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.
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment