Before departing for Medellín we found ourselves with a Sunday to kill in Cartagena. And what could be nicer than going to the legendarily beautiful beach of Playa Blanca on a Sunday? We even rose early for the pleasure of it. Plus, The Book had blandly informed us that on Sundays, the trip to the beach was just one direct bus ride away. How hard could it be?
Talking to the hotel man before we left we became aware that getting the beach actually involved a busride, a ferry ride and then a strange other ride at the end after that that could involve 4WDs or an immense rolling of rrrs or, well, some other form of transport. Still, straightforward no?
After wandering through the firmly closed Old City looking for coffee and baked goods, we finally threw ourselves on the right bus to get to the beach. Only the bus didnt seem in any hurry to get directly there. First it stopped for twenty minutes in a marketplace so people could climb aboard and sell peanuts, watches, orange drinks, packets of chips etc. Then the bus needed to stop at many friends' stalls along the way so that the driver or his mate could climb down, place a bet, drink another orange drink, chat a bit and then climb back on. Finally the bus needed to drive past the deserted and slightly eerie petrol factories along the seaside. Finally the bus kicked us off and left us to walk up a dusty main road that seemed far away from any type of water, never mind a ferry which was apparently around somewhere.
The ferry, an old rusted contraption that was powered by a little outboard motorboat that was strapped to the side of it, soon swung into view and we walked on to join the crowd of beer drinking men and a few children and mothers who all seemed to be heading to the sea. We thought the ferry would take us up the river a bit but instead it just swung around and crossed the sluggish brown expense of the river in about five minutes flat. For this we, the gringos, paid $2000 each while the locals only shelled out 300. This news was brought to us by one of the Isralies who were heading to the beach with us too. One of them challenged the ferryman at the end of the trip about the price discrepancy and called him a liar. Unmoved the ferryman directed him to the exit.
Standing on another empty, dusty road with a shack to our left we watched the only 4WD we'd seen all day (which was full with a columbian family) head off up the track and away. So how did we get to the beach exactly?
Word went around that there would be a collectívo soon but there was no bus and the ferry didnt seem to be up to much. In fact the only vehicle around was a smallish truck with a large rectangular metal box on its back. It pulled up, already crammed with the beer drinking men and the women and children and that when we realised it was the collectivo.
The "bus"ride took about forty minutes and during it we aged 40 years. This was due to the incredible quantity of white dust that everyone inhaled from the open door of the holdthingy. One of the locals laughingly proclaimed at one point that he was so dusty he was now white like a gringo. Us gringos merely stared at our newly aquired grey hair and thought about what we'd look like when we got old. And wondered when the jolting would stop. Or if I would ever be able to feel my arse ever again. The heat, as well, was immense. I sweated so much I thought I may as well've been in a pool.
Eventually the truck stopped (permanently this time, unlike the other pauses) and again we were hustled out and down another dusty road. Luckily this one lead us straight to the beach.
And honestly, it was the most beautiful beach I've seen. Soft white sand, clear aqua water ringed by darker bits where the reef stopped. Small waves. Drooping palm trees. Clear blue skies. The whole cliched thing. The water was perfect. It even managed to clear away the dust of the three hour journey.
Gorgeous.
It did make me appreciate how much easier it was to get to Williamstown though
Friday, March 30, 2007
Friday, March 23, 2007
Hamaca
Having been in Columbia for a few weeks now I can say categorically that happiness is a hammock. Not for me your fancy ideologies, your grand theories to help me make sense of my life and my place in it. My place is in a hammock, most perfectly with a beer. And that is all there is to it.
Our first night in Columbia was spent in Santa Marta, a smallish seaside town on the Carribean. Although the waves broke loudly they were no match for me. I had succeeded in dominating the Carribean. Columbia was looking good.
We had dinner down by the playa and then spied a bar right on the edge of the sea. Getting there involved walking past two men, one with a machine gun, so we were sure it was going to be worth it. The bar was in fact deserted so we lounged on the strange day beds they had set up, in the prime position right by the sea. Watching a ship come in, even when not sitting on the dock of the bay is still good. Especially with a cocktail in hand.
