A Rebuke to Jon Winokur’s Travel Introduction from “The Traveling Curmudgeon”

Definition of Curmedgeon: [ Historically ] A crusty, ill-tempered, churlish old man.  [ Modern ] Anyone who hates hypocrisy and pretense and has the temerity to say so; anyone with the habit of pointing out unpleasant facts in an engaging and humorous manner.

In his amusing reading companion for experienced travelers, Jon Winokur points out that travel writing is the literature of complaint – and that bad trips have always been the seed of good material, from the Odyssey to Robinson Crusoe.  Very few want to read about a sun-kissed cruise on glassy seas, flying first class with your own bottle of Dom Perignon aboard a half empty 747, or a sumptuous stay at a first class hotel with incredible food and obsequious service.  Comfort and luxury are forgettable, he says.  “Misery is memorable.”  Your audience wants to hear about the train wreck.

A bad trip is guaranteed to rivet listeners at a party.  And result in a situation sure to induce reciprocity.  You will have to endure listening in turn to their travel horrors also.  Winokur suggests experienced travelers revel in their misfortune, as a form of snobbery.  “Look what I endured,” he opines, “because I love to travel.”  He points out certain parties assume one can’t be cultivated without extensive travel, and this particular set is determined to “broaden” themselves in the face of adversity.

Winokur questions however, whether there is really any broadening going on.  “What have they learned other than how to operate the shutter delay, tip the concierge, and file a lost luggage claim?” he asks.  “What have they seen besides the usual tourist traps on an increasingly beaten track around an ever more crowded and homogenized world?”

He goes on to suggest travel isn’t what it used to be (if it ever was).  Endless security checks, jet lag, homesickness, loneliness, strange beds, strange food, unpleasant seat mates, the shocking realization the US Constitution has no authority outside the United States— “the hardships are hardly worth the rewards.”  Slyly, he goes a bit further and notes that “Travel” derives from travail, early French for arduous toil.   We are told that if you trace the etymology back even further and you find the word for torture.

Tongue firmly in cheek, Winokur questions the need for travel.  “Why travel when you can experience almost anything in the world vicariously, in the comfort of your own home,” he asks.  “With the advent of streaming video, HDTV, and sooner or later, virtual reality – why go anywhere?  Let someone else do the work while you reap the rewards without the hassle and the risk.”  Winokur claims The Traveling Curmedgeon as an anti-travel book, to explode the myth that travel is some sort of cultural tonic necessary for mental, spiritual and cultural growth.  “Avoiding travel will liberate you from the tyranny of the travel-industrial complex,” he concludes, “and I trust persuade you to make all your journeys imaginary.”

I think it more a poke-in-the-eye artifice to increase his streams of income.  But who is to say?

Okay, I know he’s spoofing.  He’s globetrotter himself several times over.  But I’ll bite.  Here is why we travel via train, plane, automobile, dugout canoe, on foot, by donkey cart and all other available means instead of hopping the nearest computer and getting our travel jollies in the sedentary – and safe -- way.

And that is, primarily, because travel is our planetary lab.  It gives us perspective beyond a 17” screen.  It enculturates us in a way that no piece of hardware ever can.  It gives us a chance to practice and perfect those lessons we have begun at home.  And to display talents (such as languages) we dared not try under the watchful eye of friends and family.  Or did not have time for …  It allows us to experiment and make mistakes, and to correct them, in a less competitive and at times more forgiving environment.  It allows us to cement relationships begun by mail, or over the internet. The virtual world is for whetting the appetite and planning your endeavors; travel is for satiating them.  Ultimately, travel allows us to connect with others from different cultures in a hands-on way and ensures that we do not become myopic in our world views.  Paraphrasing Sting in a song he wrote years ago, once you have traveled to Moscow, you realize “Russians love their children too.”  We are more the same in this world than different.  Travel allows us to celebrate what we share in common (universally: a love of family, a desire for amusement, a thirst for higher knowledge and a relationship with a higher power, and a hunger for freedom).  At the same time, we get to explore our differences in a manner that allows you to see “up close and personal” why these differences exist.

Come to think of it: The adventures and scenery and food and company involved along the way aren’t often bad, either !

I could go on.  I won’t.  This just about handles what I wanted to convey.  Jon is wrong.  He knows it already.  He manifested a straw dog for us to beat up on, and is undoubtedly laughing all the way to the bank.  But thanks for serving up the softball pitch, amigo, and offering us the amusement of “Traveling Curmedgeon.”

--Larry Cenotto

Bogota, To Close ...

The return flight to Bogota is over before it begins.  Takes less than an hour.  Columbia is once again, beautiful from the air.  Had all manner of activities I was going to engage in upon arrival.  But we took off an hour late due to equipment difficulties and I missed the prime afternoon tour hours.  Tried to see a few things on my own – such as the  Museo de Arte Colonial and the Museo de Oro (Gold), which has a sterling reputation as a “must see” visit when in Bogota.  At each location, I was the last person to line up for admission, and the first denied entry.  Could not talk my way in to beat the band.  So took the nearby tramway, to the top of Montserrat Mountain, and the monastery there.  Primary reason is the incredible territorial view looking from east to west back over all of Bogota from nearly 8500 feet.   The capital city of Colombia is not what you call beautiful, but its population of 8 million ensures a wide spread, and this alone impresses.  It is much like looking at the Los Angeles basin from Mt. Wilson, only from a higher trajectory.

My last night on the continent was all about choices.  I chose to have a wonderful meal instead of mucking about exploring.  Some of this has to do with the lingering cold I am laboring under.  Naturally I chose Italian.  As nearby as I could find. Tried to make it seafood as well, to complete the daily double, but … well, the veal called to me.  It was an incredible meal, worthy of being eaten slowly, and worthy of further description. Started with a glass of Malbec, and a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon (at the same time).  Wait staff looked at me oddly and tried to segregate them, arranging the two to be consumed sequentially.  I smiled, poured them both anyway, and lined ‘em up.  Then for starters, Carcofi  Soup.  For anybody who has been to an Italian Panini shop and custom ordered their own sandwich (try mozarella, tomato, carcofi, and thin sliced cured jamon with olive oil) this is to die for!  At any rate, it is difficult just to find artichoke soup.  So when it appeared on the menu I knew there would be something very special at hand.  It was served hot with a puree base and chunks of artichoke sliced from the heart.   Cream and pepper and a sprinkle of mizithra cheese completed the flavoring.  This beauty lingered on the tongue like the taste of accomplishment after participating in a grape harvest and getting to barrel sample the previous season’s maturing crop afterward.  For those who are not artichoke fans, this is not comprehendible.  But it was heaven.  Could have been a complete meal as a solo dish.

