24-26/12/2011 - Christmas with the animals

In the morning I met the other people taking the tour, a german family (husband, wife and teenage sun who told me they were taking the tour since they don't like celebrating Christmas) and we hit the road, spending most of the 24^th travelling to Los Llanos (a good 7 hours from Merida). We arrived at our camp in the early evening and found the locals getting a party started. After dinner, despite much cajoling to dance I opted for an early bath and headed to bed surprisingly exhausted from the day's travelling. I couldn't help but smile at the german family who spoke virtually no spanish and kept asking me things like “You have mosquitoes in your room too!? What are we waiting for now? Can we sleep in all 3 beds? We only paid for 2...” sigh.

The next morning I awoke with little thought of Christmas. There were no decorations around the encampment and the blistering heat and sunshine made it difficult to muster any festive sentiment in this place - just what I wanted. Nevertheless I hoped this would be a memorable day. The locals had partied long into the night but as usual I'd slept like a log. The german guys hadn't and over our breakfast of arepas we greeted each other with a half-hearted “Feliz Navidad”.

Our first trip was a morning boat ride along a nearby river. Straight away I was struck by how much more wildlife there was compared to my trip on the Orinoco. Birds of various varieties continuously swooped in front of our path as we sped along the river and saw many capybaras (giant rodents which do look far too cute to be called rodents) hanging out in the mud and long grass. On every turn we came across crocodiles, sunning themselves on the banks or cooling themselves off in the water with only the top of their heads visible and finally we managed to catch glimpses of some fresh water dolphins as they arched gracefully above the surface.

Returning pretty chuffed we had a filling lunch of typical venezuelan fare (chicken, black beans, rice, coleslaw, fried plantain) and headed off for a siesta. I fancied a quiet read and a post-lunch beer but found that all the beers had been drunk the previous night. However the lady in charge of the key to the beer fridge lead me in the direction of a truck parked in our encampment near which some Venezuelans were relaxing and which I learned belonged to visiting relatives of the locals who lived and worked on the encampment. I was promptly treated to a beer and spent the rest of the afternoon drinking and chatting with this incredibly friendly group. Beer turned to whisky (it was Christmas after all) and talk turned to setting me up with one (or several) of the single ladies in the group (both of whom had 5 kids each) and taking them back to the UK with me. When someone points to a lady in a group, who is clearly listening, and asks you “So what do you think of her? She's nice isn't she?” your choice of what to say is somewhat limited. I bumbled my way through with typical British charm and steely Ukrainian nerves and came out the other side a little tipsy but having very much enjoyed my impromptu post-lunch drinks with the locals.

Before I'd had time to recuperate we were off on another tour, this time in a 4x4, along a rugged road which took us into the heart of the plains. Dozens more crocodiles and capybaras greeted us on our trip but I was particularly on the look out for anacondas which are supposed to be quite common in the region. Suddenly the guide sitting on top of the 4x4 signalled to stop. Quick as a flash, he was off into the nearby marshy field, closely followed by another guide. Unsure of what they'd spotted we gingerly stepped out of the car and walked in the direction of where they seemed to be frantically directing something to run in our direction. “Go on, go on” said our driver “we're very lucky; they've spotted an anteater!”. That was all the encouragement I needed so I ran into the field and started making my way through the sharp shrubbery. I'd spent 2 months near and done numerous trips into the Gran Sabana, the land of the anteater, and hadn't caught so much as a glimpse of one so to suddenly and unexpectedly come across one here was a real treat. A few tense seconds passed as we squinted into the distance but then right out of the bushes in front of us, bounding somewhat clumsily right in our direction, came the anteater! It hid in a bush really close to me and I held my breath as I tried to avoid more spiky shrubbery and creep closer. Suddenly it bolted but the guides managed to keep it in our general vicinity long enough for me to get a couple of unsatisfying photos and videos and then it was off again, running into the plains in search of another ant colony to devour. With its bear-like gait, brilliantly bushy tail and distinctive long conical head it really has to be one of the coolest animals on the planet and I felt really lucky to have come so close to one in the wild.

We spent the rest of the afternoon searching for an anaconda but just as it looked like we'd used up all our luck and were driving back to the encampment, the guides spotted one curled up by the side of the road. It was only a baby one (so only a couple of metres long) but I hadn't come into contact with many snakes before so was pretty impressed. Naturally I got the obligatory photo of the anaconda around my neck and was rewarded with clothes and hands covered in anaconda poo. Going to bed that night I reflected on what had been as untraditional a Christmas as I could have imagined but one which I was sure I would remember fondly.

The next morning we went for a slightly uninspiring horse-ride near the encampment (you could tell the horses had trodden the same route a hundred times and weren't exactly thrilled about it). After an actual siesta we spent the afternoon piranha fishing which was great fun. Again beginners luck struck and I caught one on my first attempt. However, unlike on the Orinoco, the piranhas here were in abundant supply and our guides were absolutely raking in the fish. Everyone from the german family managed to catch a couple as well and I have to be honest and say I let the side down, my only other catch being a tiny fish which was actually smaller than the bait I was using and had probably been snagged by accident. Luckily the guides were on form and so we wouldn't be going hungry tonight.

Our dinner of fresh piranhas was delicious and as I shared a couple of swigs of rum and brandy with the local guys I reckoned that coming here was pretty good choice. 

23/12/2011 - 1 day and 10 scoops in Merida

On the bus to Merida I got chatting to the family sitting next to me and, although I politely declined their offer of spending Christmas with them, we had breakfast together at Merida's pristine bus terminal (something I only appreciated due to the dirtiness and disorder of all the other bus terminals I'd seen in Venezuela) and headed into the centre together. I said my goodbyes and headed off in search of the cheap hostel I'd been recommended by other travellers, which I found with no problem and was pleased to discover only charged £3 per night! The place was as basic as you can imagine for that price but the hostess, Patty, was a lovely lady and made me feel instantly welcome.

Having gotten settled I headed to a nearby bar recommended by the girls from the hostel in Coro and grabbed a pizza while chatting to a teenager about the state of Venezuelan football while we watched the Venezuelan youth team get demolished by costa rica. My next stop in Merida was the ice cream shop which holds the Guinness World Record for having the most flavours (some 863 although they only have around 80 available at any one time). Stomach and funds permitting, I would have spent the rest of the day here but instead had to settle for trying a mere 10 flavours (I bought 8 but the nice woman who served me could see how keen I was and gave me recommendations as well as giving me a couple of free scoops). The flavours I tried ranged from the more or less conventional (and unsurprisingly delicious) ones like granola, condensed milk and roses (as in the flowers) to more crazy ones like cheese (great), maize (great), mushrooms with wine (horrible) and hamburger (even worse – it had actual bits of meat in it). With a full stomach and a sugar high kicking in fast I headed back to the hostel to find that I was now sharing my room with yet another Russian who spoke no spanish and very little english (sound familiar?). After the usual travel chatter (during which I ascertained that he was a bit of a muppet) I headed out again in search of a tour to Los Llanos (literally “The Plains” - a nearby region which is famous for its wildlife). I'd originally planned to spend Christmas in Merida but having realised that there really wasn't going to be anything special going on (except drinking at night) and everything was going to be shut on Christmas day it made sense to spend Christmas doing something fun far away from reminders of the holiday I couldn't properly partake in since I was thousands of miles away from my family. Having sorted out a tour which left tomorrow morning and would see me return to Merida 4 days later I found myself in a bar and chatting to a Venezuelan doctor while my stomach mulled over the combination of ice cream, cachapa (which I'd had for dinner) and beer.

