Travel Blog

For those of you who are strapped for time and/or cannot be bothered to read a full blog, Venezuela can be summarised into a short list of good and bad points.
GOOD:
- The most amazing pastry and bread shops on every corner, accompanied by little men who wander around with flasks of delicious coffee which they sell in tiny plastic shot glasses.
- The friendliest and most eager to please people we have ever encountered
- Stunning landscapes to be viewed from fancy buses.

BAD:
- A somewhat crazed president who has restricted cash flow within the country, therefore disallowing anyone to access their money.
- Almost every attraction or sight we wanted to see being closed, broken or having just disappeared
- Us both getting really ill (true, not particularly Venezuela's fault, but it makes it much harder to enjoy being somewhere)

We sadly left Cecilia the stunning Swede in Santa Marta, boarding a huge and overly air-conditioned bus for Maracaibo, just over the border in Venezuela. We were accompanied by several huge Americans (they grow them tall over that way), a few tiny Colombian ladies (everyone over 40 is about 5"2) and the usual collection of quiet babies swathed in huge blankets. Turfed out at border control, wolf-whistled at by the border guards (professional? I think not) and passports duly stamped, we got back in our sleeping bags and sampled our first Venezuelan calorie-laden breaded treat.
An hour or so later the conductor sidled up to us and whispered "We won't be dropping you off at the terminal, that's ok, right?". Sleepy and somewhat confused we acquiesced and were duly chucked out at a police checkpoint at 11pm. Bemused, we spoke to a taxi driver to confirm where we were and how we could get to the terminal, and a jury of traffic officials, taxi drivers and general passers-by quickly accumulated. Questions such as "how did you get here?", "where are your mothers?" and "don't you know that venezuela is dangerous?" were bandied about, and then they proceeded to entirely ignore us while deciding how best to treat our unique situation.
"No, I won't take you to the terminal, bad men are there", was our taxi driver's response when we told him all we wanted to do was get another bus on to Coro, and suggested a hotel at the princely sum of $50 US each. Only having $50 BV (about a tenner) restricted us from making this decadent and highly un-fingers in broth choice. We finally persuaded him to take us to a cheap hotel by the terminal, which turned out to be a brothel. They call them 'love motels'. Romantic.
Undeterred, we unpacked our sleeping bags, stuffed our fingers in our ears and slept soundly til morning.

The next morning our bank cards refused us until we used our secret and sacred credit cards, and then only let us have 50 pounds. At least it wouldn't matter if we were robbed! Our bus to Coro broke down, and we were rescued by a sleek 'ejectivo' with tassels and shaded windows. Coro was hot. Stultifyingly, sweatily, temper-frayingly hot. The lovely man at our posada explained to us the delights of the Venezuelan black market, of which we were blissfully ignorant. He changed our emergency dollars, warning in soothing tones "don't forget this is illegal". Money we got out at the cash point was worth half as much as if we had brought lots of dollars or euros. Bum. We were woefully unprepared and could barely afford lunch.
In an attempt to make the most of Coro on the cheap, we got a bus to the national park. An incongruous desert stretching miles away from but sitting directly outside the city, we had fun running up and down sand dunes and watching the clouds roll across the sand. For about 15 minutes.

Reasoning that Caracas would be much easier to navigate and wheedle money from, we bussed overnight and arrived early at the terminal. Once it got light enough (and therefore safe enough) to leave the terminal, we ignored the baying taxi drivers and found a bus to take us to the metro. A huge man with a baseball bat  took us under his wing, asking "have you used a metro before?" and guiding us gently towards the turnstiles. Seriously, we must look like clueless children sometimes.
We caused general hilarity on the rush hour metro with our huge backpacks and frequent bursts of song (we don't know many of the words to our Guatemalan favourites, but we try all he same), and tumbled out in the Sabana Grande region all rumpled and feeling like liberated sardines.
Holed up in another 'love motel' (we just couldn't get enough) we spent the next few days wandering Caracas, looking at museums, tall towers and the many beggars of varying levels of disfigurement, displaying them proudly to tug your heartstrings and therefore your wallets. Still unable to withdraw much cash, we economised by just eating bread and the occasional yoghurt. And a few guilty ice creams, but they were incredible.