The veal itself took up an entire plate.  No room for garnish.  It was cooked to a golden brown, almost like trout almondine, then rolled in oregano, pounded down to about 1/8” thickness, and simmered in olive oil.  A sprinkling of mizithra cheese and lemon pepper completed the seasoning.  Was so tender you could cut it with the edge of a piece of paper.  It too, was delicious.  Chose to eat it very, very slowly.  And next, the colorful side plate.  No parsley filler here !  It had the greatest variety of vegetables I’d ever seen accompanying an entrée.  Consisting of an arugula bed, fried zucchini, steamed asparagus, fried eggplant marinated in olive oil, fried onions, cooked red pepper, and baked mushrooms loosely arranged into “salad” form. I guess you could call it a salad.   The whole dish if you will was cooked Mediterranean style and garnished once again with grated cheese – Parmesan this time.  Finally, dessert.  Italian coffee and crème brulee.  Perfecto ! Only thing missing was lemon gelato.  And good company …

Took the short hike back to my hostel, encountered the usual computer problems (data dump, somebody was obviously trying to invade the computer, as I was on a Wi-Fi network) and so just kicked it and went to sleep.  Probably best.  This nasty cold still has a terrible grip on me.  Wakeup call set for 3:30 and the return flight to the US: Miami, to San Francisco, to Seattle.  Eighty-five days, come to to an anti-climatic and somewhat sauntering end … and this year, for the first time, I missed the Rose Bowl, the Super Bowl, and the Academy Award.  As Bob Dylan would sing: “Things They Are A Changin’ … “

Next: A Rebuke to Jon Winokur’s Travel Introduction from “The Traveling Curmudgeon”

Cali -- Former Drug Capital of The World

Cali is of course famous in recent decades for being the Drug Capital of the World.  Cartels controlling the cocaine and heroin trade, inspired fear and even admiration throughout this hemisphere.  Names like Pablo Escobar (eventually killed in a well publicized drug raid) were famous both north and south of the equator.  Due to drug interdiction money paid for by US taxpayers and a concerted effort by the Colombian police and military, the drug trade has largely been pushed up into isolated pockets in the highlands.  It is not that a thriving business does not take place still in the cities.  What is missing is the element of ostentatiousness.  Dealers no longer play their trades openly on the street.  They don’t wear ornamented gold chains the size of boat anchors. They drive plain cars.  They don’t run up bank accounts, but deal in cash only and horde it in caves in their lairs.

While in Bogota on the way over to Cali from Barranquilla on layover, I had several hours spare time in which to read and obtain a final ticket home.  Have gone over my allotted return date, something I knew would happen in advance.  I had to pick a date three months ago for my return, as a round-trip ticket is $700 less than a one-way ticket.  If I simply choose my date of departure later based on actual location and time for departure it is considered to be two one-way tickets.  My choice of March 29^th to return was completely arbitrary.  And way too soon.  American Airlines tried to play hardball with the fact I am going to be later than that by a week.  They want $700 additional, for a combo penalty of the change fee and fare differential.

At first, they can’t even find my fare code from 90+ days ago.  I won’t go into exactly what I did to effect a change, as I might want to use the formula again.  But suffice it to say it involved having long discussions with everybody at the ticket counters, doing my best to tie them up, demanding to speak to supervisors, returning to the original counter jockeys for a secondary appeal, using their phones and tying the lines up for extended periods, crowding out other people with problem inquiries, and then finally making the ultimate appeal directly to American Airlines HQ in Dallas.  After very extended and terse negotiations, the penalty was reduced to only $200 – a number I could live with and in fact celebrate.  I do thank American Airlines for this bit of generosity.   

When I am picked up at the airport in Cali by Doyler Mosquera Jr on March 30 in the afternoon, I am surprised to learn that – once again – the city is much larger than anticipated.  It has a population of 2 million, about half of them poor and concentrated in barrios.  This follows a pattern in South America, where the population is concentrated in capitals and major cities, and the campesinos have long left the contryside for jobs with better payment prospects in the metropolis.  Was surprised also, to see how verdant Columbia is from the air, with miles of jungle and grasslands and many navigable water sources reaching high up into the mountains.  Cali itself was very green and clean.  A few barrios had the usual piles of rubble, seedy denizens, scattered trash, graffiti and unkempt appearance, but the city was decidedly middle class and appeared no differently than most US suburbs.  Malls, restaurants, traffic congestion, housing, and all.  Only noticeable differences are in the Spanish construction style with stucco and red tile roofs, and a virtual constant: security features with wrought iron bars over every window, fence, and exterior courtyard (or driveway).  The cars are also smaller.  Gas is $4 a gallon here.

We go to a restaurant 17 kilometers outside of town in the foothills overlooking the city for an introductory drink.  Cali spreads out well below us with its yellow-orange network of lighting grids extending clear to the horizon.  We are perhaps 100 miles inland, but only because the roads are twisty and must clear a gritty little mountain range before dropping down to the coast.  I am introduced to Aguarmiente, a sugar cane based alcohol that is omnipresent here and available in every facsimile of bottle size.  You buy the bottle for economy (or a half, a media) and then sip it slowly out of shot glasses.  Accompanying the liquor and side-car lemonade drinks are potatoes, chorizo sausage, bits of steak, bits of chicken, limes, green platano (fried banana cousin) and other basics of the local diet.  They were adorned with green chimichuri sauce (made of garlic and parsley and olive oil) and aji sauce (made of coriander, onion, vinegar and chiles).   Our drive back into the city reveals Cali to be one of those late-night towns I relish so much, even during a weeknight.  The usual tiendas are open, the restaurants and clubs doing a busy late-hour business, and the streets are alive with purpose driven traffic.  We talk well into the night about my travels, and I get a chance to learn how much things have changed for the better in Colombia since the drug trade was brought under control in the last decade.

On Thursday, my strep throat that I thought had been beaten down in Trinidad reemerges.  We spend the day attending to Doyler’s business (wholesaling hair products to vendors and distributors) and touring the city.  Occasionally we seek a remedy for my throat in the form of various local cervezas, for which no prescription is necessary.  We also take an extended visit to his empty lot twenty minutes outside the city, on which he will build another home in about three years.  The view from this perimeter circle is regional – and very impressive.  Cali is a combo of the verticality of La Paz, the large buildings of Rio de Janeiro (and once again, some of the favelas are on the high ground rather than the flats as one would ordinarily expect), and the spread of Lima.  Our evening consists of chasing down food – a beautiful piece of Filet Mignon for only $9 US and an American style salad, rare here and especially with suitable or recognizable salad dressings.  We also seek out a Western Union outlet to pull in some much needed cash for the final leg of my journey.  Later we go clubbing, something Cali is famous for.  Too many outlets to discuss them individually at length.  It is a livewire, thriving town to be sure.

Suffice it to say, the club scene is on steroids here.  No shortage of crowds, some exotic food bits to munch on and new drinks to familiarize myself with to power them down with.  Cali’s reputation as generally having the world’s most beautiful women is not distinguishable yet, though there is plenty of evidence this city at least deserves a seat at the head table for this subjective classification.   One of the reasons why, is artificial.  More plastic surgeons in Cali than probably anywhere in the world.  Years ago, it was a surplus of drug dollars chasing limited good and services.  Everything was a game of “show and tell” and one upmanship.  Women started having plastic surgery at 16, whether they needed it or not.  Butt lifts.  Face lifts.  Breast implants.  Liposuction.  Body sculpting.  Men too.  Pec enlargements.  Penile implants.  More liposuction.  Today the freewheeling money is not as present as previous times.  But the focus on appearance is still quite clear.  It is an embedded part of the culture.  It is most unusual, for example, to see any woman walking the street without fresh adornment from both a pedicure and a manicure.

Once again, I find myself lucky (and grateful) to be in a family hosted situation where I have a secure place for my things, the internet is available without limit, I can wash my clothes, and English is regularly available though I continue to attempt practicing more Spanish.  The fact Doyler can accompany me to a doctor finally, is a huge bonus.  Have tired of waiting this thing out.  After going to the doc on Friday afternoon, all hell breaks loose.  Become sicker than a dog overnight.  The heavy meds we obtain by prescription from the pharmacist have chased this ogre out into the open.  I awake Saturday terribly congested, with a sore throat, runny nose, fever, coughing, an ear infection as a bonus – in short, the whole Medusa Gargoyle.  First picked this up three weeks ago in Rio, thought I’d beaten it down in Trinidad with help from the St. James Clinic, and the strep and other nonsense has come back now with a fury.  This is the worst I have had it in probably 25 years.  Have no ambition to do anything at all, but get off this final post re: Cali before heading out to Bogota tomorrow.