20-22/12/2011 - Quaint Coro

Mercifully, the music on the return bus to Maracay was a little more subdued. I had a cheap breakfast from a stall in the Maracay bus terminal (2 empanadas and a juice for about 75p) and after a bit of inter-city bus hopping, I arrived in Coro – a small chilled-out city with a lot of restored colonial architecture. I found a posada near the heart of the historic centre and was disappointed to learn that it wasn't possible to go sandboarding because there had been too much rain. I had primarily come to Coro because of the nearby national park which is full of sand dunes and had really wanted to have a go at sandboarding, but alas it seemed it wasn't to be. The posada was a bit quiet at the moment so in the evening I headed out to an italian restaurant and got chatting to the young waiter working there who was studying english at university. He recommended some places in the area and, as seems to be the custom, offered to introduce me to some chicas if I hung around until the weekend. I told him that unfortunately I would be heading off before then, and that I didn't really trust his choice of women (earlier he had told me that previously he'd been involved in an online relationship with a married woman from Mexico).

The next morning I headed to the sand dunes and went for a hefty 3 hike through this mini desert, doing my best to get lost along the way. Away from the entrance to the park, the dunes were completely deserted and I had great fun walking along and listening to some spanish lessons on my ipod. In the afternoon I did the obligatory walk around the historic part of the town as well as a quick stop in the, somewhat unimpressive, modern art gallery. As I ate lunch in a square just off one of the main streets, I saw the locals pointing at something in a tree and looked up to see a sloth clambering along the trunk. Can't get away from the wildlife here.

Arriving back at the hostel, I learned that sandboarding was back on the menu so without further ado I grabbed a board and we headed back to the dunes. As is usual with such activities, once we'd climbed to the top of one of the dunes, it seemed much higher and steeper from the top than from the bottom. Having waxed up my board to make it more slippery and reminded myself that sand was indeed nice and soft for when I inevitably fell, I jumped on my board and plunged down the dune. The experience was quite close to snowboarding (which I've tried once) and I didn't find my skateboarding skills particularly useful as I slipped and slid down the slope. I was assured by Eric, the French hostel owner, that there was indeed a way to break and stop, but for now I resigned myself to the kamikaze technique which didn't permit breaking. Me and another German guy also staying at the hostel had a great couple of hours on the dunes, enjoying a bit of friendly Anglo-German rivalry to spice things up. Back at the hostel, exhausted from constantly climbing up the dunes, we had a well deserved beer and chatted about future travelling plans with another traveller - Francis from Hong Kong who had just arrived from Columbia. Me and Francis went and grabbed dinner in a nearby restaurant where I enjoyed my first proper salad in Venezuela! Altogether a pretty great day.

The next morning, after a chat with 3 German girls who'd just arrived from Merida to spend Christmas in Coro, I left Coro and headed towards Merida where I planned to spend Christmas. The girls had spent 2 months in Merida volunteering and learning spanish and had now set off to travel round south america for a couple of months (sound familiar?). After they had made me some recommendations of places to visit Merida, I headed off into the rainy morning. Arriving at the bus terminal, I found that the only direct bus to Merida this evening was already full so I had to go half way to the metropolis of Maracaibo (Venezuela's second largest city and the countries oil hub) where I mooched around near the bus terminal (trying some “Chinese food” and sweets made out of condensed milk) until my night bus left for Merida. 

 

17-19/12/2011 - Back to the beach and a familiar face

Practice parade in Plaza Bolivar, Maracay

Creepy mural on side of hospital wall, Ah Chavez.

As promised, after arriving into Maracay in the early morning, we headed to Daniel's uncles place where we had breakfast and a chat with Daniel's uncle and I picked up some useful vocabulary (mochilero – backpacker). Their flat, small but nice, was filled with all the usual conveniences like a flat screen tv and a massive hi-fi and was covered head to toe in Christmas decorations (including a novelty toilet seat cover).

After breakfast we went for a little tour of Maracay after which I bid them farewell since I was travelling onto Puerto Columbia today: a small seaside town some 2 hours north of Maracay. Getting on the small bus to Puerto Columbia it was clear all the locals heading the same way were in a fiesta mood and as the bus driver turned the music up to full, the couple next to me cracked open a massive bottle of sangria. Good times. As the road twisted and turned through the mountainous region we had to cross to get to the coast, the driver raced round the bends, making liberal use of the horn and, as far as I can tell, assuming anything coming the other way was going to get out of our way.

Arriving at my posada in Puerto Columbia, I bumped into Ludek – a Czech traveller who I'd met in Santa Elena around 3 weeks ago when he was waiting to go on a trek to Roraima. Over a dinner of fish and guava juice we caught up and compared travel notes.

The next day we grabbed some beach time (Ludek was really desperate to get a tan since he was heading back home in 3 days and was still pretty pasty) and had a wander around the quaint little Puerto Columbia. In the evening 2 more travellers joined us – Julius from Holland and Gregory from France and we grabbed dinner and beers in one of the cheap eateries in town (although, much to everyone elses mockery, I stuck to juice since my stomach was still in a turbulent mood and last night's fish had not helped matters).

The next day, we took a boat to a nearby beach and walked to a small town (the name of which I forget) famous for its chocolate due to the abundance of cocoa plants in the area. Although we weren't blown away by the chocolate it was the best I'd tasted in Venezuela so far (which isn't much of on accolade). The driver of the boat we took to get to the beach had clearly ripped us off so we decided not to bother waiting for him and got a ride back in a different boat. As we pulled away from the shore and headed back to Puerto Colombia, it was very satisfying to see him approaching and angrily asking why we hadn't waited for him. We waved, smiled and replied that maybe he shouldn't have overcharged us for the first journey.

In the evening we headed to a friendly, if a little expensive, bar-restaurant where we over-indulged in the caipirinhas and excellent tapas dishes. This would be our last night together (and Julius' last proper night of travelling) so we made the most of it. As I went to bed I told my stomach to behave and tried to ignore the fact that I was getting up in a few hours to catch the 6 am bus back to Maracay. 

14-16/12/2011 - Been spending most our lives livin in a Gringo's paradise

Last night brought its first experience of travellers diarrhoea, which I can only attribute to the cheap rum and the excitement of being at the coast. I guess I'd been fortunate to avoid it until now (remembering the burger-poisoning incident) but it arrived with unpredictable fury and I didn't get a wink of sleep. As a result today was a total write off, as I spent most of the day on liquids and sleep. Looking on the brighter side, this is a really nice place to be ill, and as I swung in my hammock and listened to podcasts of Radio 4 shows, reminding myself of a life thousands of miles away, I didn't feel too glum about losing a day here. Still, I wished Christmas would come early and bring me solid stools.

