what sights would theoretically be there, as well as a churro machine (delicious) and a restaurant that serves very cold local beer, and is built in the manner of a Alps snow cabin, with heavy dark wood, and nothing with wagon wheels and barrels for decoration. Speculation seems that the Austrians needed a hideout during construction - nowhere else in Caracas have I seen anything like this.

The rest of the day ends up being a walk from the base of the mountain down into the city, which took hours but was untimately faster than being in a car. Caracas has a very serious traffic problem, and on top of that there are no emission laws, so the pollution is flooring. For someplace so rainy, lush and green to be covered with an indefinite purple haze is really a shame.

The night brings another trip out to Las Mercedes, this time with the Marit and John for good measure. A few street recomendations end with us visiting a pizza place named El Leon, which as it turns out is a sprawling college-aged plaza restaurant serving steaming piles of chicken, beef, and pizza, and tiny but cold bottles of beer. Friday is tamer than Thursday here, it turns out, plus we have an exciting flight to Bogota in the morning!

On to Bogota...

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