However there is one last field trip in us for the afternoon before cashing in our chips for the day.  We take a two hour ride through hideous weekend traffic in Cali, to Lake Calima.  It is beautiful location, with a powerful hydroelectric facility at its snout.  Take the entire perimeter drive.  Very scenic, highlighted with an interesting variety of gated Drug Lord casitas ringing the lake.  I am largely indifferent (except for the verdant jungle surrounding the lake) and going into La La Land much of the time.  The following conversation takes place internally:

Me: Awesome, this is memorable.  We ought to get some photos.

Jocko Yaqui Boya (my alter ego):  Give it a break. It’s not like we haven’t observed some scenery in SA.  Let’s plan some ways to kick ass and take names in Bogota.

My Ego:  Can’t you two see we’re sick?  What is it with this scenery obsession?  We need to go back to sleep.

Me: Yes,  but I need something for the blog.  Haven’t posted for awhile.  We have an impatient audience.

Ego: I ?  I need ?  Since when were you handling this thing alone?  I … ?

Jocko: Let it be, Id.  He’s weak.  Probably wants attention.  Sympathy.  That kind of shit.

Me: Why are you always so crude and head on?  I’d love to see you finesse something for once in your … er, our … life.

Jocko:  Methinks it best for us to concentrate on being robust for Bogota tomorrow.  You know, finish strong and all that.  You can always write a postscript later.  Pass on the blogging.  Be practical.

Me:  When have I ever been practical? I’m entitled to …

Ego: Well, there you go with that “I” stuff again.  You keep forgetting this is a committee.  According to the latest charter anyway.  My job is to keep us in the best light.  You are interfering.  Care to take another scan of the latest boundaries agreements?

Me: Well, isn’t that ironic?  You bringing up the “I” issues and boundaries.  What a crock.  Stuff it.  I’m sick.  It is too hard to listen to you two head cases.  And you always play mind games with me anyway.

Ego: You sound like Jocko now.  You need more meds.  How did I ever get paired with you two to begin with?

Jocko: Don’t loop me in with him.  I may even take a different seat on the plane.  He’a acting daffy.  It might be infectious.  Don’t want whatever he’s got rubbing off.  And I’m not talking about the flu …

[ Editor’s Note:  The three of them went to sleep shortly thereafter, oblivious to the scenery, and so we don’t which is the most reliable source for ascertaining the subsequent internal conversation, if any …]

Next:  Bogota, to close …   

Colombia !

This has been a most enjoyable final leg of an otherwise incredible journey.  I am hosted !  The guest of Doyler and Vilma Mosquera, the parents of my brother Locke’s wife Vivian, who live in Barranquilla, Colombia.  I have met them briefly before, but when I am picked up at the airport late on the 24th, it is as if we have known each other all our lives.  I have a place to store my things.  A place to wash my clothes.  Reliable internet access.  And the food is recognizable.  They pull no culinary surprises on me. We quickly fall into a pattern that I use to enjoy immensely years ago with my Grandfather, wherein Doyler and I make fun of each other and trade insults (in my family, the higher grade of sarcasm and undercutting wit, the greater the love).  Vilma does not speak English and so goes along, or chides us both for taking jibes at each other.  Then she laughs at length.  We catch up well into the night.  Like me, they are night owls.  The evenings usually are spent listening to Latin music from throughout the Caribbean, and dancing.  I often end up dancing with Doyler.  While Vilma spoils me with food and coffee and endless glasses of Coca Cola, Doyler does his best to get under my skin.  I get back at him by rubbing his well tanned and bald head.  He calls me “Amrica” (basically American, or Yankee).  I say: “No, Irish.  No Amrica.”  Vilma laughs.  I then call him Venezuelan, the ultimate insult in these parts.  He laughs.

Our first full day is spent on the 25^th, on a one and one-half hour trip east to the beautiful beaches of Santa Marta – about halfway to Venezuela.  This is when I discover just how BIG and spread out Barranquilla is (had thought previously it was a quaint little scenic beach town of 50,000 or so).  No, it is 1.5 million.  The residential area around Doyler & Vilma’s apartment is very nice.  Comfortably middle class and no different than Europe or the United States.  But approaching the ring road going out of town the city takes on the appearance of Tijuana, Mexico.  Endless trash.  Interrupted construction.  Out of place donkey carts, bicycle powered taxis, ancient buses belching black diesel smoke, torn up streets, and artificial barriers to forward progress everywhere.  Traffic police are a constant, and make random traffic stops to check on papers.  There is no lingering indication of drug wars locally.  I hear that former national problem has been chased into isolated pockets up in the highlands.  Otherwise the city is a surprising contrast.  Further east, we encounter a village called Pueblo Viejo along a huge coastal lagoon that is populated by Thai and Laotian ex-pats.  The reasons they have concentrated there are unknown.  The village looks out of place. It is the most basic construction ever witnessed by me personally.  They are simply rice-paddy style shacks on stilts.  Decayed plywood sheets for siding, occasional roofs of rusted tin, stick flooring that looks as if it will collapse into the water at any moment, and rotting debris massing at each stilted leg of the structure where it pierces the waterline.  It appears the debris and offal gathering around it will reach up and invade the shanty at any moment.

We reach Santa Marta and immediately understand why it is the draw it has become.  There are many hovels approaching the beaches, and some occasional modern skyscrapers just for good contrast.  The streets are both good and bad, with no rhyme or reason as to which you will run into next.  But the beaches are superior.  They remind me of those I’d seen in Ecuador near Canoa and Bahia.  Clean, sandy, bereft of trash, beautiful blue water, and just the right amount of supporting infrastructure nearby but without the usual wall of door-to-door tiendas and food stands.  We move beyond the town to two adjacent beaches: Taganga, and Playa Grande.  Taganga has many thatched roof restaurants where food is cooked to order, a lurking disco (just waiting for sunset), multiple colorful watercraft, and enough lounge chairs to populate the most modern of ocean liners.  We enjoy the view and beach there for awhile, particularly the steep hillsides with their many and varied impossible-to-build-on construction sites.  Collectively they have a perfect balcony seating type view of the beach.  I negotiate for a pair of sunglasses.  The traveling vendor asks for 50 pesos (about $25 US) for a pair of knockoff Ray Bans.  He proudly announces they are 100% UV protected, and possess various other qualities not at all evident.  He then takes rock and bounces it off the lens, as if to prove his point.   We snort and point at him derisively.  He laughs.  He has taken a flyer, and been found wanting.  No harm, no foul.  Part of the bargaining process.  We can’t come to a price agreement.  But I run into him half an hour later walking the beach.  The price comes down.  We agree on 15 pesos.  I know it is too much still.  I ask if he takes TT dollars (which I can not get rid of to save my hide)?  The ones that exchange for 6:1 versus the US dollar.  He looks confused.  Asks me if they are from Canada?  This since there is a magenta colored pix of Queen Elizabeth on the paper bills.  “Of course,” I answer with a straight face.  “And I’ll need change.”  He gives me back a 5 peso note.  We walk away, both temporarily pleased.  He because of the lingering illusion he has overcharged me still.  Me because the true cost of the sunglasses has dropped to about $1 US.  Doyler goes into a laughing fit at the story of the exchange and starts prowling the beach for his own bargains.