The next day, after swimming a little bit, we decided to head over the hill and swim some more in the tiny fishing village of Tanganga. Although only ten minutes by minibus away from Santa Marta the whole pace of life there was much slower. And our hotel was accessed only by trudging across the hot sand of the beach, past the families of Columbians who stared with some amusement at the red faced turtles panting past them or more politely tried not to see us at all. Our rooms, though, were sea facing and came with their own hamaca which started my obsession. Being able to either glare down at the burning isralis on the beach from the swaying confines of the hammock or, tiring of them, turning you back and simply staring out to sea, is totally fucking awesome.
The whole town was hammock obsessed. Hammocks were strung everywhere. After eating a large lunch, the only natural thing to do was to crawl into the handily located hammock and swing/nap through the digestion process until one felt strong enough to get up and pay for the food.
Finally tiring of the sting of the sea water, however, we decided to take a chance on an amusingly title finka we'd read about back in Santa Marta. Finkas are old coffee farms that owners have turned into bed and breakfast style places for tight arsed backpackers or families to stay in. This one was called Carpe Diem and apparently offered belgium hospitality.
Getting there, Evan (who was in charge of directions) realised he had misread them. We stayed on the minibus all the way to the end of the line and then halfway back again before we got off. Then, standing by the side of the road on a corner which seemed to attract all types of vehicle who delighted in slowing down, waiting to see if either of us would run up to it and then speeding off again just before we got there, we were to wait for the mysterious Motor Taxi which was apparently the only form of transport to the finka.
Motor Taxi turned out to be a little motorbike. That I was to sit on. With my backpack. And it would take me up the hill, down the other side and eventually to the finka.
I couldn't feel anything in my arms for about ten minutes after I got off that bike and I'm pretty sure the driver had bruises on his shoulders for days.
I also burnt my leg on the exhaust pipe getting off and it is currently an angry yellow and white colour and weeping puss. Good times!
So the drive up there involved me clutching the driver as tightly as I could and mentally debating whether it was better or worse when I had my eyes shut. I would've sworn to you, at the conclusion of that drive, that the road there had been little more than a dried out river bed, paved only with broken stones, gravel, hillocks and sticks and other frightening things that were going to throw me off.
On the drive back when my bag was slung across the handlebars for me, I was able to lean back and observe that in fact the road was wide and quite well maintained and the countryside was beautiful.
The finka itself was a charming place right by the river and we were the only ones staying there. It was managed by two men, one middle-agedish and lean who had been married to an irish lady and spoke some english. The other man was round like a bowling ball and was older and in charge of the cooking. He stuffed us with regular meals, so much so that on the final day when I learned he was serving us lunch only two hours after we'd finished eating breakfast I broke down and cried that I could not eat any more. He accepted that with grace but insisted that I try just one tiny bit of the local dish he had prepared especially. The dish turned out to be fresh green beans and onions floating in little lake of oil. It was delicious but the serve was enormous. Of course.
Days at the finka were totally demanding and strenuous. After eating breakfast we would usually swing in the hammocks for a bit until it got too hot and then we would walk up hill for a little bit, usually through the ecological reserve that was further up the road, and then swim in the river for a few hours. Then we would go back, eat some more, swing in the hammocks until we could move again and return to swimming. It was super tough.
Finishing one book meant it was time to move on so we headed back to the hustle of Santa Marta and caught a bus to Cartagena.
Cartagena is large, hot and has a walled city that has been here since Columbia was settled and was built to fight off the pirates. It is kind of cool but when we first got here it seemed very sterile and designed to gouge tourists. I now realise it is designed to gouge rich columbians and tourists alike but still, it is more fun to stay in the scungy old quater which is only five minutes walk away.
So far I've been to a dive bar and listend to drunk men sing along with incredibly cheesy Spanish music clips, I've been to the modern art museum (small) and I've walked in circles in the old city trying to find an internet cafe.
To view my sillhouette and my horrible, hungover hair: click here
Next stop is Medellîn where the public transport is free cos it was built and maintained by Pablo Escobar.
Our first night in Columbia was spent in Santa Marta, a smallish seaside town on the Carribean. Although the waves broke loudly they were no match for me. I had succeeded in dominating the Carribean. Columbia was looking good.