The next day (Thursday), feeling a little better, me and Connie hit the beach which was almost completely deserted and the fantastically warm Caribbean Sea was wonderfully welcoming. I couldn't have asked for more.

On Friday, my bowels having more or less behaved after breakfast, I decided to move on again. Making my way back to Puerto La Cruz bus terminal it turned out the only bus heading to my destination of Maracay was at 11.30 pm so I spent another day in Puerto La Cruz. I spent the time soaking up the lively friday evening atmosphere along the waterfront and even came across a couple of skateboarders in one of the plazas. I asked them for a quick go and found that most of my skills had deserted me but the guys were really friendly and instantly started offering me some alcoholic drink which tasted like liquorice (I wasn't a fan).

I headed off to the bus station in the late evening with a slightly better impression of Puerto La Cruz. Waiting for several hours in the bus terminal in the late evening was fairly entertaining since an old guy came in and put on a magic show performance for the many Venezuelans waiting for their buses. On the bus I got chatting to the guy next to me called Daniel who lived and studied mechanical engineering in Puerto La Cruz but was visiting family and his girlfriend in Maracay. Pretty soon he'd offered to show me around Maracay and breakfast at his uncles place. I went to sleep telling myself to be cautious but at the same time trying to ignore advice about not trusting strangers. It would be nice to leave Venezuela with something beyond the “dangerous” label.

13/12/2011 - First taste of the Caribbean

In the morning I gave Puerto La Cruz another chance to inspire me but was greeted with the familiar mix of shoe shops and street vendors. The beach was a bit of a grim affair but the Plaza Bolivar was quite nice. Yearning for some beach time, I caught a bus to a nearby beach village called Playa Colorada where, as soon as I stepped off the bus, I bumped into 2 gringos, the first I'd come across since leaving Santa Elena. Dave from England and Connie from Germany showed me the way to the nearby Posada/Adventure centre which turned out to be a bit of a gringo-haven. With a beach on the opposite side of the road and breakfast, dinner and a hammock for about £10 a day I decided this wouldn't be a bad place to spend a few nights.

It was nice to see and hear some English speakers again (although most of them were German or Swedish) all of which were involved in the programs run by the Posada. A group of 9 were part of something called the travelling school which involved doing activities around Venezuela (trips to Roraima and Gran Sabana etc) whilst learning Spanish (although the classes ran into the usual difficulty of trying to learn Spanish language whilst being surrounded by gringos speaking English or German all the time). 2 French girls were also here for a volunteering placement organised by the company and I smiled a knowing smile as they told me about the incompetence of the organisers and how they'd only managed to see the kids they were supposed to be working with only once in the two weeks they'd been here. Their volunteering placement made the foundation in Santa Elena sound like a sleek, well-oiled machine in comparison and I was reminded that you don't fully appreciate what you have until you see something worse. Still this place had a nice relaxed atmosphere and was a real welcome change after that horrid room in Puerto La Cruz.

In the late afternoon I wandered down to the beach and, as the sun set on the picturesque little bay and I sipped on a beer whilst watching the pelicans diving for fish and the boats coming into the shore, I definitely felt a few pangs of “this is the life”. 

 

In the evening I chatted to folk at the posada and although the range of activities they were doing sounded quite cool it really didn't sound like the program allowed any freedom or interaction with Venezuelan people. Also, for several weeks during the program, the group would be based at the posada in Playa Colorada which consists of the beach and about 2 roads, not exactly the most happening place in Venezuela (I kept wanting to ask “How are you not bored out of your mind!?”). Different strokes for different folks but I couldn't help but feel that most of these guys would be leaving Venezuela with a slightly whitewashed experience and not very much Spanish.

The english guy Dave, who'd done a PhD in Computational Chemistry, told me he'd done a 4 week volunteering placement in a city called Merida in the west which he said didn't really get going until the 4^th week. Overall it gave me a bit more of a perspective on my time at Santa Elena. Over a bottle of cheap rum we isolated the others by chatting about the imminent discovery of the Higgs boson and the hilarity of having to use the Fortran programming language for his PhD. Oh dear.

12/12/2011 - Onto Puerto La Cruz, a day in transit

You can have any toothpaste as long as its colgate

A plucky iguana in Plaza Bolivar

Since I decided to try and make it to Puerto La Cruz this evening, which is a considerable distance away, I had to leave early. However, we still squeezed in one last cruise of the Orinoco at 5am just as the forest awoke and a formidable dawn chorus provided the soundtrack to our little excursion. After breakfast, I packed my bags and we retraced our route back along the river to the town of Urakua. I waved goodbye to Lui and jumped in a taxi headed in the vague direction of Puerto La Cruz. After a couple of hour long shared taxi rides, a lunch of half a chicken in a town called Maturin and a 3 hour bus journey, I finally arrived in Puerto La Cruz, a sizeable town on the north coast of Venezuela, in the late evening. Having found the cheapest hotel imaginable (in my tiny bathroom, the shower pointed directly at the toilet) I went for a stroll along the waterfront. Full of hotels and chinese restaurants it was lively afair but not the most inspiring of places. However I had finally reached the coast so I was satisfied.

Chavez doing his thing on the telly

11/12/2011 - Orinoco Delta Day 2

We spent the morning exploring more of the delta and were lucky to come across a troupe of (in spanish) Cappuccino monkeys parading across the trees in front of us and a python snoozing nearby. I even managed a few semi decent photos although I've concluded wildlife photography is not my calling. In the afternoon we donned wellies and headed into the jungle where the mosquitoes were out in full force. While we walked, swiping randomly just about kept them at bay but whenever we stopped for more than a few seconds, when Lui would tell me about the medicinal properties that seemingly every plant in the jungle had, they descended with an almighty fury. After Lui had cut down a few plants to make medicine for some of his family we made a quick retreat back to our boat and the haven of the river, whose tranquillity I now appreciated all the more for its lack of mosquitoes.

If you squint you might be able to make out a monkey somewhere in the top of the tree

Having surveyed the damage, I then tried my hand at pirana fishing, my first attempt at fishing of any kind in fact. Although Lui told me there was a very slim chance that we'd catch anything, since it had rained a lot, within ten minutes or so I felt a snag on my line, flailed wildly like I'd seen people do on tv and was rewarded with a tiny pirana! Having exhausted my beginners luck, we failed to catch anything else but I did get to taunt Lui that he needed more practice. So again, while I probably won't make fishing my full time profession, it was definitely a great experience and I got the photo to prove it. 

We watched another spectacular sunset while chatting about Lui's current lack of a woman. Turns out Lui is 26, has 3 kids aged 5, 6 and 7 and his wife has left him so the kids live with him and their grandma. I've got a lot of catching up to do in 2 years; I feel like a child in comparison and maybe something about travelling and seeing new things has brought back a child like sense of excitement in me. I also have to keep reminding myself that “real life” (or starting a family) starts a lot earlier here than back home, and its normal for indigenous couples to have 5-6 kids before they even hit their 30s. I told Lui he should try and snag a rich tourist, which is easier said than done in the scope of a 3 day excursion but if he milks that sunset I reckon he's got a chance. 