It is Playa Grande that truly impresses however.  You must take a 5 minute Panda ride (cabinless narrow flat boat) around the rocky northern corner of Taganga to get there.  The waters become more protected.  It is a bit more exclusive.  And more secluded.  No beach prowlers selling cheap trinkets.  Vendors only come when asked.  It is once again, one of those near perfect beaches.  One of the very few I’ve run into in South America.  We spend two hours there just basking and drinking Club Columbia beer (3 pesos each, or $1.50 US).  Time stands still and there are no “to do” lists, only the slightly cool water, the sun, the beer, and the great company.  I fall asleep within five minutes on the ride home.  At home, the air temperature is probably 80 degrees.  It is also humid.  On go the fans.  I fall asleep without use of a blanket (only a topsheet), something that has been a constant since leaving Quito.

Saturday evening we are joined by Vilma’s brother Jose, his wife Patricia and daughter Claudia.  I treat the five of them to a local soccer match – The Barranquilla Juniors vs. Cali America.  It is a fierce rivalry.  We don’t have time to eat on the way, and so pick up some chicken and potatoes on the way over to eat in the car.  Vilma hands me a latex glove.  “Oh no, thanks Vilma,” I tell her.  “My doctor did this for me a couple months ago, and he says we don’t need to take another look for a year.”  I forget she doesn’t speak English.  She looks at me hopefully, as if the meaning will be clear within a moment from the context.  But Doyler is listening.  He howls and slaps me on the back.  I can see the gears whirring inside his head, that he is seeking a comeback of his own to wow me with.  Inside, prices are very reasonable.  Three pesos to park, twenty-five pesos per ticket, three pesos per beer – and you only pay for beer at the end, on a modified sort of honor system !  I notice the two-tier field has a moat around it.  Then I remember this is South America, where revolutions and wars are started over the outcome of futbol matches.  At first, The Juniors lead 1 – 0, so the game is enjoyable but passionless.  Then Cali ties the match on a brilliant breakaway.  The crowd instantly comes fully alive.  The men stand and shout and hurl every invective known to man at the opposition, their own players, and especially the referees.  The most common insult is: “Puta” (whore).  I am at first shocked a little by this.  Then highly amused.  But then something inside grabs me and I am standing and shouting my own invectives: “Puta !  Caca de Toro !”  The Cali goalie goes up high to intercept an attempted pass across the mouth of the goal and ends up getting nudged to the ground.  He has clearly “flopped”.  The Academy Award selection committee puts in a brief appearance and decides it is all too much.  The referee waves his arm and demands continued play.  “Get that hombre a bra!” I yell.  None of the locals understand my innuendo, but they laugh loudly to see the Gringo get infected with local passions.  As The Juniors press for a decisive score in the final minutes, many players are felled – or pretend they have been, seeking advantage when none is created on the field.  Even the women rise at this juncture, pointing their fingers and shouting in unison: “Puta!”  My turn to laugh now.  At the end,  the 1 - 1 tie is preserved.  The moat is not breached.  Armed guards ultimately escort the referees from the field. 

Afterward the six of us stop for pizza.  And listen to Latin music back at the house.  There is dancing.  Claudia asks me to dance, then laughs and walks away shaking her head after about 45 seconds of trying to synch moves.   The four adults agree that I am a good dancer, but have my own rhythm and it is not a good match for Claudia.  So Doyler and I dance.  He amuses me to no end.  Always smiling.  Laughing.  Joking.  Attempting some sly practical joke.  I rub his head for good luck and continue to try to hold my own on who best gets in the last laugh.  He puts on his sunglasses.  “Of course, Gringo, these are not as good as your expensive shades,” he says.  Vilma tries to join in on occasion, but the language barrier prevents full appreciation of whatever humor is taking place.

Cartagena is a Unesco World Heritage Site.  It is about eighty miles west of Barranquilla.  The trip in is delightful, with good quality roads and beautiful, largely undeveloped oceanside scenery.  The air (brisa) is phenomenal in its luxuriant balminess and ability to relax you from the inside out.  Miles of uninterrupted breakers glide over the beaches sans the usual real estate development and commercial   mini-marts along the way.  We run into multiple shanty towns upon reaching the edge of Cartagena.   At first, the four of us – Doyler, Vilma, Claudia and me – merely take a driving tour of the walled town.  It is too hot to go outside.  Ultimately though we must exit to visit “El Castillo,” the primary focal point of the city’s defenses against pirates such as Blackbeard.  It is a massive, brick and concrete and coral block mound of portholes and gun embrasures pointed in every direction.  We wander about listlessly, and require another beer or water or Coca Cola about every 100 feet.  The history of the fort is not well displayed in writing, especially in English versions (however short), so my narrative on the Fortress is necessarily short.

Afterward, we retire to a local bar that is apparently popular for hosting famous guests from around the world.  It is called "Donde Fidel."  I find the inexpensive beer (again, 3 pesos) and the superior air conditioning to be its most attractive features.  Doyler gets into a long discussion with the proprietor about Latino music.  So, I wander.  When I return, I am wearing a Panama hat and a Barranquilla Juniors jersey.  Doyler delights in this, and immediately wants a photo taken to commemorate my new costume with virtually everybody in the bar.  There is more dancing.  Claudia and I synch up better this time, primarily because I have asked her to lead.  But Doyler is still the better dancing match.  On the way home, we stop at a local playa.  It is necessary to drink much more beer, just to remain hydrated.  We have a meal cooked to order (and the virtues of clarifying exact pricing ahead of time is soon well evident).  We buy inexpensive but fun jewelry for each other from traveling vendadors.  We  get massages lasting fifteen minutes (cost: 10 pesos) while seated awaiting dinner.  After dinner Doyler crashes in a shaded hammock and I take a dip in the ocean in my underwear.  It is bathtub warm.  There is no desire to leave.  Fall asleep again on the road home.  Can’t help it.  So balmy, and so much heat and sun, and so much beer !  Fall into my usual night owl pattern upon arrival back in Barranquilla, being mesmerized by the bestseller “Three Cups of Tea” and not able to go to sleep until about 3:30 AM.

Next: Cali

Curacao -- The Netherland Antilles

Sometimes when blogging or doing travel writing you have to cut right to the quick.  Thus it is so with Curacao.  This place is all about shopping, sun, and tourism.  All island publications lead with what you can buy here, and not what you can see or do.  Especially promoted are jewelry, clothing, watches, liquor, and fine dining.  And if the “Curis” don’t empty your wallet honestly from their promotions, they will get you with the casinos placed all over the island, and finally – the many activities available here.  Included of course are the usual golf, sportfishing, snorkeling and scuba diving, and even taking a plexiglass submarine down to a depth of 1000 feet.  A most attractive opportunity, for somebody who built a submarine in high school but never got enough lead ballast to get it to sink.  What is unusual (say compared to Venezuela) is the straightforward way the Dutch annex your wallet.  Prices are expensive (I paid $70 for the cheapest hotel in town, about $50 more than I have been averaging: ouch !), but quality is high and the colorful ambience of the Capital City of Willemstad helps justify some of the expense.