We had dinner down by the playa and then spied a bar right on the edge of the sea. Getting there involved walking past two men, one with a machine gun, so we were sure it was going to be worth it. The bar was in fact deserted so we lounged on the strange day beds they had set up, in the prime position right by the sea. Watching a ship come in, even when not sitting on the dock of the bay is still good. Especially with a cocktail in hand.
The next day, after swimming a little bit, we decided to head over the hill and swim some more in the tiny fishing village of Tanganga. Although only ten minutes by minibus away from Santa Marta the whole pace of life there was much slower. And our hotel was accessed only by trudging across the hot sand of the beach, past the families of Columbians who stared with some amusement at the red faced turtles panting past them or more politely tried not to see us at all. Our rooms, though, were sea facing and came with their own hamaca which started my obsession. Being able to either glare down at the burning isralis on the beach from the swaying confines of the hammock or, tiring of them, turning you back and simply staring out to sea, is totally fucking awesome.
The whole town was hammock obsessed. Hammocks were strung everywhere. After eating a large lunch, the only natural thing to do was to crawl into the handily located hammock and swing/nap through the digestion process until one felt strong enough to get up and pay for the food.
Finally tiring of the sting of the sea water, however, we decided to take a chance on an amusingly title finka we'd read about back in Santa Marta. Finkas are old coffee farms that owners have turned into bed and breakfast style places for tight arsed backpackers or families to stay in. This one was called Carpe Diem and apparently offered belgium hospitality.
Getting there, Evan (who was in charge of directions) realised he had misread them. We stayed on the minibus all the way to the end of the line and then halfway back again before we got off. Then, standing by the side of the road on a corner which seemed to attract all types of vehicle who delighted in slowing down, waiting to see if either of us would run up to it and then speeding off again just before we got there, we were to wait for the mysterious Motor Taxi which was apparently the only form of transport to the finka.
Motor Taxi turned out to be a little motorbike. That I was to sit on. With my backpack. And it would take me up the hill, down the other side and eventually to the finka.
I couldn't feel anything in my arms for about ten minutes after I got off that bike and I'm pretty sure the driver had bruises on his shoulders for days.
I also burnt my leg on the exhaust pipe getting off and it is currently an angry yellow and white colour and weeping puss. Good times!
So the drive up there involved me clutching the driver as tightly as I could and mentally debating whether it was better or worse when I had my eyes shut. I would've sworn to you, at the conclusion of that drive, that the road there had been little more than a dried out river bed, paved only with broken stones, gravel, hillocks and sticks and other frightening things that were going to throw me off.
On the drive back when my bag was slung across the handlebars for me, I was able to lean back and observe that in fact the road was wide and quite well maintained and the countryside was beautiful.
The finka itself was a charming place right by the river and we were the only ones staying there. It was managed by two men, one middle-agedish and lean who had been married to an irish lady and spoke some english. The other man was round like a bowling ball and was older and in charge of the cooking. He stuffed us with regular meals, so much so that on the final day when I learned he was serving us lunch only two hours after we'd finished eating breakfast I broke down and cried that I could not eat any more. He accepted that with grace but insisted that I try just one tiny bit of the local dish he had prepared especially. The dish turned out to be fresh green beans and onions floating in little lake of oil. It was delicious but the serve was enormous. Of course.
Days at the finka were totally demanding and strenuous. After eating breakfast we would usually swing in the hammocks for a bit until it got too hot and then we would walk up hill for a little bit, usually through the ecological reserve that was further up the road, and then swim in the river for a few hours. Then we would go back, eat some more, swing in the hammocks until we could move again and return to swimming. It was super tough.
Finishing one book meant it was time to move on so we headed back to the hustle of Santa Marta and caught a bus to Cartagena.
Cartagena is large, hot and has a walled city that has been here since Columbia was settled and was built to fight off the pirates. It is kind of cool but when we first got here it seemed very sterile and designed to gouge tourists. I now realise it is designed to gouge rich columbians and tourists alike but still, it is more fun to stay in the scungy old quater which is only five minutes walk away.
