Hmmm, I’ve got to say I’m feeling pretty lousy today, and have been for a while now. I think I’m coming down with something - probably that perennial cold that comes from changing environments, skimping on sleep, and not getting enough vitamins (as I think I’ve made it known, stodge, starch and grease seem to trump vitamins in Latin American cuisine – the one exception being delicious fresh fruits and juices, which I’ve been trying to make the most of recently). Actually, seeing as this week I have gone from hot and sweaty Maracaibo, to parched desert-like Coro, into a freezing air-conditioned bus, and then onto the chilly foggy Andean city of Merida, it’s hardly surprising that my body is confused and I can feel some sort of sickness coming on. Therefore, I’m going to start writing this evening, but I may well fall asleep and save the rest for tomorrow. I have an epic (even by my standards) bus journey in the morning that will take me from Merida to Ciudad Bolivar, and that will last a grand total of 27 hours! I’ll have plenty of time to kill then, as you might imagine.
So, I’ve got a bit of catching up to do. I think I was heading to Coro last time I wrote, the old and picturesque town on Venezuela’s northern coastline that was actually its first capital (before Caracas, for all you Venezuela fact-finders out there). It was a nice enough stop-off, but one day and one night in Coro was definitely sufficient. It’s another ‘colonial town’ and, without wanting to sound too dismissive, I think I’m a bit ‘colonial town-ed out’ now. Of course, the cobbled streets and elegant coloured churches and mansions were pleasing to the eye, as always. However, I have seen quite a lot of them lately. The heat in Coro was phenomenal (it is a town strangely situated next to a desert, as I shall come to explain), and wandering around I felt sapped of energy. On top of that, I also have terrible blisters at present (those shoes I bought in Bogota don’t seem to have ‘worn in’ yet – and I somehow doubt they ever will), so this, and the heat-exhaustion, meant I felt a bit grumpy in Coro, and maybe I didn’t give it the best of my attention.
Still, when I got to the posada I had booked up on Friday night (called ‘Casa De Los Pajaros’- literally ‘House Of The Birds’), my first impressions of Coro were good. The casa was a beautiful restored building, which had been turned into a guesthouse by its owners. My fellow guests and roommates were two older Venezuelan guys, but, much to my relief, they were not Patchouli Grandpa Pedants! One of them, Eduardo, was a former Social Worker, staying in the casa temporarily while he waited to move into a flat he was renting. The other, Edgar, was an artist who spent his time painting intricate floral patterns on little pieces of wood, and who was exhibiting in a local gallery.
I’ve found out recently that hostels and guesthouses aren’t just for travellers in this part of the world, and that often people use them as sort of ‘temporary accommodation’ (well, I guess that happens back home too – but here such hostels aren't like the heartsink DSS/council house waiting list 'holding pens' that I used to visit in Finsbury Park and Tottenham with work). Granted, sometimes the nomadic native residents of Latin American hostels are a bit odd and eccentric, but usually they are quite interesting to talk to. Eduardo was certainly a lovely and gentle guy who walked me round the block to the supermarket to buy some provisions on Friday night, talking to me as we went about the social problems he used to have to deal with in his work. The issues (domestic violence, alcoholism etc.) didn’t sound that dissimilar to the ones that I encounter in my job in London, in spite of the fact that life in our respective countries is different in so many ways.
Both Eduardo and Edgar waxed a bit political that evening when we got back to the posada, and I got the impression that they were both pretty anti-Chavez. I tried tactfully to stay objective, but the matter of politics is more topical than usual here at present, given that elections are rapidly approaching. Most of the people I have spoken to don’t think anything is going to change, though, and, indeed, if the omnipresent ‘Con Chavez – Si! Va!’ slogans (sprayed on walls, daubed on cars, sported on people’s T-shirts) are anything to go by, Chavez still has the upper hand.
Working in ‘Casa De Los Pajaros’ was a younger Venezuelan guy called Gregory (known to the others as ‘Vin Diesel’ on account of his resemblance to the muscular shaven head film star!), who took it upon himself to be my tour guide the next morning when I said I was off to explore Coro. To be honest, I would have been quite happy to do my own thing, but it felt like it would have been a bit rude to shake Gregory off right away. Also, I’m grateful that he helped me to buy my bus ticket to Merida, and that he showed me around the sand dunes and eerily untouched desert area on the outskirts of the town (see pictures).
In general, though, guys who work in Latin American hostels (and I’m sure in many other parts of the world as well) are another ‘species’ (like Patchouli Grandpa Pedants) that I’ve come to identify over the past few months on my journey. I’ve pegged them down through typical behaviour that is at its most pronounced in the presence of younger female solo travellers like me. This behaviour tends to range from a flurry of unnecessary but well intentioned over-attentiveness, to more sleazy personal-space-invading moves - and an exasperating number of male hostel-employees do think that they have a God-given right to try to get off with any woman travelling on her own. Gregory was actually quite a decent guy but, at ‘Posada Paty’, my current resting place in Merida, the overzealous Ecuadorian man on reception (called Cleber – which he proudly likes to pronounce is like ‘clever’, er, great!) is wearing my patience very thin. If he’s not trying to kiss my hand, or affectionately ruffle my hair every five minutes, he’s parading around without his shirt on (not such a lovely sight, I’m afraid) and attempting to find his way into my room ‘just to chat’. It is proving good practice for me in terms of prompting me to be more blunt and direct with my rebuffals (something I’m not usually very adept at), but I hope that the defensive coat of armour I have now taken to putting on around men in this part of the world (the steeliest scowl, accompanied by withering looks and sharp dismissals) doesn’t stick. I don’t like having to wear it, and I don’t want it to get in the way if I meet someone I really like. Having said that, though, it does feel like a bit of a necessity around here. Where is the middle-ground (or where do I need to go in the world?) to find a happy medium between typically British guys who procrastinate, ponder, and so rarely make a definite move with women, and Latinos who just seem to overegg the proverbial pudding? OK, I know I am generalising here, but if anyone knows, please tell me and I will head there next on my travels!