Part of the Dutch Antilles “ABC’s” – Aruba, Bonaire, and Curacao – the former Dutch West India Colony has a long and colorful history.  Founded in 1621, the Dutch West India Company (WIC) was granted a monopoly by the King of Holland on all Dutch trade and shipping in the Atlantic.  The Dutch and foreign mercenaries under their employ seized the island from the Spanish in 1634.  At the time, the island benefitted from its location between Brazil and North America and its strategic position in the salt trade.  Privateering was the order of the day and the Dutch established themselves as masters at controlling or co-opting or pirating Caribbean trade.  After sugar supplanted salt as the primary spice, a strong demand for slaves redirected WIC’s focus toward the slave trade.  The Dutch government eventually took over the company in 1791 and Curacao came under direct Dutch rule.  Curacao has continued to flourish since that time as mercantile generalists, since it has not established specific dependencies as other islands have on such commodities as gold and sugar.  Commerce alone (and now tourism) has sustained Curacao for a long time.  One advantage the ABCs have, is removal from “Hurricane Alley” and the seasonal fear of another twister devastating buildings and economies both.

The downtown area of Willemstad is divided into the more commercial (western) Otrobanda area, and the more tourist oriented (eastern) Punda area.  The Punda sector is well-known for its “floating market” where seafood, vegetables, and fruits imported 30 miles from Venezuela are displayed for sale off boats backed up to Sha Caprileskade Street and the Waaigat Canal.  The two sectors are separated by the St. Annabaai Channel.  Each is fronted by  multi-storied and well lit multi-colored facades with large Dutch gable roofs.  Mostly restaurants with European style café dining on broad sidewalks are located along these two commerce driven divisions of the city where they face the Channel –De Rouvilleweg Street on the Otrobanda side, and Handelskade Street on the Punda Side.  The Channel leads directly then to the Caribbean.  The streets are impeccably clean.  Like Trinidad & Tobago, the people are also exceedingly friendly.   Both sectors cater heavily to day tourists, as Curacao is a primary target of the Caribbean cruising establishment.

The Channel gets huge traffic and is crossed in three ways: the Juliana Brug “High Bridge,” which carries car traffic but requires a long detour to the north.  The passenger only ferry, which is free (passage across the channel is only a long city block).  Or, the “Queen Emma” Pontoon Bridge.  Unlike the three long floating bridges in Washington State that cross Lake Washington or the Hood Canal and are each well over a mile long, this bridge is … you guessed it … a city block.  Just long enough to connect Otrabanda to Punda.  What makes The Queen Emma so unusual, is the fact it is anchored at the western or Otrabanda end, and then pivots or swings out into the Channel and locks into place on the opposite side.  The bridge opens at regular intervals for boat traffic.  It is the passage of choice for most shoppers trying to get to the more isolated Punda tourist section of the city, when it is in the “closed’ or “connecting” position.  The Punda section is heavily reminiscent of the famous Vancouver tourist sector (British Colombia, Canada) of Granville Island in both its access and its tight and compressed layout.

About fifteen notable beaches are located along all stretches of Curacao.  Only the northeast section of the island, east of the airport, is not well represented with sandy reposes for the cash strapped or weary.  Most coincide with well known snorkeling and diving spots, as well.  Given a day and one-half on the island, and overcast with occasional rain once again, it was not possible to visit many of them.  However, between personal visits and queries on the street, the best beaches are: Playa Jeremi, Groot Knid, Jan Thiel, Playa Jeremi, Playa Kalki, Playa Portomari, St. Michael Bari, Cas Abao, and Sea Aquarium Beach.  The first two mentioned have cliffs where locals (and intrepid visitors) often jump or dive into the sea, a la the famous Cliff Divers in Acapulco, Mexico.

Apparently a class is taught for all locals (except for a few maladjusted taxi drivers) in the finer points of the hospitality arts: warm welcomes, etiquette, grace under pressure, and feeding of visitors.  Locals are very polite.  And very helpful.  If a cab doesn’t pick you up on a timely basis, or you have missed your bus, a generous Curi in their own vehicle will soon be behind.  All you have to do is stick out your thumb. If an artisan or vendor doesn’t have your item, or can’t meet your budget, he will gladly direct you to a competitor.  It is very clear the islanders want you to enjoy your stay, and want you back.  English is widespread in Curacao.  What is more fun is listening to the local dialect: Papiamentu – a fascinating mixture of Spanish, French, Dutch, and English.  It has the softness of French, the easy recognition of Spanish, the bouncy cadence and hand gestures of Italian, and the directness of English.  Sounds like a fun language to learn, if only there were more universal use of it !

Overall, Curacao is a fun destination with brilliant, committee designed weather.  The island is green and flat, has good roads, excellent public transportation, superb varied waterfront dining (the only worthy kind, in my book), plenty of cash machines that accept all manner of cards, a centrally located airport, language is not an issue, and the people make a business of YOUR satisfaction being THEIR business.  My God, they even take exit surveys here!  All in all, this is a place I look forward to returning to some day when I am not running out of time and money and still worried about my proximity to Venezuela.

Next: Colombia !

Grenada -- The Spice Island

I have been curious about Grenada ever since the United States invaded this small Caribbean island around 1983 during Ronald Reagan’s Presidency to protect American medical students from what was described at the time as “a growing Cuban threat.”   Actually the UN member nation is made up of three islands, including the much smaller Carriacou & Petite Martinique.  Grenada itself is called “The Spice Island.”  Ginger, clove, turmeric, curry, saffron, cardemon, cumin, paprika, ginger, cinnamon, and especially nutmeg are both grown and processed here.  Three prominent nutmeg factories dot the island.    Visually it is yet another Caribbean Pearl, with its beautiful coastline pockmarked with coves and bays (including Grand Anse Beach, one of if not the largest in the Caribbean).  It goes without saying that as soon as I arrived Monday night after a day of brilliant sun, it started raining here.  So a tour was clearly in order.

Grenada’s interior is filled with waterfalls and heavy lush low hanging forest.   Highest point on the island is Mt. St. Catherine at 2757 feet.  Ferns, bamboo, Heliconia and Kapok trees predominate.  Largest city is the capital (St. George’s) on the west coast.  A Saturday market in which spices are the featured products is one of the primary attractions of commerce there.  About ten miles further north is the largest fishing port, Gouyave.   Multi-colored English plantation style homes – many with incredible stilted frames – spread across all reasonably accessible points on land, and some over water.  Most sport new or fairly new roofs, the result of recovery efforts from Hurricane Ivan in 2004 which devastated much of the island.  My favorite architectural adornment, the bouganvilla vine, is the national flower here and breadfruit is the national dish.  It is cut into slices, mixed with meat, a potato paste, spinach, and slowly cooked in a pot.  Never got a chance to try the local cuisine, however, since it rained so much and I did not fancy walking into the local restaurants totally drenched.

The local monetary denomination is the East Caribbean Dollar, which exchanges for about 40 cents US for a trade ratio of 2.5 to 1.  The economy here is dependent on tourism, fishing, St. George’s Medical School, and spices to sustain itself.  Island population is around 101,000 and the size about 133 square miles … give or take a few acres.  All in all the island is about 25 miles long.  Carricou adds another 6000 and Petite Martinique 900 to the population base of the nation.  Average temperature year round is a balmy 80 degrees farenheit.

Grenada is less free-wheeling than other nearby getaways.  It is definitely more conservative in its approach to everyday life.  For starters, kids wear uniforms to school, which includes ties for young men.  Boys and girls attend separate schools at the middle and upper high school levels.  There is a religious revival fervor here, very little nightlife, and basically the sidewalks roll up about 4 to 5 PM (including internet cafes) and things are cinched up tight for the night. Only restaurants remain open afterward.  Serenity and stillness are the watchwords for Grenada.  Serenity, stillness, and isolation if that is what you prefer.  Many beautiful specialty retreats and spas are built here to accommodate just such desires.