So far I've been to a dive bar and listend to drunk men sing along with incredibly cheesy Spanish music clips, I've been to the modern art museum (small) and I've walked in circles in the old city trying to find an internet cafe.
To view my sillhouette and my horrible, hungover hair: click here
Next stop is Medellîn where the public transport is free cos it was built and maintained by Pablo Escobar.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Magic Bus
So it has been a little while and currently there is a tall fat man wearing nothing but small black speedos, a bum bag and some faux TEVAs standing in front of me so I may be a bit distracted. Also, as far as I've noticed so far, this town has no coffee and I am suffering. Fresh mango milkshakes just dont cut it sometimes.
Anyway.
stock footage to help you picture my travels for all you word-hating readers our there:
Mèrida was like being stuck in a suburb like, say, moonee ponds. There is nothing inherently wrong with moonee ponds but why would you want to spend a huge amount of time there? By the time our posada had been annexed by a huge crowd of wholesome American missonairies I was in a confirmed bad mood. We decided to cut short our stay by a day and head for the wilds of Columbia.
Before we did that, may I present some links to others' photos to help all you word-hating readers out there:
Dive bar where we saw a Venezuelan ska/hip hop band who had a guest MC who was german
The teleferica which took me and my hangover up 4000 meters
The Parque Zoological which had this particular Oso, and which took over an hour to get due to the mysterious disappearance of all buses headed in that direction. We saw breakdaners in the park on the way down. Possibly one of the best sightings in Mérida.
The magic bus which spirted us out of Mérida to Maracaibo was too tight to even provide a movie but did provide extra seating for all. It also ran an hour ahead of schedule so we were in Maracaibo by 4am. Unsurprisingly nothing much was open, it was pitch black and we didnt have enough money for the only bus that was leaving for Santa Marta (in Columbia) in fifteen minutes. And the bus company didnt have credit card facilities.
After sitting on the bags, staring mournfully at the men walking in and out of the toilets directly opposite me and being yelled at by the bus driver who wanted ot know why I wasnt on the bus that was leaving (all I could do was gesture at the bags and suggest "dos person" to him which didnt seem to help) while Evan searched for an ATM that worked.
The bus left and Evan left to get a taxi to an ATM. I moved into the offical, brightly lit waiting room and watched early morning tv with the heavily armed local military. It seemed safer somehow.
The new plan, armed with money, was to catch a taxi from Maracaibo to Maicao, the nearest town on the other side of the Columbian boarer.
The taxi was cheaper than the bus but involved me stumbling behind Evan and the taxi driver (a portly, silver haired man) through the dark, past the unlit local buses, past the taxi rank, past other parked cars, on and on to the furtherest darkest corner of the bus station and the man's decript old Ford which already had three people sprawled out asleep in it.
We made it through about fifty billion local police checks and finally through the boarder and out the other side. Our first stop in the apparently "lawless" town of Maicao was people being friendly to us and pulling faces to make me laugh (after 12 hours of travelling, no mean feat).
Then it was bus tickets, air con and men with machine guns periodically checking the toilet on the bus to make sure it wasnt harbouring any fugitives. Ah Columbia.
Anyway.
stock footage to help you picture my travels for all you word-hating readers our there:
Mèrida was like being stuck in a suburb like, say, moonee ponds. There is nothing inherently wrong with moonee ponds but why would you want to spend a huge amount of time there? By the time our posada had been annexed by a huge crowd of wholesome American missonairies I was in a confirmed bad mood. We decided to cut short our stay by a day and head for the wilds of Columbia.
Before we did that, may I present some links to others' photos to help all you word-hating readers out there:
Dive bar where we saw a Venezuelan ska/hip hop band who had a guest MC who was german
The teleferica which took me and my hangover up 4000 meters
The Parque Zoological which had this particular Oso, and which took over an hour to get due to the mysterious disappearance of all buses headed in that direction. We saw breakdaners in the park on the way down. Possibly one of the best sightings in Mérida.
The magic bus which spirted us out of Mérida to Maracaibo was too tight to even provide a movie but did provide extra seating for all. It also ran an hour ahead of schedule so we were in Maracaibo by 4am. Unsurprisingly nothing much was open, it was pitch black and we didnt have enough money for the only bus that was leaving for Santa Marta (in Columbia) in fifteen minutes. And the bus company didnt have credit card facilities.
