Switzerland

Ok, It's been a while since my last post - as usual.  I am now living in postcard pretty Zurich with Anita - the gal I me in Ecuador and caught back up with in Rio before traveling together down to Buenos Aires.  Obviously it was her fault that I was too distracted to continue my blog posts.  A few people have asked me if I will fill in the blanks + I want to for posterity so I have pulled out the notebooks and will make up the rest.

I may even write a bit about whats going on in Switzerland, unlikely though as the snow has just started falling and my feet are itching to get on a board.

Whats news in Switzerland now?  well, of course the vote went against Aus for 2022 World Cup - damn Qatar, they must have bribed more than we did.  More importantly, and sadly, like Australia, Switzerland has a strong racist seam.   These people are represented by the SVP party with policy that could have been penned by Pauline Hanson (although rather more slickly packaged).  The Swiss democracy is strong in that it is structured to allow more parties to have influence - keeping clear of the policy shadowing farce of Australian politics with parties hoping to win elections by "showing the real Julia".  The obvious downside is that parties like the SVP can wield considerable power even though they cause embarrassment to a large percentage of the population.  Even the SVP's adds are not thinly veiled:

It seems the Swiss would have a referendum to change a street sign.  Unfortunately this referendum went the wrong way (http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-11857438).  It sucks, but you have to admire them for their confidence (in their economy) not to pander to external opinion. 

PS.  Sorry for the negativity first up, but that's the news.  I have generally found the people to be as nice as the countryside (I will assume its not just because I'm an English speaking Caucasian).

If you want to know what went down in South America: Venezuela was unforgettable.

Venezuela Continued

I escaped Caracas after a few nights - happy to be alive and in possession of my kit.  Perhaps buoyed by confidence from surviving Caracas, or being numbed by 7 hrs freezing in an overnight bus, or maybe it was the Taxi driver at the bus terminal lying through his teeth: something allowed me to accept getting dropped off at a lonely small town bus stop at 5am.  It was a decision that took longer to make than to regret.  Contrary to the Taxi drivers insistence the small plaza even smelt dangerous.  I gave a cigarette to the only person around - I didn't want what she was offering nor what she was on.  A guy wandered past and tried to sell me a couple of old newspapers.  I declined, but followed the girls lead in dropping a few centavos in his hand.  I had heard two gunshots within a block or two before ascertaining that the promised 5:05 bus was in fact a 6am bus. 

Moving to the nearby Auto compound before the smell of fresh gringo could waft down the road I pulled up a seat next to the weather wearied nightwatchman.  Unfortunately the girl followed.  The guard was happy to accommodate me, however, soon tired of the drug induced rambling of the girl.  He asked her to leave.  I turned down her offer to come with.  The rambling continued ... and continued.  He ordered her to leave. She asked me for a money.  I gave her a cigarette.  She asked me for money. She asked me for more cigarettes.  She asked me to come with her.  She asked me for money. I made a decision to not dole out any more bolivaros - perhaps the wrong one.  She made a grab for my backpack and, in the ensuing scuffle, anything else that I had.  It was feeling crazy but by the time I was standing "out of hand" became "downright dangerous" - one of her street buddy's had stormed in, joined the fracas and soon he was trying to drag me out of the compound.  The girl was trying riffling through my empty pockets.  I had been looking at the nightwatchman in an appeal for help but all I saw was a fear in his eyes that i could only imagine paled in comparison to what he saw in mine.  Soon there was no real need to drag me out: the nightwatchman was gone - he jumped on his bike and vanished. shiiiiiite - I checked my travelguide but couldn't find the "Fighting with crackheads" section ... i think they decided to cover it with a word on prevention rather than cure.

Adrenaline may do many wonders, but it didn't help my Spanish so I garbled what words I could to placate the guy with his fists at my neck.  The process of resolution is fuzzy - much talking, a few dollars, a couple of cigarettes a sombrero that I had no use for and, most importantly, helpful intervention from the guy who I had earlier given 50cents diffused the situation and left me feeling somewhat at ease albeit with grease running down my pants - I decided against asking for a group photo for the blog, and maintained a blank look whenever they asked if i was carrying US dollars.  within 20 minutes the nightwatchman who had returned decided to let me back in compound (with what little safety it offered) and began recounting the story to his colleagues as they arrived with the morning light.  I jumped on the bus to unwind and reprimand myself at the seaside hamlet of Mochima.