 

I think there may be a monkey in this tree too

Life in a river community has its own pace, one which is unsurprisingly slower than elsewhere. Although some of the indigenous people living on the river are involved in tourism, the majority still live a more traditional lifestyle, working on the land or fishing (Lui's family used to farm melons before the earth became less fertile). This obviously goes hand in hand with ownership of many modern conveniences like television, and buying “western” clothes from town, but Lui said a lot of the food and medicine still comes from the surrounding area. Lui also told me that the majority of people still spoke the indigenous language and that the children always spoke it with their parents which is in an interesting contrast to the community we worked with in Santa Elena where the language and the majority of the customs were being overpowered by outside influence. I would guess a lot of it has to do with proximity; maybe the river provides a natural barrier (its a 1-2 hour trip to the nearest town from Lui's house) so the unstoppable march of globalisation will have to wait a little longer before every indigenous community on the river has a blackberry.

Chillin and fishing with Lui

We also discussed the fact that this would be my first Christmas away from my family, something I hadn't really given much thought to until now. According to Lui, Christmas and New Year around here are good fun, as each community up and down the river organises a fiesta and, since it seems everyone knows everyone else, its a great excuse to say hi to the neighbours, have a drink and have a dance with the chicas. The the sense of community here is amazing and something that is sadly missing in a city. After a dinner of fish (a slightly more impressive specimen than the one I caught) I fell asleep to the sound of the jungle and wondered where I'd be for Christmas and if I'd enjoy life on the river. I concluded that, no, within a few more days I'd be bored out of my mind, but the experience was memorable to say the least.

10/12/2011 - Orinoco Delta Day 1

Waking early and retracing my route back to Puerto Ordaz I met Wolfgang (or “Lobo” which means wolf in Spanish) who drove me to a town on the cusp of the Orinoco delta several hours from the city. There had been a lack of communication with my guide in the morning so he wasn't waiting for me. Lobo sorted out a boat ride with another guy he knew which would take me halfway to my eventual encampment in the jungle. The ride was good fun and the guy was in a very good mood since he had 2 shiny new Yamaha motors on his boat that he had received yesterday - “Presents from Chavez” he told me. And they really were. Turns out one of the ongoing government schemes was to give free engines to all the communities in the towns and villages around the delta. I didn't quite figure out what it took to qualify for one but it was clear, from the way he waved to everyone we passed and pointed at the engines, that this man was one of the supporters of Chavez of who's existence I had, up till now, been sceptical of. I was treated to cigarettes and coke and the guy let me drive the boat for the majority of the journey which was a first for me.

Arriving at the half way point, there was a bit of a delay in sorting out an onward boat (including a false start in one which was clearly taking on a lot of water and who's engine cut out as soon as we got into the middle of the river) but eventually I made it to my encampment. I really had no idea of what to expect so when I was shown to a wooden cabana with a double bed and a bathroom (AND toilet paper) I was well chuffed. The encampment itself is idyllic and if I wasn't itching to see more of the Orinoco I'd be in danger of spending the whole time just relaxing and catching up on some reading on the little terrace at the back of my cabana. 

 

I met my guide, Lui, who apologized for the lack of communication, and after lunch we headed for our first trip into the delta. Drifting along the Orinoco, while Lui pointed out humming-birds, toucans, and monkeys (all of which I took terrible photos of with my inadequate camera) was fantastic and the sunset over the river was picturesque to say the least (at which point Manuel's voice came into my head with the words “Falta chicas y falta rom” haha).

9/12/2011 - French? Brazilian? American? No sir, I'm English.

Garden in the modern art museum

I can understand why the guys in the modern art museum, which I went to in the morning, might have assumed that I was French - obviously only French people are interested in modern art. But I never thought I had even a trace of Brazilian about me. Several inhabitants of Puerto Ordaz and Ciudad Bolivar seemed to think otherwise. Unsurprisingly, a lot of people's first guess is American, but what I enjoy is seeing their expressions change to “pleasantly surprised” when I tell them I'm English. Looks like the Brits still have a good reputation here (wonder what its like in Europe at the moment...). Putting my identity crisis to one side, the modern art museum was a perfect air-conditioned escape from the bustle of the city streets and, just as in Caracas, I seemed to be the only soul appreciating the exhibition. 

 

Back in the scorching heat of the friday afternoon, the downtown streets were filled with colourful market stalls and a pulsating atmosphere. For lunch I found a nice little eatery where a quarter of a chicken, spaghetti and salad set me back £1.50. A personal highlight for me was sitting down at a table with a bunch of other guys, them assuming I was an idiot gringo who didn't understand anything and then watching their faces and attitude completely change when I told them I could speak spanish. Immediately they were eager to chat, find out where I'd been and where I was going, warn me about the dangers of walking around at night etc(I think Chavez might have got a mention too). Again a great comparison to when I was in this very same city at the beginning of my travels and was mostly relying on people knowing bits of English.

If you look closely, you might find an actual hot dog under all the onion and sauce

Back at the hostel, Deiter, a German guy working there part time, organised a tour to the Orinoco Delta for me (for which I had to travel back to Puerto Ordaz early tomorrow morning... oops). I also met Jacob, a traveller from Holland (I think) and for dinner we all ended up at a nice little restaurant which I wouldn't have ever found on my own (there was no sign on the locked door that it was a restaurant). While I waited for the food on my own (the others joined me later) the owner put on a DVD about the culture of the Bolivar region of Venezuela (which encompasses Ciudad Bolivar, the Gran Sabana and stretched all the way south to Santa Elena and the Brazilian border). Traditional Venezuelan music, the Gran Sabana, Roraima, the indigenous communities and El Pauji all featured heavily, and having experienced all of them first hand it was satisfying to know that I'd really got to know the region during my time in Santa Elena. When it arrived, the food was delicious (I had fish which was a welcome change from chicken, meat and cheese) and we had a few drinks with the friendly owners who put on some Beatles, took photos and added me on facebook.

8/12/2011 - A dip in the Orinoco then back to Ciudad Bolivar

In the morning I spent a few hours in a large park on the outskirts of Puerto Ordaz, which had waterfalls, forest paths and a beach on the Orinoco. Of course I forgot to take my shiny new camera but I'll probably remember my dip in the Orinoco for some time to come. It felt even more worthwhile as the path to the beach didn't even seem to be signposted and took some finding.
Both the taxi drivers to and from the park were in a talkative mood and the topic of everyone's favourite President quickly reared its familiar head. I asked the question I'm particularly fond of at the moment: “If everyone hates Chavez (or everyone I've spoken to at least) then who and where are his supporters?” to which the reply has mostly been “The people he gives money and free stuff to”. I've yet to meet any. The taxi driver's arguments didn't seem a million miles away from the debate about the welfare state in the UK - if you give people benefits and free stuff they will take advantage, become lazy and expect something for nothing. I decided I have to meet at least one person who supports Chavez before I leave Venezuela.
In the afternoon I took a car to Ciudad Bolivar wedged in between 2 very fat men on the back seat. Ciudad Bolivar is a city I stopped off at and did a tour of Angel Falls from on my way from Caracas to Santa Elena all those weeks ago. It was nice to return to some familiar streets and the same Posada, which was extremely quiet at the moment. There was no prospect of organising a trip to the Orinoco Delta for tomorrow so it looked like I'd be spending another day in the city, no bad thing.