Some unusual aspects of my tour were the huge curving crescent of Grand Anse Beach (between Maurice Bishop International Airport on the extreme southwest tip of the island, and St. Georges Town five miles up the coast) – clearly a major attraction in sunny weather due to the armchair and umbrella count and the supporting infrastructure fronting the beach.  Local rum factories were another.   One of the biggest, Grenada Distilleries, whose product lineup was promptly forgotten by me after carefully sampling each and every varietal made there (and then sampling again due to what we'll just call "quality control" concerns) – offered up dark and light rum, lemon rum, rum punch, spiced rum, and seven other categories of distraction.  Alcohol content ran up to 75% (150 proof).  Walked away happy, and completely denuded of appetite afterward.  Thought for a brief while afterward my ears were on fire, my tongue growing hair, and my snout had been used to scrape barnacles off the bottom of local fishing craft.  Another unusual attraction at nearby Molinere Bay, was the world’s first underwater sculpture park.  Sixty-five pieces are ready for viewing from both snorkelers and scuba divers.  The site is intended to contribute to the ecological ethos of the island, which is necessarily based around sustainability.  Once again, due to weather and limited time, I had to satisfy myself here with contemplation of underwater photos of the sculptures rather than a preferred descent into the park/garden itself.  Finally, Ft. George provides a great regional viewpoint from its high elevation looking over the city.   It serves as a reminder of past skirmishes between the British and French over control of the island.  Today, Grenada is thoroughly British in culture (more so than London, in some ways), yet retains much Gallic influence in the secondary local language consisting of a patois of French and various African dialects.  Overall, though a bit quiet, I suspect the locals much prefer their island this way, and many elsewhere would find Grenada a very nice place to live for a whole host of reasons.

Next: Curacou (Netherlands Antilles)

& Tobago -- "The Junior Partner"

My most relaxing phase of this incredible journey.  Whereas Trinidad and its capital Port of Spain are larger and industrialized to a certain extent, Tobago as the junior partner is laid back, pastoral, has good quality but impossible roads that never meet at right angles, and beautiful beaches.  The island is about 50 miles from Trinidad.  It is green and lush and just what you would imagine for a colonial British outpost.  Population of the island is about 54,000 spread over approximately 320 square kilometers.

I think today is Sunday.  Swear that I can’t say for certain.  This has hurt me in getting airline tickets (not all carriers fly to all their destinations every day).  Took the three-hour fast ferry (catamaran) over from Trinidad on Friday.  It only cost $10 US.  Spent the time at first just walking, getting acclimated to the island around Pigeon Point and scouting for good seafood.  I have once again poached off Steve’s previous booking of a two-bed hotel room and split the cost with him.  This quiet but naturally friendly Brit has made for an excellent travel companion. My first extended travel partnership/connection since Jon & Charlotte way back in Buenos Aires. Have eaten most meals with him, and for the last two days gone scuba diving together – the primary reason for being on Tobago.

The waters here are legendary for their clarity.  At least during sunny weather.  Visibility of 150 feet underwater is not uncommon.  But it has rained here for the most part these last three days, so our diving arena has been a bit murky.  This has been fine.  Our divemaster, Richie, has entertained us with his easy Caribbean manner and quick humor.  Also his generosity.  Most dives end with a rum and coke session on the beach afterward.  Our first dive yesterday, was primarily a check-plunge to make sure Steve and I were competent as scuba divers. We averaged about 80 feet in depth, and stayed down approximately 50 minutes. We had intended a second dive, but Richie needed to fix his compressor (fills the scuba tanks with clean air), so we made up for  it up today with a three-tank day.  Started with a wreck descent.  Due to the overcast we did not get the sunlit shafts of light which penetrate the hold of the sunken vessel and often make it a visual cornucopia.  Nevertheless, there were still those frozen moments, when we saw fish swim the line between shadow from the recesses of the ship’s hold, and sunbeams coming in from holes cut in the sides of the craft.  During these brief interludes, you get both silhouette, and stunning living color from the various fish drifting and then darting through the hull.  The fish are of all sizes.  Large gray groupers.  Tuna size silver school fish.  Small, colorful striped darters.  Tiny minnow sized electric blue fish, which are clearly just waiting to be swept up by larger prey.  And even smaller krill sized fish, which were so numerous they clouded the water.  Each group stays together by some impossible to fathom navigation mystery, so that if one turns, they all turn – on a dime and without a single collision.  It is like watching a flock of wrens as they darken the sky, and change direction en masse simultaneously.  Only this takes place underwater, with each group occupying a different level based on size and how they vector themselves. The situation can be compared to a Metro underground station junction, where subways from every direction cross at a junction, people depart, redeploy, and take off again in a different set of cars.  The colors mix in a fantastic kaleidoscope as they pass each other, and the dim sunlight plays off their scales.  Only wish my video camera worked underwater so I could capture this magic.

Our second dive was a deep drift dive.  Forget being intentional.  You go straight to the bottom, and then with the flow.  Literally.  If one tries to fight the current, you merely exhaust yourself, and burn up your oxygen unnecessarily.  When things are right – which means you are at neutral buoyancy, neither ascending nor descending but suspended like a hot air balloon which has found its airborne equilibrium – the sensation of being pulled along silently is utterly tranquil.  You are weightless, motionless, hardly breathing, there is no sound, and you are just a part of the surroundings.  The visual element then takes on added sensitivity.  This is the same sensation felt by a blind man, whose hearing is elevated due to his lack of sight.  Our third dive was a drift dive also, but at shallower depth, due to the previous dives we’d done already and the need to keep from getting too much nitrogen embedded in our blood.  During both dives, we saw 7-foot nurse sharks, a lemon shark, several sea turtles, sting rays (skates), too many huge lobster to count, mustard yellow tube coral, coral formations shaped and colored like strawberries the size of basketballs, pitch black palm coral waving in the current like flexible giant flyswatters, and of course fish of every stripe and color.  The reef itself was colorful but muted by much silt.  Especially prominent were elongated “pipe fish” with oversized eyes facing in different directions.  My favorite viewing was a flexible and almost jelly-like living coral, with long wavy tendrils, shaped like a huge latticed butterfly.  It is snow white and ankle thick at its base where it anchors itself to the reef.  From there it branches out in ever more delicate veins, until at its tips it is nearly deep gentian purple and as thin as angel hair pasta.  Absolutely mesmerizing.  Could not help but stroke these beauties as I drifted by, to ascertain their liveliness and confirm they were not put together by some Hollywood Special Effects department.

Otherwise Tobago is comprised of warm, generous, engaging and humorous people.  Very laid back people.  People who keep their little island clean and tidy and take pride in their largely English Colonial style habitations.  People whose English is better than ours except for the inescapable “Mon” thrown onto the beginning and end of each sentence.  People who don’t worry an awful lot about time, or being on time.  People who readily make deals and want you to stay.   People who may be wearing Rastafarian hair, Caribbean casual dress (basically just pants), look like they have a dirt patch to make a living on, and then turn around and drive their BMW away from you after picking up their take-out chicken.  Odd contrasts like that abound here.  One sign we were quite amused by on a mini-market door: “No barebacking allowed.”  This has a whole different (sexual) context in the US.  In Tobago, it simply means “no shoes, no shirt, no service.”