The preceding story may present Venezuela as disproportionately dodgy, however, the responsibility is mine for having tested the rules of the game.  What shouldn't be with the rules of the game, however, is a corrupt military and police force screwing tourists while awaiting their state pay cheques.  The general agreement amongst travelers was that the general populace was friendly, however, cross to the other side of the road if you spot the military.  I managed to traverse the country with only one request for a bribe and the odd sleazy officer questioning to see if I had a wad of US dollars, however, stories were rife of problems encountered by travellers - the worst was of a bus load in the interior where the males were strip searched and relieved of their cash.  (The problem was grossly compounded by an exchange rate fixed without reference to the free market.  The only way to travel cheaply was to stock up on US$ before entering the country and exchange money on the black morket for triple the government rate - consequently the contents of backpacks were even more interesting to those with opportunity. Fortunately this has been somewhat rectified of late)   

From Mochima it was a ride in another classic shared taxi to Puerto Ordaz via Caripe and the Cueva del Guacharo.  Woody Allen said you should try everyting once - except for incest and folk dancing - the narrow minded bastard, he should visit Kingston.  However, to some degree I agree with the sentiment so decided to try couchsurfing (wtf??? www.couchsurfing.com).  The small unit I stayed in was impossibly full with a lifetime worth of collecting, including a kitchen full of empty birdscages.  There was just enough room at the front door for a makeshift minimarket serving the rest of the apartment block at whatever time they cared to knock.  The "couch" (well, actually, the other side of the bed) I "surfed" belonged to a 50yo Indiginous Peruvian swimming coach with a penchant for miss universe competitions ... nice guy, I woke up to find him taking a photo of me in my jocks (I wasnt sure what to do - he had already shown me his samurai sword - actual, not figurative).  The Orinoco flowing alongside Puerto Ordaz wasnt as Enya had made it sound, I left for the Tepui country. 

For all the anti US rhetoric from the head of state, Venezela sure takes a lot from it - big cars, baseball, fast food & obesity (the pageants lie) are all prevalent.  When I found out that the nations premier attraction was named after an American I decided not to visit in protest (kind of like Shem's protest following "Independance day" ).... well, in reality I didn't visit Angel Falls because the water level was to low to allow access by boat, and a flyby of the drizzle of falls was all that was on offer.  I really have had a slight fixation on the falls from childhood (my mind shaped by the guiness book of records) so it was dissapointing.  Infact, it was the second most dissapointing moment of my trip after missing out on a breakfast pastie at cornwall.  Having missed out on Angel falls I opted for the 5 day trek up to Roirama - A tepui similar to that from which angel falls flows (or drizzles as the case may be).  The geology and 600m cliffs ensure that the topography, flora and fauna are unique - and forms the landscape on which the movie "Up" is based.  It would be worth coming to Venezuela for this alone and is one of instances where the pictures tell the story far better than I might, but still incompletely.

From Roirama, I made my way to the Guayanas via Brazil.  Venezuala was fascinating and in a sence a highlight of my trip, I'm not sure I would recommend heading there considering the hassle free, beautiful and culturally rich travel options surrounding it, and I wont hurry back - however, some the frustrations, hardships and the plain weird are often that which makes the journey! (I cant say i wasnt warned, fellow travellers whom i met in the Parentian Islands craft an insiteful and consitently funny travel blog where they had this to say: http://www.travelblog.org/South-America/Venezuela/blog-342937.html)  

So can I blog on Venezuala without mentioning Chavez? well, obviously not.  One thought I had throughout Venezuala was that a resource based economy can be dangerously damaging to the fabric of a country.  The Venezualen oil trough is deep, however, the few that drink from it have no interest in making it wider.  Furthermore, due to the depth of the trough there is little impetus for those in power to develop other economies and opportunities.  A consequence of both is that the focus of the populace largely remains on a prize that will never be evenly shared.  This, compounded with a socialist perspective can make the have nots bitter against the haves, bitter with their lot in life, and prone to corruption rather than focused on potential opportunities.  That, however, offers no explanation for why an oil state should suffer power outages and pass large handouts in the support of foriegn socialist agendas while the country lacks in investment on basic infrastructure (the cause af recent riots in Caracas).  So it could just be Chavez.