After sitting on the bags, staring mournfully at the men walking in and out of the toilets directly opposite me and being yelled at by the bus driver who wanted ot know why I wasnt on the bus that was leaving (all I could do was gesture at the bags and suggest "dos person" to him which didnt seem to help) while Evan searched for an ATM that worked.
The bus left and Evan left to get a taxi to an ATM. I moved into the offical, brightly lit waiting room and watched early morning tv with the heavily armed local military. It seemed safer somehow.
The new plan, armed with money, was to catch a taxi from Maracaibo to Maicao, the nearest town on the other side of the Columbian boarer.
The taxi was cheaper than the bus but involved me stumbling behind Evan and the taxi driver (a portly, silver haired man) through the dark, past the unlit local buses, past the taxi rank, past other parked cars, on and on to the furtherest darkest corner of the bus station and the man's decript old Ford which already had three people sprawled out asleep in it.
We made it through about fifty billion local police checks and finally through the boarder and out the other side. Our first stop in the apparently "lawless" town of Maicao was people being friendly to us and pulling faces to make me laugh (after 12 hours of travelling, no mean feat).
Then it was bus tickets, air con and men with machine guns periodically checking the toilet on the bus to make sure it wasnt harbouring any fugitives. Ah Columbia.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Kate vs The Caribbean
After engaging with the black market and being locked into a literal 'front' for the exchange of american dollars into bolivars it was decided that we should get the hell out of sweaty, concrete Caracas and head to the coast and the mythical Caribbean.
The first bus ride involved being filmed by a lady with a video camera for security reasons and having our passports checked repeatedly. I was also chided for my attempts to open the curtains on the bus. We travel coffin style in Venezuela or not at all!
The second bus ride, on the local bus to the coast, involved a woman collecting money for the enormous goiter on her face and us making up our passport numbers because we couldn't´t be bothered getting them from our bags. It also involved a three hour ride on a little bus up the side of one mountain and then back down the other side. The bus driver leaned on his horn whenever he rocketed up one of the many blind corners to let cars coming the other way know of our approach. When there were vehicles coming towards us, the standoff usually seemed resolved based on relative size and strength of horn. Another bus, for example, would only be allowed to pass if their horn was better than ours (that only happened once).
Our destination, Peurto Columbia, turned out to be a sleepy little fishing town. Being a monday it was mostly deserted and we stayed in a much nicer place than I think we would´ve been able to afford otherwise. The manager was a lovely lady who expressed concern that we were so young (she took three years off the ages we gave her for the check in cards) and that perhaps we did not have enough money. The place itself had a large courtyard in the center with rooms running around the side. It also had television and my first hot shower. Ahhh.
The next day we found the beach, complete with palm trees and umberllas with banana lounges beneath them. We also found a new place to stay, with a strange German named Hubert who responded to most direct questions (what is the beach like? How often do the buses run back to Marakay?) with long stories about 'yeah ok, so I know, I am on a tourist visa at the moment but, you know, it is ok...Yeah ok, there are no real animals around here although, yeah ok, sometimes in the morning you will see the little ones? The zees? They will wash their face in the river. But no apes you know? No real monkeys'
Leaving Hubert, we went back to the beach so I could fulfil my dream of floating in the Caribbean and maybe drinking a cocktail out of a coconut. Instead I found that the Caribbean was a harsh and fickle sea which wanted to steal the pants from my bikini and twist my top inside out. Then it wanted to shove me down and stuff sand up my nose. It did this several times before I admitted temporary defeat and retreated to the shore where I proceeded to become rather significantly burnt.
We decided to try Hubert and his second beach the next day. Hubert had a friend staying with him and on the morning of our trek to the beach I was greeted by the sight of two middle aged german men in sensible walking shoes and t-shirts and backpacks. They could've been about to hike for days, they could've been about to go camping in the forests. I felt momentary unease about my miniskirt and sandals. They expressed greater unease, particularly about my footwear (I thought the sandals made my toes look kind of pretty).