Our next stop was the main reason we came to Venezuela, to see Canaima and the Angel Falls. Economising forced us to do this from Ciudad Bolivar, a hilly town parked on the side of a river with pavements swollen by market stalls and statues of Simon Bolivar everywhere. (Venezuelans are a little obsessed by him, sure he liberated South America but chillax) Money troubles caused us to spend an entire day with a lovely man called Edgar who helped us get cash while telling us his life story, as well as his (voluble) opinion on Chavez. We know a lot about Chavez now. We paid for our trip in a hotel on a hill whilst our operator sorted out his next tv deal with the mayor. It was all a little suspicious and felt a little bit like we were in some sort of gangster scenario. Gangster dons aside, he drove us to the airport the next day in his fancy car and saw us safely off in yet another tiny airplane. Claire was very brave.

Flying over Canaima was incredible.. huge mountain ranges, tepuis (table mountains), snaking rivers and cascading waterfalls. We landed and met our very sweet guide, then our rather dry group consisting of nice German girls and the kind of English guy who has been travelling LOADS and wants to tell you ALL ABOUT IT and know EVERYTHING about EVERYTHING. Squished into a dugout canoe with a huge motor, we buzzed against the current up fast-flowing rivers swollen with the new season's rain and tried not to be too awestruck by the incredible Jurassic Park-esque landscapes. (Or at least that's what Claire tells me, I have never seen it; much to her disgust)
We had an hour's climb to see the falls, which brought flashbacks of Ciudad Perdida and cries of betrayal from our still-blistered feet. It was awesome. Huge, thundering water emerging from mist and smashing over the edge of cliffs to the river and jungle below. We spent about half an hour up there (maybe I'm a modern, cynical arse, but once you've seen the waterfall, isn't it time to go and drink some nice hot coffee? It was cold) and then, to the 'oohs' and 'aahs' of assembled tourists the hidden top of Angel Falls emerged from the mists. That was quite impressive, and I felt a bit guilty.
We spent the night eating delicious Venezuelan food in our thermals and dodging the 6-inch moths who got their kicks from divebombing our candles. I have wikipedia'd why this happens and am still none the wiser.. anyone?! We bedded down in hammocks swathed in blankets like the bus-babies, and slept til sunrise.
In the morning the river was even higher and faster, and as we were going with the current we were back in Canaima in no time. Today was our 'behind the waterfall day'. V. exciting. We trooped off, back into our canoe, for a short stint across the lagoon. A short walk and discovery of poisonous yellow frog later, and we were standing at the entrance to the waterfall 'walk'. Terrifying. The water was so fast and so loud, it thundered above our heads, stung our eyes, pummeled our backs, and generally made you feel like a little leaf caught in a whirlpool. It was absolutely euphoric. We defied UK health and safety standards yet again by standing underneath and right next to the middle section of the waterfall -- the fear of imminent death made the massage feel all the better. That evening, we celebrated our dice with death via the medium of rum, and I merengued the night away with our guide.

Another tiny plane back to Ciudad Bolivar, and buses to Valencia (8 hours), Barinas (6 hours) and Merida (6 hours) finally deposited us in a terminal in the pouring rain. We got a bus, made a friend, and were soon drinking beer from plastic cups; still wearing our backpacks and soaked to the skin. Merida is famous for the world's largest cable car, a phenomenon that aroused the excitement of the 9-year old inside me and was the root cause of our long, long journey. The next day, we arose bright and early, determined to shake off the depression that long bus travel, lack of money, and a misbehaving digestive system induces. Arriving perkily at the cable car ticket office we sampled raspberry wine, bantered with teenage boys, and strolled up to the ticket desk. The cable car was closed. Had been for 18 months and would continue to be for two years. This straw broke our poor, aching backs. We left for Colombia an hour later.