And now I have come to another fork in the road.  Am running out of both time and money on my way to Colombia to finish up the journey.  Had intended to visit “The Three Dwarfs” (French Guiana, not really a country unto itself, but a department of France, plus Suriname and then Guyana) all along to complete the 13 political divisions embedded in South America.  Had no idea it would be so difficult or expensive to get into or out of these three when doing my prior planning for the trip.  May not be able to make it.  Have to get to Colombia, and going to The Three Dwarfs just takes me further away and then left with even more expense yet to return.  So, it appears I’ll be doing the following in order to get west, where the family of my brother’s wife awaits me: fly from Tobago to Grenada, Grenada to Curacao, and then Curacao to Barranquilla in Colombia.  I could go through Venezuela again, at great expense and with no advantage, and thrashed this option in about three nanoseconds.  This is one of the necessities of freestylin’ – adapting.  All the grand design and master plan intention in the world, doesn’t work when you find places like Cayenne where “you can’t get there from here” or the entire western side of Guyana is cut off by wetlands or Suriname demands a visa which is too expensive for intending to spend only 24 to 48 hours there at most.  So, despite being an accomplishment junkie and a list completer, I am sadly going to have to leave that little list finalization incomplete.  Reality has caught up with me.  I will just have to learn to enjoy Grenada and Curacao in the coming days.  The adjustment is good for me.  To be flexible and let go of an old plan despite the attraction of being able to “check off the whole continent” is a good thing.   In the final analysis there are no major attractions in the Three Dwarfs and no strategic reason for needing to be there.  Been told this a number of times from home via e-mail, and now it is settling in to roost.  I have listened.

Next: Grenada

Trinidad & Tobago (And Happy St. Patrick's Day)

Ferry coming over from Venezuela was smooth and eneventful.  It was the most overhyped event since Bobby Riggs vs. Billie Jean King in geriatric tennis.  The hucksters made it sound prior as if it was crowded, exclusive, tickets hard to get, etc.  We are told all other means of getting to Trinidad were either dangerous or unreliable or no longer existed.  Early purchase and all that was heavily encouraged.  So many people at the cash machines in town, and all the hotels full, that it was credible such activity was related to cramming the ferry.  Not so.  Got on board, and there were only ten of us paying passengers – ten foreign fools who had paid through the nose!  But we were all ardent travelers, got to compare destination notes a lot, and had many stories to trade. Much of the time was spent making fun of ourselves and the minefields we had encountered and the myths we had bought into in our journeys.  But we were getting out of Venezuela.  And the drinks coming over were free.

Taxi driver at  Port Chaguanas in Trinidad (named Junior) took me and British purchasing agent Steve Chandler, who I met on the ferry --  and whose job was eliminated but then received a large redundancy payout to finance his travels for nine months -- to a cash machine first.  TT’s (Trinidad and Tobago Dollars) exchange in the machine for about $6 for each US dollar.  There is no black market for cash here. Then to Steve’s hotel, so I didn’t have to bother with researching that.  He already had gotten a double room that just happened to come with two beds, so we split the cost.  Mind at ease.  And zero effort.  Muscles and coughing easing up a bit as well as a result.  Then Junior came back at no extra charge, and drove us over to a restaurant sort of like TGIFs called “Trotters” and headed out again to drive his aunt somewhere.  Steve and I were both looking forward to a proper meal, one without scoops of rice, dried meat, sloppy wilted salad without dressing, no mayo, and Tang or Coca Cola for virtually every meal.  He had fish and chips (what a limey!).  I had fettucine with crab and shrimp for $98.  It was delicious, after some of the mundane crap I’ve had to eat the last two weeks (lots of hit and run coffee, Coca-Cola, and Doritos).  Followed with a crushed ice rasberry margarita.  Then another.  Then a caipirinha.  All great for the throat.  Was amusing when looking at the drink menu, to see a margarita listed for $58.  I thought they must have spiked that thing with black gum heroin or something near, to justify prices like that.  But when it came down to the exchange rate, an oversized flavored and icy drink was still less than $10 US.

Junior came back and we treated him to a drink while finishing.  He described the local nightclub scene and gave us a driving tour.  Turns out that we are in St. James, a suburb of Port of Spain (Capital of Trinidad).  Got to drive around the world’s largest roundabout (nearly a mile in diameter) and drive by the world’s most busy and successful KFC outlet.  Seems as if they enjoy their chicken in Trinidad, because there were many copy cats nearby also selling the fowl in all its other permutations.  Primarily Cajun and Jerk Chicken.  Steve and I agreed we wanted real sleep and then beach time above all.  So Junior offered to come back in the morning and take us there.  I asked him to make it mid-day, so I could go to the health clinic.  Ends up it is two blocks from the hotel.

Went in this morning.  Amazing.  Clinic was very crowded but there were no long waits.  English is spoken here as the primary language.  The care is really diligent.  The facility is colonial, a little 1950 ish, and what we will call "quaint."   Staffers are all considerate and polite.  Numbers are not given and there is no queue but nobody cheats on the patient order to see a doctor.   Got my diagnosis and treatment and meds for free.  Unbelievable.  Here is the shocking part … my chest x-ray results to eliminate pneumonia as a potential malady and my blood lab tests, were back within about five minutes [ Wendy, please take a note to staff on this ].  Who are these guys?  Whole time, service with a smile.

That is the first thing you notice about Trinidad.  No sneers.  No suspicious looks.  No “vertical scan” assessments – what is this guy worth, what is he carrying, and how much can I get out of him?  Just smiles, a sincere desire to connect, and a desire to help.  What a contrast over a 24 hour period !  So I am back at Steve’s B&B, writing on working Wi-Fi and basking at the prospect of restored good health and freedom from being pillaged at every opportunity.  Relaxation mode almost into full restoration now.   Not sure what is next.   It is raining quite heavily at the moment.  Might go with Steve tomorrow to Tobago to go scuba diving.  Or stay another day here, then fly to Guyana on Saturday.  But Guyana will be the next destination.  Short post, enough for now.  Going out to enjoy Trinidad!  If the typhoon will let us …

Still Trying to "Get Off The Bus" in Venezuela

Thought I’d be out of this God forsaken place and celebrate my birthday sitting on a beach bar somewhere in Trinidad: Calypso music prominent in the background, soft breezes at my throat, wearing a dodgy shirt and outrageous hat, and sipping something tall, cool, and delicious.  Not to be.  Venezuela continues to stymie.  Henceforth, we will now call this Cenotto’s Law re: Venezuela.   That is:

There are no schedules.  There are no fixed prices.  All information is bad (even from friends and allies).  Whatever THEY said it costs, it doesn’t.  Whenever THEY say it leaves, it doesn’t.  Wherever an airport or ferry or train station is said to be located, it is not.    Facility location here is more elusive than “The Black Pearl” in Pirates of The Caribbean.  And you will get Porked both coming and going."

 Oh yes, I will elaborate …

Wake up at 5 AM to get the surefire bus out of town (Porto Ordaz).  It is the Occidente line.  Of course, a sign on their door in Spanish only essentially says the run has been cancelled.  I look for other lines.  A fellow approaches me, and asks if I want to take a “carrito” (driver and four passengers, no stops, no bus stations, and only $7 more to cut the trip down to four hours from eight).  I say yes, but indicate I will hold onto my money until they actually have four passengers.  My alternate bus comes and goes.  Then another.  We wait an hour and one-half before there are four willing passengers to go to Carupano, as far north on the coast as I can go.  But once we take off, the driver moves like a bat out of hell.  I like it.  Making up for lost time.  And I get to sleep.  Two hours in, we change cars and drivers.  This one is more relaxed, stops for every other vehicle and potential pedestrian, and goes half a kilometer per hour over every speed bump.  There are more speed bumps on Venezuelan roads, than teleprompters at a Barrack Obama Press Conference.   We lose time.  At our destination, I switch cars again, and head for Guiria.