7/12/2011 - Puerto Ordaz

I swear the bus journey's are getting progressively colder. On this one, I resorted to turning on my laptop just for the heat. However this time we were only rudely awoken twice for the pointless army passport controls. Swings and roundabouts.
Puerto Ordaz is the nicer part of a city which lies on the Orinoco called Ciudad Guyana (which is really a name for 2 cities mushed together, the other part being San Felix which is supposed to be a bit dodgy). Arriving into the bus terminal at 6am I decided to walk to the town centre but not before I'd had a chicha and an empanada (pastry stuffed with various fillings; I usually opt for chicken). Tiredness kicked in en route so after a nap in a nearby park, I stumbled into one of the many gigantic shopping malls I'd come across in Puerto Ordaz. Glitzy and containing every shop you'd find in a UK shopping centre, the only thing that reminded me I was in Venezuela was the random power cut which occurred while I was browsing for a new camera. The shop assistants seemed to know very little about the cameras they sold and their recommendations seemed to be based solely on the writing on the cameras themselves. Fortunately one of the shops I looked in had internet access, so I spent some time researching on the net and in the end bought one from a completely different place. The equivalent would have cost me considerably less in the UK but I really couldn't face 4 months of travelling without a camera. Plus I my loyal readers deserve some pretty pictures (but will be unsurprised to learn that I forgot to take any in Puerto Ordaz).

After a hefty walk through several neighbourhoods, some of which again reminded me of Kiev, I arrived at a hostel with tiny rooms and a hefty price tag. Still it was nice to have a shower and watch some tv, even if it was only to find that both manchester teams were out of the Champions league. As I set about trying to book a tour to the Orinoco it became apparent that Puerto Ordaz was a very expensive place, and I was better off heading back to Ciudad Bolivar. However I was here now so I decided to make the most of it and headed into the rainy evening to find food. The guy at the hostel told me the central area begins to wind down around 6pm but after a bit of wandering I came across a small, more or less empty little delicatessen. Fumbling my way in out of the rain and asking if they had a dinner menu I was greeted with a warm welcome and a towel. I had a chat with the owner, a nice lady in her 40s, who asked if I wanted to try some traditional Venezuelan food, to which there was only ever going to be one answer. Shortly, I was brought a plate of “Tekenos” which were tasty little pastries with a variety of fillings (the usual suspects: cheese, ham, meat, chicken) which I consumed while chatting to her niece who had been forced/invited to join me (one of the first questions I was asked was whether I had a girlfriend or not). As I made to pay and leave I was told the food was free and the niece recommended I check out a bar in another part of town to which I was given a free lift by the daughter of the owner of the restaurant. No complaints there.
The bar, called “Crash”, had some really friendly bar staff and regulars who looked a little downcast when at the end of the night I said I wouldn't be around on Friday for a fiesta. I arrived back at the hostel knackered but really content. Its interesting to compare tonight's experience with my first couple of days in Caracas when I was fearful of even going out near my hotel after dark. Now, having some Spanish under my belt and being able to speak to locals has allowed me to move a little beyond the “this place is really dangerous, everyone is out to get you” mentality which I think its all too easy to fall into. This place is still really dangerous, but there are a lot of very friendly people around who will try and make it a little less so by helping you out.

30/11/2011 - 6/12/2011 - Time to hit the road again

I spent a good portion of the week planning my travelling in Venezuela and also making a few trips to the border of Brazil to get cash. I also managed to track down a street vendor selling churros (what I can only describe as deep fried dough covered in sugar and condensed milk or caramel) and became a frequent visitor at his stall. My churros was usually accompanied with a carton of chicha, which, here in Venezuela, is a rice based drink somewhere between a rice pudding and a macdonald's milkshake. Its horribly moreish and devilishly filling which is a lethal combination.

On Thursday, to commemorate Martina's departure (she was due to leave at the weekend), we (well mostly I) made hamburgers for lunch. Everyone was ravenous by the time they were ready and although confident in my cooking abilities, I told everyone to check their burgers were done nonetheless. Later in the evening, me, Barry, Mavis and a couple of tourists passing through Santa Elena ended up at a pool hall with a nice atmosphere. On arriving back at the foundation in the early hours of the morning I found that the left-over burgers (of which there were many and one of which I was looking forward to) had been left out and devoured by animals. Somewhat annoyed I went to bed.

The next morning I awoke to discover that everyone, including Manuel with his iron stomach, had felt the effects of the previous day's burgers. Everyone, that is, except for me. I thanked the animals who had eaten the remaining burgers for saving me from a similar fate.
Martina came off the worst – she'd been throwing up all night and hadn't slept a wink. Needless to say I felt a little bad, especially since today was supposed to be her last ever lesson with the kids. Ironically, while preparing the burgers, me and Martina had joked about how proficient I was becoming at making them. I guess more practice is needed before I open my own burger stall.

I also started trying to learn a few spanish songs which I copied off Mavis. Her taste in UK/American music is questionable to say the least (Coldplay featured heavily) but the songs by various venezuelan, argentinian and puerto rican bands she gave me are all pretty jolly and make you want to be on a beach sipping on an ice cold Cuba Libre. Soon I told myself, soon.

After deliberating for a while, I decided that this would also be my last weekend at the Foundation. It turned out to be a very memorable one. On Saturday, me and Barry decided to do a day trip to El Pauji (“The Hippie Village” as Richard kept calling it). Back in the 80s lots of european arty types had gone there to live among the indigenous community and be one with nature and that kind of jazz. Upon arriving we were greeted by a drunken indigenous man (it was about 10 am) who told us that the nearby waterfalls and diving pools were inaccessible because there was an angry dog guarding them. Opting to ignore his advice we went for a few excursions in the surrounding area, at first only finding a completely deserted campsite, before finally stumbling upon a nice little green-waterfall and swimming pool. As we ate lunch in a small eatery in the village and the drunken guy droned on about his family in Mexico city and World War 2, me and Barry reflected that once upon a time El Pauji must have been a thriving community and even tourist destination but was now a bit of a shell. Still it was a nice change of scenery. Inexplicably, as we waited for the bus back to Santa Elena, another drunken guy came up to us and also started talking about Normandy and World War 2. Arriving back in Santa Elena in the early evening we found Richard already drunk (just can't get away from it here), which scuppered any plans for the evening so we resolved to have a last night out tomorrow.

