The Bridge At Cahors, France

This Medieval Bridge at Cahors, France (just south of the Dordogne Valley on the main north/south motorway to Carcassone and The Languedoc Region of southern France) was the dividing line between "English France," and French soil during the Hundred Years War. Its three massive stone towers and fortified gateways kept the two armies apart -- except after hours, when festive-minded soldiers from either side would sneak across the river in rowboats, wine and feast and carouse together, and return to their respective sides of the river with "fair warning" just in time for renewed hostilities at daybreak.


Monday, March 28, 2011

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 25th, 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

Friday, March 25, 2011

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 cafĂ© 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 !

Thursday, March 24, 2011

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)

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

& 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

Thursday, March 17, 2011

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 …

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

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 CafĂ© 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)

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Salto Angel -- World's Tallest Waterfall

Our camp, Wey Tepuy, is full of Europeans.  Mostly Russians.  Very friendly folks, this new breed of Ruskies.   Very generous.  Outgoing.  Not suspicious.  Anxious to connect.  Well educated.  European in every sense these days.   One of them, Andrei Navmenko, offers to deliver something to my brother in Moscow upon his return, should I so desire.  We all have a hard time with our Venezuelan staff.  They have a tendency to take your paperwork (tickets or vouchers), say “this is your room,” and then walk off.  No meal time.  No plan.  No schedule.  No papers.  We are loosely told we will leave for Angel Falls at 11 AM.  During breakfast however, somebody rushes in and asks if we are ready to go.  We point to our watches.  Heads wag back at us.  “No.  Vaminos.  Ahora!” is all that is declared.  Three minutes to pack bags and put passports and money and wallets in the safe.    Then to a rickety open sided van.  Fifteen minutes to bypass the local falls and get to our portage point.  Then about ten of us pile into a 35 foot dugout canoe (pangas), complete with backpacks, rain ponchos, spare Yamaha engine, and a small cache of food and supplies for two days upriver.  We have about 30 miles to go.  We quickly learn all the rain panchos and Goretex in the world will not protect you from a Panga driver intent on missing rocks, or swerving to avoid shallows or upturned roots.  We are drenched in moments.  Sometimes by waves that knock us backwards, and leave everybody else bone dry.  We each get our turn at this.
 At first, the jungle and mangrove swamps on our flanks are fascinating.  But they lose their curiosity after about five miles.  Turn after turn of the river is negotiated.  Massive table topped sandstone mesas called Tepuys come into view to our sides.  They are the height of Yosemite Valley’s famed granite walls (just to one side).  Many waterfalls are present.  I call them “Pretenders.”  We know the big one is coming up so very few photos are taken of the junior varsity team.  It is necessary at one point for us to disembark and walk for 45 minutes so the guides can portage our Panga up through rapids.  This approach goes on for four and one-half hours.  If it wasn’t for the view it would be easy to concentrate on how saddle sore your bum is getting in this wooden boat without padded seats.  The River bends repeatedly.  Linked Tepuys begin to stretch the entire length of the river.  Numerous but small waterfalls abound.  Clouds cap the flat topped mesas rising above us.  Rising mist adds mystique to the scene.  Excitement builds: when will we see it?  We get thoroughly soaked (ah, but it is a “warm soaked”).  Jungle to our flanks, tantalizingly cuts off our view just as a good photo op comes into play.  Constant spray.  Rock formations highlighted by filtered mists delineate the overhead cliffs.  One of them looks either like another statue lineup from Easter Island, or a display of bad British denture work.  Hard to say.  It was 4000 feet above us.  When we reach a portion of the river with four massive rock horns pricking the sky (“The Horns of the Devil”) to our left, we see the falls for the first time.  We are still ten bends or so in the river away.  But it is unmistakable.  The height, the massive flow, the domination of the skyline all announce this as Angel Falls.
The world’s highest waterfall was discovered (this is a very loose term) in 1937 by Jimmy Angel, an American pilot looking for gold who crash landed his plane on top of the Tepuy mesa basin called Auyantepuy (or Mountain of the God of Evil” or “Devil’s Mountain”) which empties Angel Falls.  It took Angel and his wife and two friends 11 days to hike the difficult stretch back down to the river to provide proof of the fall’s existence.   The massive flow feeding the falls is a bit of a paradox, as there is no conventional drainage source such as snow, lakes, or major river system at that altitude.  Almost all of the moisture seems to come from equatorial clouds condensing onto the jungle plateau of Auyantepui.  From this, up to 11 major cataracts cascade over the gnarled cliff edge to eventually coalesce at different levels thousands of feet below. During dry season (now) the flow may be down to two to four feeder streams.  But they are enough.  If you take a photo of Angel Falls, and ten seconds later take another, they will be completely different.  Depending of course on momentary flow, wind, sun, and passing clouds.  Officially – for those who care about such things – the falls are 979 meters (3230 feet) with an uninterrupted primary drop of 807 meters (2663 feet) – or sixteen times the height of Niagara Falls.