Waving aside their concerns we started walking to the beach. It was only 10am but the heat had already started and the walk seemed to involve walking through a valley of white, reflecting dirt. I thought I might actually turn into a mushy puddle and disappear.
The beach when we finally saw it was tiny and edged by rocks on one side and sheer cliffs on the other. The waves boomed all around and I thought briefly of how enjoyable it would be to watch our german hosts drown (oh you know I only thought that briefly. I was more thankful that, when they removed their clothes they still had bathers on underneath). Venturing out past the surf I experienced a brief moment of actually floating in the Caribbean before I was picked up by two successive waves and beaten into the floor of the beach again.
Gasping, hacking and spitting on the beach again I had to conclude that the score so far was Caribbean 2, Kate 0.
The first bus ride involved being filmed by a lady with a video camera for security reasons and having our passports checked repeatedly. I was also chided for my attempts to open the curtains on the bus. We travel coffin style in Venezuela or not at all!
The second bus ride, on the local bus to the coast, involved a woman collecting money for the enormous goiter on her face and us making up our passport numbers because we couldn't´t be bothered getting them from our bags. It also involved a three hour ride on a little bus up the side of one mountain and then back down the other side. The bus driver leaned on his horn whenever he rocketed up one of the many blind corners to let cars coming the other way know of our approach. When there were vehicles coming towards us, the standoff usually seemed resolved based on relative size and strength of horn. Another bus, for example, would only be allowed to pass if their horn was better than ours (that only happened once).
Our destination, Peurto Columbia, turned out to be a sleepy little fishing town. Being a monday it was mostly deserted and we stayed in a much nicer place than I think we would´ve been able to afford otherwise. The manager was a lovely lady who expressed concern that we were so young (she took three years off the ages we gave her for the check in cards) and that perhaps we did not have enough money. The place itself had a large courtyard in the center with rooms running around the side. It also had television and my first hot shower. Ahhh.
The next day we found the beach, complete with palm trees and umberllas with banana lounges beneath them. We also found a new place to stay, with a strange German named Hubert who responded to most direct questions (what is the beach like? How often do the buses run back to Marakay?) with long stories about 'yeah ok, so I know, I am on a tourist visa at the moment but, you know, it is ok...Yeah ok, there are no real animals around here although, yeah ok, sometimes in the morning you will see the little ones? The zees? They will wash their face in the river. But no apes you know? No real monkeys'
Leaving Hubert, we went back to the beach so I could fulfil my dream of floating in the Caribbean and maybe drinking a cocktail out of a coconut. Instead I found that the Caribbean was a harsh and fickle sea which wanted to steal the pants from my bikini and twist my top inside out. Then it wanted to shove me down and stuff sand up my nose. It did this several times before I admitted temporary defeat and retreated to the shore where I proceeded to become rather significantly burnt.
We decided to try Hubert and his second beach the next day. Hubert had a friend staying with him and on the morning of our trek to the beach I was greeted by the sight of two middle aged german men in sensible walking shoes and t-shirts and backpacks. They could've been about to hike for days, they could've been about to go camping in the forests. I felt momentary unease about my miniskirt and sandals. They expressed greater unease, particularly about my footwear (I thought the sandals made my toes look kind of pretty).
Waving aside their concerns we started walking to the beach. It was only 10am but the heat had already started and the walk seemed to involve walking through a valley of white, reflecting dirt. I thought I might actually turn into a mushy puddle and disappear.
The beach when we finally saw it was tiny and edged by rocks on one side and sheer cliffs on the other. The waves boomed all around and I thought briefly of how enjoyable it would be to watch our german hosts drown (oh you know I only thought that briefly. I was more thankful that, when they removed their clothes they still had bathers on underneath). Venturing out past the surf I experienced a brief moment of actually floating in the Caribbean before I was picked up by two successive waves and beaten into the floor of the beach again.
Gasping, hacking and spitting on the beach again I had to conclude that the score so far was Caribbean 2, Kate 0.
Friday, March 9, 2007
Day Zero
If Pol Pot had just stuffed every single Cambodian on a plane, flown them around the dark half of the map that usually faces the wall, left them in L.A. for a day and then kicked them out again in Cambodia, I think his Year Zero plans would´ve had far more success.