Resignedly we caught buses from Merida to San Cristobal (5 hours) and then to San Antonio (3 hours), where we got our exit stamps and celebrated leaving Venezuela with a malt beverage and deep fried empanada (I am a little bit addicted to these). Belting out 'Perfect Day', we fought our way through the rain and against the traffic across the bridge that separates Venezuela and Colombia. Angels may have chorused as we arrived on Colombian soil, I don't quite recall.

Buses from the border to Cucuta (2 hours), Bucaramanga (7 hours) and Tunja (5 hours) signalled the last of our long bus travel for a while. The mischievous pixies of travel had not had enough fun with us yet, however. Blearily rubbing our eyes as we emerged in Tunja, we noticed a huge highway and city sprawl unusual for a little mid-country town. We asked our taxi driver where we were. 'Bogota', he cheerily replied, giving us a little city history and tour as extras on the way to our, hastily selected, hostel. Bum.

We struck off all the places we'd planned to see in between Tunja and Bogota (goodbye huge dinosaur skeleton and odd monastery) and dedicated the next three days to recuperation and self-indulgence. We got bikini waxes, drank copious amounts of wine, ate in actual restaurants and went to museums. We were escorted to one, the Museum of Gold (very cool) by two friendly policemen, one of whom whispered "have my sons" as we walked away. I'm not sure if he meant take them or bear them for him, but I didn't take him up on the offer. Luckily, Bogota has it's own (much smaller) cable car, so my inner Felix was indulged and we saw the city from nice and high up. Colombian elections meant that drinking was illegal in all bars, restaurants and clubs, so we bought litres of 'Clos' box wine and got giggly and anti-social in our hostel. Voting meant that small tents and pervy policemen sprang up over the city like wildfire, and huge police bands played rousing patriotic songs which scared the pigeons and disturbed the sleeping beggars. We wandered the city's old district eating churros (another addictive deep fried treat) and shaking off the men who follow you telling you you're pretty. Sigh, life is hard.

The time came to leave the warm cocoon of Bogota, so we boarded yet another 8 hour bus to Manizales in the coffee region. The views of the Andes were spectacular, but constantly winding up and down through hills meant the temperature changed every half hour and layers were constantly being adjusted. Lunchtime arrived and our last box of Clos was broken out, making the journey much more bearable. So last night we arrived in Manizales, slept in a lovely hostel and woke to meet yet another of those English guys who just loves to tell you EVERYTHING about his travels, because he's so worldly wise and fascinating. (You reading my blog precludes me from becoming one of those people.. I didn't make you do it, and I promise I'll never speak of it again once I'm home). This morning we got the bus to the centre, to find a hostel in the middle of everything, and ended up wandering around for an hour, picking up a lovely Human Rights lecturer called Jaime along the way. He called his wife to explain he'd be late because he was escorting two English girls to a hotel, and had to take a photo of us because she wouldn't believe him. Manizales is really cool.. set on a valley it has eight 'micro-climates' and incredible views (when it's not raining). After exploring the cathedral and the highest point of the city (very high, but lots of cloud so saw nothing) we sat down for lunch in one of the many little restaurants which serve set menus of soup with an accompanying plate of multi-carb delights. It was run by two old men who called us 'niña' and 'corazon', and treated us to grandfatherly smiles and cups of hot chocolate. Sufficiently stuffed with carbohydrate and full fat milk, we had a little lie down before coming to an internet cafe and blogging our little hearts out.

Tomorrow we leave our lovely hotel (not quite a brothel but not the cleanest place) which overlooks the city and has a tv with grainy BBC world news (very exciting at the princely sum of 4 pounds each per night) for Salento, a pretty little town deep in the coffee-growing district. Even though the last couple of weeks have been pretty hard at some points, we have never met more people who are willing to go out of their way to help us or just have a little chat. Grandfatherly old men have given me gifts of ugly scrunchies, ladies give us little pinches whilst calling us 'mi amor', and little boys watch in amazement as I find Colombia on my itouch and show them where they live (I quite wanted to take this boy home). I don't really want to leave.