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 enclosed forthostel 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.