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.
No comments:
Post a Comment