Venezuela (Pt 1)

As we neared the Colombian border, you could literally smell the petrol as men stood shaking hoses looking for a customer for the tank of petrol they had just imported.  Meanwhile Taxis prowled though the dirty, seedy streets prowling for customers to escort across the border .. and what damn cool taxis they are.  I though the Mercs in the middle east were cool, however, Venezuelan taxis win hands down.  You can take your pick from any classic American beast that would quadruple in value if fueled up in any other country.  Big engines, fat tyres, no roof lining, massive miss aligned and mismatched panels, rows of empty speaker holes, 30% body rust and a Taxi sign temporarily occy strapped to the roof were some of the consistent characteristics of the Venezuelan family cars cum taxis.  It is perfect though only viable in a country where fuel costs 2c/litre (possibly free if you show your coles discount voucher).  A fortunate consequence of travelling in such battered tanks was that after a crash with a truck the driver of my cab got out, checked the damage, shrugged along with the other four occupants and motored on without further delay (I decided to ignore the mirth of my fellow passengers and fasten my seat belt)

The Driver was less concerned than me.

Apart from the friendliness of the evangelist who shared my taxi and had assumed I was a missionary and the Lonely Planet I was thumbing through was a bible, the welcome to Venezuela was icy - thanks to an impossible number of military checkpoints and one ill intentioned border guard (of which there are many in Venezuela).  Even icier, however, was the buses.  Maybe they had one complaint about the heating to many, or Perhaps the proof of the quality of the bus is how well it refrigerates - regardless, it is ridiculous to be sitting freezing while wearing most of the clothes from a backpack when I could comfortably sleep in a hammock in boxer shorts in the ambient temperature outside.  Already wearing my beanie and scarf I was often tempted to don the woollen finger puppets I had bought in Ecuador, however, I only had three so that would have looked silly.  Surprisingly the Venezuelan buses were even colder than those in Colombia - there each company had advertised their monthly statistics for crashes and deaths, but I was swayed by the sign that read "our vehicles remain above 22 degrees" - I eventually surmised that they meant Fahrenheit. 

I followed the Venezuelan coast spending a night in the nondescript oil town of Maracaibo and a few more in Coro where I met a happy and hospitable crowd at a local shoe store before jumping on a bus and boat planning to hang my hammock on an island in Morrocoy national park.  Un/fortunately there were large "no camping' signs pegged across the island.  It was, however, too late to change my plans and at sunset I found myself the sole inhabitant of the Caribbean island.  It would have been perfect if only the Venezuelans could differentiate between beach and bin.  In fact the issue of rubbish had been consistent though my travels and while at first I though it was an problem of systems developing to meet changes in consumerism patterns - I now realise how much we owe to people like Ian Kiernan for changing Australia's collective consciousness.  Did he get an Order of Australia medal?  Give the man another!

The transition between the Morrocoy islands and Caracas was stark - Aside from Caracas possibly having less trash, it is a mass of questionable architecture showing a distinct penchant for concrete.  More concerning, however, was Caracas' renowned dodgy side - including a long time heading the list as murder capital of the world (I think a few towns in North Mexico have snatched that mantle courtesy of the current drug wars).  A capital city of 5 million in a country where people tend to catch cabs for a couple of hundred meters after dark is bound to have issues.  In Caracas, unlike Quito, the police move out to leave parts of the city to its own devices as the night sets in.  Never the less, while I couldn't use the word quaint, Caracas was not totally devoid of charms - it felt good to be back in a big city and I enjoy metropolises, especially the ones in tropical areas that begin to actually feel like concrete jungles.  I legged it as soon as I realised that there were other places in Venezuela where I could obtain the Brazilian visa i required.  

Happy to be leaving Caracas, I was obviously hadnt been paying attention to Cyprus Hill - tha shit was about to go down, and i certainly wasnt ready.