Now, I have been told – including by one of my Saints, Jose Camino, being in Guiria will easily get me to Trinidad.  That is my Great Escape.  My whole sanity construct is now delicately balanced around this one fact; getting out of Venezuela.  I am told by Joe and others I will have a choice of flying, taking the ferry (on Wednesday only), or taking a secondary boat to a small town at the tip of Venezuela (directly facing Trinidad) called Macuro.  Instead of a ferry at Macuro they have small ships.  And small airplane flights for the easy 15 minute hop across the channel to Trinidad.  Many choices apparently.  That is why I have come here.  No plan has to be failsafe, there is always backup.  After yet another three hours of driving (we run into an amusing wildcat strike near the end, with burning tires and metal poles across the road blocking our egress to the port, and even soldiers standing by as bemused witnesses), the carful of other passengers and I are at Guiria.  The driver makes this milk run every day.  But once we arrive he doesn’t really know where the ferry landing is.  Nor does he know where the private boat harbor with the berths to Macuro is.  And he points to where he thinks the airport is.  I try to establish an “Order of Battle” whereby the most important things are (1) determining pricing and departure times of the various boats leaving both Guiria and Macuro (2) ATM access (3) Internet access (4) Food, and (5) Finding a hotel.  He is more interested in directing me to a hotel.  He knows a total of four words of English, but that part is VERY clear.  Must have a cousin in the business.  Seen this pattern before.   They smile a lot, say “Yes” often (I like to test them with a query about “Did your father assist with the atrocities at Auschwicz?”) but then direct you anyway to their priorities, which involves you spending more Bolivars.

Now, I apologize for elaborating on this, but people need to know about patterns.  Especially freestyle travelers and budget conscious types.   Then this will end.  First, he drives me to the ferry.  I ask: what time does the ferry leave?  They violate an unwritten rule, and eventually agree it is 1 PM on Wednesday (Note: it is actually 3:30).  Okay: at what price?  Ah, big smiles, but no answers.  After five minutes of prosecutorial pounding, they grudgingly agree it is 1700 Bolivars.  I instantly regrow tonsils, just so I can gag them out.  $400?  For a 15 mile ride?  Chavez himself must be in on the filthy lucre here.  “For one way?” I inquire?  “Oh, only 900 Bolivars.”  The word only rotates in my brain awhile, the way a gem does when it is in a rock polisher for finishing.  I control my choking instinct, and feign interest.  “Oh, that’s not so bad then.”  And I ask about alternatives.  Like the boats to Macuro.  Where I can apparently leave any time, by either boat or plane.  Okay: “Cuanta Cuesta?”  No answer.  My pitch rises.  “Cuanta Cuesta?”  They can’t or won’t tell me.  But they offer to go over to consult one of the captains themselves, for a final price.  They invite me along.  I want to pay my driver, but am reluctant to let go of the bags or be isolated with them on the edge of town and completely without answers.  I ask him to follow.  The taxi meter is really spinning now … After a three minute drive the captain – again, hardly more than a boy wearing flip-flops – avoids talking passage to Macuro.  He vaguely hints it can’t be done, or at least at this time of night, or not without a special Mermaid crew, or some damn thing.  But he can take me directly to Trinidad …  For $1000 ...  US dollars only.  That would be some birthday present!   I decline.  And ask about the airport.  They tell me I’ll have to check on that tomorrow.  It is closed now.  All the flights have left for the day.  Looks like I should lock in the ferry then (ridiculous as the price is, especially if it only runs once a week) and then look at airfare anew.

So, off for an elaborate game of “catch me in the mood if you can!” with the cash machine.  Eventually find one that works.  Have to use it four times, to get the proper cash amount for ferry and hotel.  Driver’s meter is in overdrive now.  Then the Internet Cafe.  I finally get dropped off and don’t even quibble about his extra charge.  I get to post to the blog and return e-mail !  These folks are helpful, finally.  They let me stay overtime, put only a modest charge on the books, don’t quibble about connecting directly to the net via my cable, look things up for me on the internet and then translate it from Spanish to English via Google.  More angels.  But, they tell me there are no airports at either Macuro or Guiria.  My only options are a boat from Guiria to Macuro (still don’t know the price of that yet: they would have to take an actual look at me and size me up for grift potential), then another from Guiria to Trinidad, OR, the ferry only from Guiria.  The one everybody for 25 miles around is trying to get on.  On departing the Internet Café after three hours, and finding nothing useful about planes, trains, automobiles, ferries, or barcos (boats) I start wandering the streets.   I find this to be a pretty low-rent town.  Everybody tells me to be off the streets by 9 PM.

Instead, I am parading back and forth with a GoreTex jacket, a big rolling duffel, a computer satchel, a small camera bag, and a backpack looking for a hotel.  This is probably like watching an Eskimo parading The Strip in full kit in Las Vegas.  I get more stares than the Elephant Man.  Just as I am about to approach a ring of hotels, a Trinidad lad over for a couple days of partying is just too damn curious.  “Why you here, Mon?” he asks.  “We see you walking.  Very confusing.  What you looking for?”  And thus ensues a convoluted discussion about my travails in Venezuela, just wanting to be voted off the island, not being sure of anything from anybody (including him), needing to get to Trinidad – but not at just any price – and having no idea what info was good or who I could trust.  As a regular daytripper between Trinidad and Guiria, “Elrod” offers to come by at 6 AM and walk me past the ticket window to someone on the captain’s staff for a “special arrangement.”  Again, in accordance with the rule, the pricing under this scenario is never mentioned.  He hints broadly, that we may be able to avoid the Venezuelan exit tax, which is not small (pork you coming and going – this IS PART OF THE RULE remember).  Then he wants to drink to my birthday “suerte” (luck).  I already smell half a flagon of The Captain’s finest on him.  Have no wish to join in, and doubt it will do my throat much good, despite his persistent claims to the contrary.  Having a hard time pushing the well-intended Elrod away, but finally manage it.  We agree to go on this excursion together at 6 AM.  By now, I am use to these early risings.  But this one?  This one ought to be a doozy.  The writer in me is really, really curious just what he thinks he can pull off.  And while you scream in the background: Are you daft!  Haven’t you run into this sort of shenanigans already?  Have you no F*$&^#$ learning curve?  You couldn’t possibly be thinking of giving this man money for a “special deal.”  You deserve abuse!  You’d be right.  No money trades hands, until I have a ticket in hand, and my passport already reviewed.  But having spun the misadventure out to this point, I wouldn’t want it to end in a boring fashion.  Going to see what’s cookin’ …

[Postscript] : Elrod never shows up.  I get to sleep in.  Am third in line for ferry tickets at 8 AM.  The transaction, though outrageous in its pricing for a 15 mile one-way trip, goes smoothly.  It is indeed 900 Bolivars (but $123 if you have greenbacks).  Boarding is at 2 PM, and ferry leaves at 3:30.  I still have my fingers crossed and assume Venezuela has further tricks up her sleeve to see that I remain in suspended animation here while my cash cards continue to get flushed.

Also, the camera is useless now.  It was hit directly by a massive wave that went straight down my pancho on the dugout canoe ride back from Angel Falls, and has been drying since.  It will play back previous photos but won’t take new ones.

Next: Trinidad & Tobago (even if for just a day)