The next day, we managed to get a gang together and headed out into the Gran Sabana to a waterfall that Richard had been promising to take us to since my very first weekend at the Foundation. It was a great day out and we got some nice photos.
The evening saw us do a little bar crawl around Santa Elena which took in the local “strip bar” (upon Martina's insistence I might add). It quickly transpired that there wasn't going to be any stripping tonight (we wondered if the pole standing in the corner of the small bar had actually ever been used) and the only indication that this might be a place to indulge in vice was the 3 normally dressed, sultry looking, women sat on a couch. The only attention they got all night was from a policeman who walked in and joked with one of them for about 5 minutes.
It also turned out that this place had quite good drinks prices and was playing a fantastic range of 80s songs (Bonnie Tyler's total eclipse of the heart came on almost as soon as we arrived). If they replaced the pole with a karaoke machine it would be perfect.

The next day me and Barry did an organised day trip to the Gran Sabana waterfalls with one of the tour agencies in town. We had a great time, acting like kids and jumping off every rock we found. Our guide, a Venezuelan guy in his 50s, gave me recommendations for places to see in Columbia as well as some more reasons about why Chavez isn't the best leader in the world. These included, but were not limited to, giving too much money to Cuban immigrants, giving too much money to indigenous people and giving too much money to the fat-cats at the top.

On Tuesday, my last day at the foundations, I hopped over into Brazil once again and grabbed some cash, tasty lunch and a caipirinha (a cocktail made from Cachaca) while chatting to locals and a disgruntled Brazilian tourist who'd had a lot of trouble from the police while in Venezuela. The caipirinha was the usual combination of strong and delicious which made for a fun trip back to the foundation. At the foundation, as I packed and said goodbye to the kids for the last time I searched myself for signs of sadness but all I felt was excitement to be hitting the road again. I boarded the bus in the late evening, bracing myself for the ice-cold air-conditioning. Reflection of my volunteering experience at the foundation will come in due course I'm sure, but right now my head is full thoughts of the adventures ahead. Next stop – Puerto Ordaz and the Orinoco Delta.

22-29/11/2011 - Itching for the road

Unsurprisingly, the couple of days after Roraima were spent getting much needed rest and hungrily putting on the kilograms I'd lost from my trek. In Santa Elena there is a little road lined with cheap eateries and I'm beginning to get recognised by a few of the owners due to my many visits which is a nice feeling. I have developed a pretty impressive appetite while here and gained a bit of a reputation with the others at the foundation which confuses me since I've never thought of myself as a big eater and wasn't a hot climate supposed to make you want to eat less? I can only put it down to the tastiness of the food I encounter, or the mammoth portions mum and grandma used to give me back home.

Our little volunteering crew at the road of cheap eateries (me, martina and barry)

Returning from Roraima put me in a mixed mood once again. I was exhausted but at the same time itching to begin travelling in earnest. On Thursday night me and Barry spent the evening having a few beers at Backpackers and as he gave me recommendations for places to see in Peru and a vague plan for my travelling months began to take shape I realised that I wanted to start travelling as soon as possible. I was quietly pleased with the level of communication I'd managed to achieve with our guide Omar during the trek and although my Spanish is still in its infancy, I definitely now have enough to hit the road and maybe even chat to/up the locals.

Work at the foundation continues as usual although my mind is now definitely elsewhere.

On sunday we headed for an all-you-can-eat meat buffet over the border in Brazil and although a lot of the meat was on the dry side, we devoured several plate-full's between us. Afterwards, back in Venezuela we stopped at a bar, literally by the side of the road, where there was live music and locals dancing. Me and Barry lamented the lack of dancing culture in the UK while in front of us locals, young and old alike, took to the floor for fast paced meringue (or at least I think that's what its called). Few middle aged women, and even less men, are on the thin side in Venezuela but they could still move a fair bit and certainly put us to shame. We reckoned the equivalent in the UK would probably be a pub quiz.

21/11/2011 - Roraima Day 5 – Back to reality

The legs were a little stiff in the morning as we felt the results of yesterday's mammoth day. However once we got going and began retracing our steps down the mountain all was well and we were in high spirits again. Although Omar said we should aim to make it to one of the camps en route to the village of Paratepui (our starting point) by nightfall, I had a sneaky suspicion we could make it all the way back. Starting the day in wet, chilly surroundings and progressing to the baking heat of the Sabana was a welcome change and my clothes and sodden trainers, unbelievably still in one piece, began to dry out. As the day's hike progressed, I turned round every once in a while, and as Roraima sank into the distance it was hard to believe that we'd started the morning in such a different world.

As expected, we reached our intended camp with a good 4 hours before nightfall so it made sense to just blast the last 3 hour trek back to the village. Tired muscles complained and sun-singed skin crackled in the heat but the promise of beer at the village kept us going and finally we arrived at Paratepui. I promptly thrust my remaining Bolivars into Omar's hand and asked him to find us beer which he duly obliged. As Vova traded a laser-pen for indigenous necklaces and cups at the local shop, I chatted to Omar about his family and life. Omar is 30 and has 5 kids which is pretty good going (and an interesting comparison with Manuel). I also asked him when he'd next go up Roraima. “Tomorrow, if they need a guide”. Not bad.

We were waiting for Frank to come pick us up and take us back to Santa Elena, but as the hours rolled on and heavy rain set it, it looked like we'd have to spend the night camping under a shelter in the village. Omar very kindly promised us free arepas for breakfast in the morning and the really nice guy in the shop next to which we were sat started making us free pancakes for dinner (neither of us had any cash left). However, just then Frank arrived and we were off, back to Santa Elena, a place of showers, beds and food that wasn't sardines.

20/11/2011 - Roraima Day 4 – To the edge and back

Waking early, we left our stuff at the hotel (we would return the same way and pick it up later) and headed for the northern-most point on Roraima – La Proa. We were still walking through cloud, but once in a while the sun would shine through and we'd get a great view of the rocky landscape, stretching out in every direction. Walking without our bags we struck a lively pace which suited both me and Vova fine. Omar, our indigenous guide, probably thought it was snail pace. Either way we quickly passed the Triple-Point into Brazil and arrived at a sunken lake, one of the sights on the way to La Proa. Vova managed to get some photos before the cloud rolled in after which we walked down into a little valley, the floor of which was littered with crystals. At this point, something one of the researchers for the film “Up” from Pixar Studios had said came back to me. It was something like “The things we saw on Roraima were so crazy that in the film, we had to tone some of them down just to make it believable”.

After another bit of hefty hiking we reached la Proa. Unsurprisingly it was cloudy and we weren't rewarded with a picture-perfect view of Brazil, but peering over the edge of the cliff into a vast cloudy nothingness with no sense of how high up we were was an enchanting experience nonetheless.

The rest of the day we spent retracing our steps back to our very first hotel which we reached with a few hours of daylight to spare. After we'd set up camp I still had some strength left in my legs and was about to badger Omar to take us for more exploration. Then cloud cleared, opening up the sky right in front of us and we were treated to a delicious view of miles and miles of rolling hills of the Gran Sabana below. My drab meal of bread, sardines and mayonnaise tasted delicious and I don't think I've ever eaten in a more spectacular setting. Vova, crazy Russian that he is, had already run out of food by this point and assured me that he would be fine without. “My body will adapt” he told me. Fortunately Omar went and managed to wrangle him some cooked pasta and half a loaf of bread from some other guides nearby. We went to bed exhausted but happy – we'd done more or less 2 days hiking in 1 day and had seen a great deal of this crazy landscape.

19/11/2011 - Roraima Day 3 – Into the lost world

Having said our goodbyes to the rest of the group, myself, Vova and Omar headed off into the misty, drizzly morning. Our destination was the northern-most “hotel” on Roraima, a decent 3-4 hour hike away. During our first 2 days the guides had hardly been necessary, since there was pretty much only one path from the village of Paratepui to Roraima and only one path to the top. Here however it would have been impossible to navigate without Omar, as the “paths” around the top were little more than rocks of a slightly different shade which had been worn by hikers' boots and the odd stepping stone through marshy waters.

Despite the top of the mountain looking more or less flat from down below, our hike saw us navigate mini valleys and clamber over many rocky hillocks as well as stopping to rest near a small waterfall flowing into sunken pool. We arrived at our “hotel” quite early and explored a little around the area. However, Omar assured us that tomorrow would be a long day so we decided to get an early night but not before I'd enjoyed what would be the first of many meals consisting of bread, sardines and mayonnaise.

18/11/2011 - Roraima Day 2 – The ascent

After a hearty breakfast of more cachapas and a quick chat with Chavez we quickly covered the remaining distance to the base camp of Roraima. The seemingly sheer cliff-face of the tepui made me question exactly how we were going to scale this thing, but from the base camp we saw a thin slither of forest progressing at a slant along the wall in front of us and the guides confirmed that our path to the top was somewhere within that jungle. Without further ado, and with our guides beckoning us to go ahead if we wished (“there's only one path – you can't miss it”) we embarked on the 3 hour hike to the top. It quickly became apparent that the rest of my group weren't quite as fit as first appeared so pretty soon I was out in front on my own, pretending that I was the first person exploring this well trodden trail.

Somewhat knackered, we completed the ascent and were greeted by the homogeneously rocky landscape of Roraima's top. The contrast with the scenery of the Grand Sabana below couldn't be any starker and I can see why people compare it to stepping onto “another world”. The top of Roraima is covered in cloud a lot of the time which means visibility fluctuates quite a bit, and upon our arrival the cloud cover meant distant rock formations faded into the mist giving the place a spooky air. My description won't really do it any justice so hopefully the photos (when I get them) will. During our walk across the top to one of the nearby “hotels” (an area under an overhanging rock formation where tents could be pitched out of the rain) a helicopter flew overhead and landed somewhere in the distance to drop off a group of lazy tourists.

Although it had been a relatively short day, I felt we'd earned our dinner. However at this point, whether to eat a large amount or not became a bit of a dilemma. Excrement is not allowed to be left on the top of Roraima and so the guides have a special tube full of chemicals in which they keep our business and which they carry back down to base camp. However, there was only one tube for our group and since me, Vova and Omar (one of the guides) would be going our own way tomorrow, we would have to carry any future conversations with Chavez ourselves – not an appealing proposition. With that in mind I asked for seconds anyway.

17/11/2011 - Roraima Day 1 – First victim

After an early start, Frank, the tour guide, and I drove to Paratepui, a small indigenous village close to Roraima from which the trek would begin. As we bombed along a road which actually tested the capabilities of his massive 4x4 and blasted Phil Collins' greatest hits I couldn't help but grin like an idiot. As was befitting an idiot, I'd forgotten my passport, but luck was on our side and we weren't stopped at any of the army checkpoints on the way out of town. On the way Frank told me that one of the other guys in the group I would be joining was Russian, and spoke hardly any English or Spanish. The Russian guy wanted to break away from the main group with a separate guide, and explore to the northern most point of Roraima, called La Proa, passing Triple Point on the way (a point where the borders of Venezuela, Guyana and Brazil meet). Frank asked me if I wanted to go as well and something about my mood made me say yes without hesitation. With that decided, we faced one further obstacle which was acquiring food for me, since splitting from the group to go with the Russian guy and the other guide meant I would have to carry my own food for 3 days. This was no mean feat at 6 am and at first it looked like we weren't in luck. However after we had knocked on a closed shop front in a small village on the way to Paratepui for about 5 minutes and had all but given up hope, a sleepy looking man came to open the door and enquire as to what the hell we wanted so early. I apologetically stocked up on bread, sardines and mayonnaise and we hit the road once again.

Arriving in Paratepui I met the group I would be trekking up Roraima with: David and Aitor from Spain, Mateo from Hong Kong and Vladimir (Vova) from Moscow. David and Aitor spoke minimal english, Mateo was fluent in English and spoke pretty good Spanish, while Vova, speaking only Russian and a little english had, until my arrival, relied mostly on hang gestures. I quickly realised this was going to be a tri-lingual adventure.

After another breakfast, my 3^rd of the day, we were off! Our first day's walk was a 20km hike over fairly easy terrain to the base camp of Roraima. The weather was perfect for walking and my spirits were further buoyed by the fact that our main guide, Leo, was wearing what looked like a pair of converse (he later explained they were 60s style sports shoes). Now I didn't feel like a total idiot in my £20 trainers.

Despite my tiredness and slight hangover the walk was very enjoyable. Me and Vova chatted in Russian about life, the universe and everything while every step of the way the imposing Roraima loomed ever larger. Our route saw us cross 2 rivers, stopping at the first to have lunch and partake in some skinny dipping, one of the many benefits of having an all male group. The second river crossing claimed its first victim of the trip – my camera spluttered and died as the “waterproof” bag i'd kept it in let me down. I would be relying on my fellow travellers for photos from now on (which probably isn't a bad thing since they all had shiny expensive cameras).

Around 3pm it started drizzling so we stopped and set up camp. The 2 spanish guys had drawn the short straw when it came to tent allocation (theirs was about as effective as a sieve) however one of our guides who was bringing up the rear was carrying a spare so they were spared a soggy night.

The only decent photos I managed to get before my camera died so make the most of them

After an evening meal of spaghetti bolognase prepared by our guides we discussed the perils of “Talking to Chavez” (having a poo to me and you) in the Gran Sabana. Rattlesnakes got a mention but I didn't let that bother me as I went to bed exhausted.

11/11/2011 – 16/11/2011 - So much to see, so little time

At the weekend I made an effort to get a bit more spanish grammar under my belt. It should hopefully improve my current method of speaking in infinitives and gesticulating wildly to indicate different tenses. We made another little excursion into the Gran Sabana to see some waterfalls but sadly didn't see any anteaters.

