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)