After flying through the dark side of the world, hanging out at Venice beach, chatting to bus drivers who found it hilarious that I thought the weekend could mean a day different to a weekday (Australians are so slack!) and swapping plans in Guatamala, I eventually found myself in Caracas, Venezuala. By this stage I was unsure of my own name or if Melbourne even existed anymore. If someone had told me history started on Sunday I probably would´ve said¨"ok".
Luckily for my wallet, my bag and probably my wellbeing, Evan met me at the airport and carried my bag up and down as we searched for an exit to the hell that was the airport terminal. Eventually we found the bus to Caracas, an hour and half drive away - including the apparently inevitable traffic jam that occurs on the one road out of the city to the coast every day as fat, semi naked venezualans make their way home from the beach.
Although the bus was very airconned (a standard practice, I was to find, for all Venezualan buses of a certain class), the heat outside was sweltering and oppresive. The city itself was sprawling and shuttered (it being sunday evening) and seemed to have a deep love of brutal, towering, concrete structures.
Evan handed the haggling with the taxi driver that occured at the dark underpass that doubled as the bus terminal. It was only about 7pm but I had been warned previously about how dangerous venezuala was and the idea of being stranded in the dark with my overstuffed bag and my crippling jetlag seemed somehow unappealing. Eventually a price was agreed upon and we followed an elderly gentleman to his huge, 70s era Ford. It had no seatbelt and no aircon and, it turned out, he had no idea where we were going either. Getting to the hostal involved him stopping at every place that was open (thankfully not that many on a sunday) and asking directions for the street on which the hostel was situated. No one seemed to know.
Eventually Evan recognised a street corner and we ditched the Ford and walked to the concrete, barred, barbed-wired enclosedforthostel that was to be my first resting place. Apparently it doubled as a by-the-hour stay for sex starved young Venezualeans during the week (there was a roll of toilet paper by the bed in the room to remind of this) as well as providing "honest" backpackers for a place to stay. As well as providing spare rolls of loo paper, the owners had gone through the bathroom and systematically removed anything that might provide one with hot water. Tap heads were removed, pipes were sealed over in lead, whatever it took to ensure that the only water available was from the cold tap and that it came out in a trickle. After 36 hours I kind of didnt give a shit and after a meal of The Best Charcoal Chicken I have Ever Eaten (ever), I threw myself on that sin soaked mattress and slept for 12 hours.
After flying through the dark side of the world, hanging out at Venice beach, chatting to bus drivers who found it hilarious that I thought the weekend could mean a day different to a weekday (Australians are so slack!) and swapping plans in Guatamala, I eventually found myself in Caracas, Venezuala. By this stage I was unsure of my own name or if Melbourne even existed anymore. If someone had told me history started on Sunday I probably would´ve said¨"ok".
Luckily for my wallet, my bag and probably my wellbeing, Evan met me at the airport and carried my bag up and down as we searched for an exit to the hell that was the airport terminal. Eventually we found the bus to Caracas, an hour and half drive away - including the apparently inevitable traffic jam that occurs on the one road out of the city to the coast every day as fat, semi naked venezualans make their way home from the beach.
Although the bus was very airconned (a standard practice, I was to find, for all Venezualan buses of a certain class), the heat outside was sweltering and oppresive. The city itself was sprawling and shuttered (it being sunday evening) and seemed to have a deep love of brutal, towering, concrete structures.
Evan handed the haggling with the taxi driver that occured at the dark underpass that doubled as the bus terminal. It was only about 7pm but I had been warned previously about how dangerous venezuala was and the idea of being stranded in the dark with my overstuffed bag and my crippling jetlag seemed somehow unappealing. Eventually a price was agreed upon and we followed an elderly gentleman to his huge, 70s era Ford. It had no seatbelt and no aircon and, it turned out, he had no idea where we were going either. Getting to the hostal involved him stopping at every place that was open (thankfully not that many on a sunday) and asking directions for the street on which the hostel was situated. No one seemed to know.
Eventually Evan recognised a street corner and we ditched the Ford and walked to the concrete, barred, barbed-wired enclosed
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Guerra%20Santa%20018.jpg){kind=link}