Some waterfalls off the beaten track in the Gran Sabana

The week began to progress like any other. However speaking to Barry struck home to me how much time I was spending at the foundation and how, relatively, little time I had to travel this massive continent. On wednesday night we all found ourselves at the Backpackers hostel/bar in town enjoying a few beers and free wi-fi internet. As talk turned to weekend plans I realised that I should really start cracking on with some of the things I wanted to do around Santa Elena sooner rather than later. The main one, which I had planned to save until after I'd finished volunteering, was the 6 day trek to the top of Roraima, a tepui (table-mountain) a couple of hours drive from Santa Elena. In an adventurous mood I went and inquired in the nearby tour-company if they had any treks leaving on Friday, only to be disappointed. However, as luck would have it, Richard spotted another tour guide he knew from Santa Elena also having a drink at Backpackers and it transpired that he had space on a trek to Roraima leaving tomorrow at 5am. Sorted.

I felt giddy excitement as we drove back to the foundation, stopping en route to pick up chocolate-based essentials for my trip. Roraima isn't billed as a gentle walk and as I packed my bag that night, minor doubts about my fitness levels and lack of walking shoes began to nag at me but were soon overpowered by thoughts of the adventure awaiting me.

30/10/2011 - Sunday, Drunken Sunday

(This is a post I wrote but forgot to put up last time. It was a really fun day.)

we even tracked down a pumpkin in santa elena

Having opted out of going out last night for halloween (and being thankful I did so, the others told me it wasn't worth it) I went for an early morning bike ride with Manuel, the indigenous indian who works at the foundation, to a nearby river. Before setting off I asked him if I should take some water with us. “You can if you want, I'm going to buy rum.” He wasn't joking.

manuel cycling, beer in hand :)

Before we arrived at the river he'd already polished off 3 beers and when we came to an idyllic little waterfall and pool he cracked out the rum. We messed around near the river for a while and he told me about previous volunteers at the foundation, most of whom he seems to have had an infatuation with. For a bit of context, Manuel is 30, doesn't have a wife or kids and has been working on the foundation on and off for about 7 years. He's a very friendly and happy guy although I'm not sure what to make of the drinking. I'm wary of generalising, but talking with Richard and Martina seemed to confirm that drinking is omnipresent within the indigenous community.

On our way back to the foundation we stopped off at a posada (guest-house) run by some Germans that Manuel knew. They were very friendly and seemed to love the British accent. The 17 year old daughter of the German woman Angela, who runs the posada with her Venezuelan husband, was cajoled into coming to talk to me. I guess this could have been awkward if I hadn't already had a few swigs of Manuel's rum and Angela hadn't given us beer. Manuel drunkenly teased me about this encounter in incomprehensible Spanish all the way back to the foundation. I sobered up in the afternoon, while Manuel kept drinking. In the evening when the 4 of us sat down to have dinner he was completely drunk which was slightly bizarre but I guess it was a sunday after all...

7/11/2011 - 10/11/2011 - Spanish lessons

On monday, I became acquainted with Mavis, a 29 year old Venezuelan lady who was staying and working at one of the tourist camps 5 minutes walk from our farm. She's pretty bored staying on her own, especially when there are no tourists at the camp, so once every couple of nights she has become the recipient of my broken conversational spanish. Her english is very limited which is ideal since it forces me to either make sense of what she's saying or reach for the dictionary. I'm sure its very annoying for her when I ask what a certain word means every other sentence but its great for me.

Mavis used to be a lawyer in a city in western Venezuela but said she got fed up with it, not least since the political situation in Venezuela makes it somewhat difficult to work in law and retain any form of morals or ethics (I couldn't possibly comment on whether this is restricted to Venezuela, especially since I know you'll be reading this mum). Corruption and law go hand in hand here. Richard has a female friend who is a lawyer and when I asked him if she was a good lawyer, he said “Of course”. When I asked him if she was corrupt I received the same reply.

working hard at the foundation

the kids love me, honest

Mavis also told me that last year, while she was on holiday in Italy and had planned to travel and also try and find work, Chavez devalued the Venezuelan currency, which forced her to cut short all her plans and return to Venezuela. A simple story like that made me appreciate how many extra difficulties the Venezuelan people must face in almost daily life, most of which seem to be linked to a lack of security. What can you do in a country where the police are corrupt, the courts are corrupt and the leader makes changes at the drop of a hat?  

31/10/2011 - 6/11/2011 - Into the routine

The week flew by in a blur of playing, teaching, learning spanish, cooking and cleaning. Having gotten bored of running around the farm for exercise, I've started venturing into the woods and found some great paths which definitely beat the treadmill at the gym.

fancy a jog?

 On friday night we went for pizza at a deserted restaurant in town. Having taken our order, the owner then proceeded to have an unrequested 20 minute rant about the state of Venezuela under Chavez. On reflection, it isn't surprising that he hates Chavez's socialist agenda since he, as someone who has quite a bit of money, is exactly the kind of person Chavez is directing his anti-bourgeois rhetoric against. He mentioned that even his assets weren't safe since the government reclaimed and redistributed land and property at will. I tried to ask him why he still stayed in Venezuela if he hated it so much but he brushed this off with  “its where my roots are” etc. It's difficult to debate with people who complain about things they have no control over. Although occasionally interesting, this man's tirade about corruption, Venezuelan mafia, badly trained Cuban doctors in Santa Elena and the things this man wished to do to the president fell into that category. Fortunately the pizzas were delicious.

On saturday, we went for a drive into the Gran Sabana, stopping en route to take in some great views and ending up at a nice little waterfall and diving pool. There was a group of indigenous folk swigging whisky there who, after I'd managed to produce a few competent phrases in Spanish, even offered me some. Finally the Spanish is paying off. Richard used to run one of the tour agencies in Santa Elena so he knows the surrounding area really well and seems to have friends in every small village we stop at. The scenery is an interesting mixture of sprawling grasslands punctuated by clumps of palm trees with the imposing Roraima table-mountain always looming in the background.

In the evening, having discovered a guitar at the foundation, I tried to help love-sick Richard through the medium of song. Despite my tuneful and insightful advice I feel little progress was made.

On sunday morning we went along to the inauguration of the new chief of Mana-Kru (the indigenous community) who had been elected last week. After speeches from people of importance and the ceremony itself, certificates were handed out to many people in recognition of their work within the community. At the end, the youth orchestra from the local music school played some lively pieces and there was a real sense of unity about the whole thing.

Considering that the foundation has been going for around 8 years, it is surprising that the work we do currently doesn't have much recognition in Mana-Kru. Richard mentioned that some members of the indigenous community are somewhat negative towards the foundation, partly because some of them don't agree with the rationale, or see the point, of teaching the children English. Also, some children, especially girls, get drafted early on into helping with household chores and staying at home to look after younger siblings and so can't take part in the activities we organise. However, after we talked to him, the new chief seemed relatively enthusiastic about trying to change the attitude of the community towards the work we do, which will hopefully be a good thing. That said, I am fairly realistic in my expectation of what we can and can't achieve here as European outsiders, but that's not a reason not to try and do as much as we can.

Sunday afternoon also saw the arrival of Barry, an architect in his forties from London, who's going to be volunteering at the foundation for 10 weeks. He's a really nice guy and has done a lot of travelling, some of it in south america, so I'm looking forward to picking his brain for recommendations of where I should explore in my travelling months.