Angel Falls is highly incessible.  Niagara this is not.  You have to work to get here.  There are no massive crowds.  Only five to seven dugout canoes per day, perhaps, make their way upriver.  At least during this time of year, summer and the rainy season.  We find ourselves lucky, as often during this season, the falls is down to a trickle and dissipates into mere thin spray long before ever reaching the ground. Recent rains, have generously ensured our view.   When we reach the bottom, the pangas leave us with only essential gear (cameras, water, and insect repellant) and depart for camp and the initiation of dinner.  Our hike up the approach trail takes about 75 minutes.  It is primarily dominated by fantastically twisted/suspended ground roots and vines rather than stones.  The jungle we navigate through is not typical.  It is a short canopy “forest” and hardly has any of the verdant, sweet, yet slightly rotted smell found in most jungles and arboretums.  Once again, the electric moment is always sudden and surprising.  You hear water.  Then LOTS of water.  But the canopy hides your view.  Then, stepping up above a rockpile after a turn in the trail, there it is …
I will simply say I have seen lots of waterfalls.  Including highly memorable ones in California (most impressive I ever saw was Yosemite Falls in explosive spring surge from 30,000 feet as I flew overhead), Iguazu Falls ten days ago, Yellowstone, and so on.  This one – while not my favorite – is right up there for the sheer magnitude.  It takes forever, for that water to crash over the lip and finally hit bottom !   In some ways, it is mesmerizing, as you never see the same view twice. Another part that is pleasing, is so few relatively get to see this natural wonder (yes, that is the snob in me emerging).  No Grand Canyon crowds,  for the easy five-minute shutter stop and then off to the next roadside attraction.  We are part of a select few who have made choices to see THIS, instead of gamble or buy more big boy machines like Sea Doos or drink our way into history.   My Russian and German compadres linger for about half an hour, and head back with me to the river.  Darkness falls early here.  When at camp, the Venezuelan staff – hardly more than barefoot boys, really – have prepared one of the best chicken dinners I have ever tasted.  We compare stories (the translation chain is at times hysterical: Russian to Spanish to English to German or English to German or English to Russian, and multiple combos in between) until fatigue sets in early.  I am able to connect with the others largely because a new Russian amigo, Denis Lakovlev of St. Petersburg, has taken the time to learn English and watch American tv and read American periodicals and papers  Then generally we go to bed about 8:30 to 9 PM.  There is nothing else to do, as the generator is turned off.  Beds consist of hammocks facing the river.  Sporting in description, in reality they are uncomfortable if you get a smallish or imbalanced one.  Mine was both.  Getting out of one in the middle of the  night to pee can be a real circus.  C’est La Vie …
Next day (Monday, March 14th) we reverse the inbound journey, but are able to take some of the rapids as the water has subsided.  It is very sunny and since we don’t have to fight the current this leg takes a little over half the time of the upriver journey.  Once back at Wey Tepuy in Canaima, many of us find our guides absent, tickets missing or confiscated for “meal confirmation,” no idea of when our flight out is, and no access for a long time to the luggage room and the safe where our passports and wallets have been stored the last two days.  Requests for assistance only bring sullen sneers, and slow reactions.  Apparently these folks get enough traffic they don’t have to worry about customer service (or satisfaction).  We miss our meal, also.  They have advised us of the wrong time.  So, when in Canaima, avoid this place.  There are other, better camps.  Scared, a couple of the Russians and I hoof it directly to the airport.  No assistance.  No vehicle.  Have to drag the bags through the muddy rutted road.  Once there, I meet one of my “Angels.”  After describing what has happened to us (outright abandonment), Jose Camino – who likes to call himself “Joe Road” – takes our passports and runs interference with the airport staff for flight verification.  He makes sure our bags are prepared, points out our correct flight time and plane, and then gives me the best travel advice I’ve had the entire stay up north.  I offer to buy him a drink, describing my previous experience in Venezuela.  He demurs.  Jose is embarrassed for the lack of service etiquette of his countrymen, and their penchant for pinching foreigners for dollars.  He wants to make it up to the extent he can.  We promise to keep in touch.  I know he will have my gratitude for a long, long time.
Angel # 2 shows up almost immediately afterward, back in Porto Ordaz.  Linda Wells is the one who sold me the ticket to Angel Falls in the first place, and arranged for a severe discount.  She asks how the trip went?  When I describe our treatment at Wey Tepuy, and my medical condition, she leaps into action.  First, she let me use the computer hook-up at the ticket counter for her airline.  It was comical, at least visually.  Can’t tell you how many tickets I could have sold (and maybe recouped part of the trip expense) had I spoken better Spanish !  The internet access was critical, after five days without contact (Caracas on) to friends and family.  Next, she took me down to the airport doctor.  They couldn’t help me.  We started to go to a clinic.  “Don’t go there,” she warned.  “They will look at you for five minutes, and charge you $200 US.  Just go to the pharmacy and describe your symptoms.”  Then she arranged for a driver at a reduced rate, who would take me to the pharmacy – wait for me there (!) and then drive me to the bus station.  It all worked, and even included a quick trip to McDonald’s for a reliable Big Mac.  All the while, Linda was on the phone with the driver interceding and making things run smoothly.  She too, felt there was a debt owed for the performance – or lack thereof – of her countrymen.  Then a familiar pattern emerged.  Information in Venezuela is always questionable.  Last bus for the north coast had already left for the night.  Price was not what was announced, so I had to go to the cash machine again.  And the driver got a little greedy at the end, insisted on taking me to expensive hotels, and then because he didn’t listen and had to put in extra work, tried to fleece me for extra money for his extra driving.  I declined his generous offer for a doubled fee, and we parted on very bad terms.  But I finished the eve of my birthday with a prescription for strep throat/walking pneumonia, have my own room, a shower, change of clothes, and time to write.  On this evening, it feels fabulous.  If only my throat would take note …
Next: Still Trying to “Get Off The Bus” in Venezuela      

Monday, March 14, 2011

Venezuela -- Be wary, and bring greenbacks !

Venezuela
Today you are going to get the “Bum’s Rush.”  The abbreviated, streamlined version of events in this maddening place, for I am way behind on posts, have taken very few pix of late, my internet access has been limited since Rio, and am off shortly on another Grand Adventure.  To Angel Falls.  Yes, I survived Caracas (thanks for all the well intended notes of concern coming in from North and South America) and found a way in.
When you land in Caracas, one is immediately best by what feels like thousands of voracious handlers.  Like the “guides” and beggars in Tangiers, they literally will not let go until you select one of them.  Sometimes, they select you.  Mainly by grabbing your bags, putting them on a cart, and saying: “What you want to do?  Where you want to go?”  Unfortunately, for most, that is about the best of their English.  After that, it becomes a committee exercise, fathoming your intentions, as they consult their friends, security people, ticket sales personnel, and whoever else might help in understanding where and when you need to get somewhere.  For me, it was simple.  Get to Islas Margaritas, a noted scuba diving reserve off the coast, or get to Angel Falls.  Other higher order “consultants” come and go.  These are the guys sporting the gold watches, the tight jeans, the Gucci moccasins, and the crisp white shirts.  They are the “dealmakers.”  They come, when they are under the impression they can guide you to one of their packaged deals.  They leave, when they realize (1) you don’t have Yankee greenbacks, or (2) you don’t have the burning desire to be someplace in particular that they can take advantage of to assure you what an incredible deal they have put together for you … only you … and only for today.
 Funny to watch them operate.  Everybody is under their wing, and assists their machinations.  Ticket personnel (you go to the front of the line immediately), security folks (protection, no hassling about your papers), army and police officers (God only knows what part they play in this whole cabal) and all the waters part when one of these ordained creatures passes by.
The American dollar (despite President Hugo Chavez’s antipathy to the United States) reigns supreme here.  With greenbacks in your pocket, you can do almost anything, and for a reasonable price.  Use a credit card, and you may as well paint a big red x on your backside with an arrow saying “begin the abuse here.”  I ask about Angel Falls.  $300 cash (but only in greenbacks).  All inclusive package.  Airfare, lodge, meals, boat upriver, upriver camp, guide, the whole kit.  Everything needed for three days worth of mini-expedition to see the world’s highest waterfall.  I tell them no cash.  Left Brazil with just enough for a coffee.  “Oh, then it will be 3200 Bolivars on the credit card.”  That is over $800 at the official conversion rate of 4 to 1, bolivars to dollars.  Black market rate is easily 7 to 1, sometimes 8, and if a vendor is really hungry, 9 to 1.  Even army and police officers brisk their hands at hearing greenbacks.
“Too much, way too much,” I explain.  “Okay how about Islas Margaritas?”  It is only a 45 minute flight offshore.  All inclusive package, again for three days.”  Coincidentally, that too was just about $300. But greenbacks only again.  Or 2800 Bolivars if a credit card is used. Then I inquired about flights only.  They are reluctaqnt to discuss this.  They do not want to talk schedules or prices, only packages.  You are misdirected by the long list of things included in the package.  Finally, for a flight only to Las Margaritas, about $400.  Then I simply inquired about just getting out of Venezuela, so I could visit French Guiana, Suriname, and Guyana.  About $500.  You have to go through Trinidad & Tobago, I am told.  Just offshore.  About a half hour flight.  But still $500.  Despite the very limited distance.  It became clear, without greenbacks, they were going to Pork you coming and going, and get as much cash out of you before you went anywhere.  Venezuela as a transit point, is a very bad idea (Note: I am not sure how much of this applies if you have time or means to access the internet, where I am told deals are slightly better).  So after two hours of this wrangling and my incompetent handler getting nowhere checking on airline costs to just about anywhere, I decide to take a bus (10 hours overnight) to Porto Ordaz, very close to Guyana for  95 Bolivars.  Supposedly a portal for private drivers to get into the adjacent country.   This is what they tell me, anyway.  I suspect it has more to do with getting rid of me, since I wasn’t a willing victim for one of their “Packages.”  But I had to do something.  These handlers and endless spin about going anywhere, in or out of country, costing $500 was giving me a migraine.
While on the bus, I meet Craig, a Brit from London who is just starting off his five month adventure in South America.  He tells me he is going to Angel Falls.  And that by taking a bus to Porto Ordaz, it cuts down on the airfare remarkably, and then you can take a short haul puddle jumper locally to Canaima – the jumping off place for all trips to Angel Falls, which is accessible only by air – for a pittance and just negotiate your own room and board once in Canaima.  He quotes me prices of $40 to $70 for a flight once in Porto Ordaz.  Says so right there in Lonely Planet, the Bible of South American travelers.  Never one to miss an opportunity, I shift gears immediately.  Was headed to Porto Ordaz anyway, but now I’ll just fly up to Canaima and reinstate Angel Falls on the list.  It now looks affordable.
Making a short story long, once we arrive at the bus station at Porto Ordaz at 6 AM and the airport shortly thereafter, Craig reconsiders.  He wants to take a day to “sort things out” and see all his options, especially on pricing.  He wants to visit the local internet cafĂ© to check the web.  I on the other hand don’t have a spare day.  Am at the tail end of the trip, the northern tier, and must make every day count.  Either I go to Guyana, or find a way to Angel Falls.  So I circle the small airport – alone – and circle it some more, and prices are … guess what?  Not $40 to $70.  $350 minimum for flight only, and the proverbial $800 for the package described earlier.  If you are using a credit card.  How I wish somebody had told me to bring greenbacks into Venezuela from Brazil !  And what about going to Guyana?  It is waterlogged on the western boundary, and there are no roads.  There was no way in from Porto Ordaz afterall, only by river.  Somebody who didn’t get a sale was trying to stick it to me.  You can only come in to Guyana by road from Brazil, or fly out to Trinidad & Tobago (again, $500, despite the 45 minute flight) and enter internationally – with a big export tax to Venezuela, of course – or return to Caracas and make moot the overnight travel, for about $125.  So, I simply decide I am here, negotiate my best package deal (down to $500) and bite the bullet for Angel Falls.  This is what I came here for.  It is only money.  And I’ll forego Islas Margaritas to balance things out.
The flight in to Canaima is beautiful.  We fly over a huge lake, Emb. De Guru, that has more islands on it than Ipanema has sand grains.  Follow the river Carao south (there are a plethora of them) up until we approach the small local airport at Taraipa.  Get a chance to photograph the large, flat topped jungle mesas (called Tepuys) which have served as the basis for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s fantasy novel about dinosaurs revisited in “The Lost World.” These table top mountains also serve as the genesis for Angel Falls.  We land.  The village looks faintly Polynesian.  The power is out.  It is only turned on in the early morning, while still dark, and after 5 pm at night.  There is nothing to do here.  I mean … nothing.  For the first time on my journey, I am forced to read and study my notes on cinema script writing during the long afternoon hours between meals.  Hmmnnn … maybe somebody is trying to tell me something?  Uncharacteristically however, this time I am paying attention.  And since I have either the beginning of pneumonia or strep throat, I cash in early for the first time on the trip as well, about 10:30 PM.  But I am going to Angel Falls in the morning !
Next: Angel Falls