Anyway, moving on from Coro, I took an overnight bus to Merida, where I planned to spend the weekend. It was a pretty wearisome journey (12 hours – but that’ll be nothing compared to what’s coming!). However, it was refreshing to see mountains and mist when we arrived in Merida in the morning. Merida is actually a state in Venezuela, boasting some of the finest scenery and trails for hiking and climbing in all of South America. Its capital city, where I stayed, is ringed by impressive snow-capped peaks and, for me, it had a quaint sort of Alpine feel. I really liked the place from the moment I got there, although it was a shame to learn that its mountain cable car or ‘teleferico’ (the longest-travelling, highest climbing in the world, apparently) was going to be out of service throughout the duration of my stay.
Anyway, I found myself a bargain bed in ‘Posada Paty’ and spent most of Saturday familiarising myself with my new surroundings. I wasn’t feeling at my best, having failed to get much sleep on the bus the night before, so I just attempted simple things like going to the supermarket (I had plans to go off walking the next day, so wanted to get some picnic bits and pieces like bread and cheese). ‘Simple things’ in Venezuela are rarely, as I have discovered, simple, though. On entering the supermarket I had to surrender my rucksack and display a form of identification. This had to be shown again at the checkout as I proceeded to pay for my very modest selection of groceries. Then, if that wasn’t enough rigmarole, a guard had to inspect my receipt and check off all the things in my carrier bag before I was able to reclaim my rucksack and leave. What a palaver?!
So, I am not enamoured of the bureaucracy in this country. However, it didn’t spoil my appreciation of Merida. It felt so nice to be in cool, fresh climes again, and, as well as the picturesque Alpine feel, the city also had an appealing vibrancy about it. This is mainly due to the fact that there is a large and prestigious university here (La Universidad de los Andes) and a sizeable student population as a result. In the evening I walked around the humming and fairground-like ‘Parque Las Heroinas’, at the base of the teleferico, and bought a ‘cachapa’ from a street stand for dinner. Cachapas are a regional speciality, and are like large maize pancakes, cooked on a griddle and usually filled with melted cheese and ham. They have a surprisingly sweet taste and slightly grainy texture – good hot filling food for instant gratification in cold weather, if slightly oily (the woman at the stand ladled a good spoonful of grease over my cachapa to finish it off, and the paper plate had nearly disintegrated after I was done with eating it!).
I didn’t plan to do anything in particular on Saturday night save for catch up on lost sleep. However, as so often is the case, good intentions fell by the wayside when I fell in with some fellow guests in the hostel. They persuaded me to have some beers and play cards with them, and then go out on the town in Merida. This was a good laugh, as they were a lively international bunch of guys – German, Australian, and Swiss – and they had been staying in Merida for long enough to know the city a bit better than me (they also knew some very funny card tricks that had me creased over with laughter!). The bar/club we ended up in was very studenty, and the music playing was mainly the kind of reggaeton/shrill Latino house that my ears are getting a bit tired of now. However, I’m glad I had a night out like that in Merida, as it seemed like the thing to do in such a lively student city.
Today, waking up with a heightened headache and stiffness (I didn’t drink all that much last night, honest, so I really do think I’m coming down with something – either that or getting old!), I dragged myself out of bed and determined to do something with the day. It was my only full day in Merida, and a beautiful one at that, with the sun was shining all over the surrounding mountains. A tour operator I had chatted to the day before had tried to persuade me to sign up for a ‘canyoning’ trip – abseiling down waterfalls and getting all wet. The way I was feeling this morning, I was mighty glad I hadn’t let him rope me into it! Instead, I wanted to do some gentle exercise, see some pretty scenery – that kind of thing... A helpful woman at the tourism office gave me a map and advised me to go by bus to a nearby town called Tabay, where I could both walk in the ‘Parque Nacional La Mucuy’, and go to the famous ‘agua termales’ (or hot springs). I therefore packed my bikini and followed her instructions.
At the national park I didn’t really have time to do any serious walking, so I contented myself with strolling along the pleasant green country paths, stopping off to eat my arepa sandwiches and to read more of ‘Dance, Dance, Dance’ which is keeping me highly gripped and entertained (it’s so good to have a decent book on the go again). The landscape made me think of my Dad as there were many rivers reputedly excellent for trout fishing, and trout is a great speciality here. In fact, this evening, finding that my Bolivares were stretching out better than I thought, and thinking that I had better get a decent sit-down meal inside me before several days of travel (and all the lousy junk food that usually entails), I went to a nice little restaurant by the park and had grilled trout with herbs. It was absolutely delicious – the food in this part of Venezuela really does seem to have an earthy, natural kind of feel.
Going back to this afternoon, though, come about 4 o’clock I was still aching and the hot springs were calling me – maybe they would ease my poor muscles and bones? To be honest, the ‘agua termales’ were a bit of a let-down but, filled with Venezuelan families splashing around and having a good time, they were an authentic experience I suppose. Situated on the side of a mountain, the ‘hot spring’ was basically thermally heated water pumped into a shallow pool – oh, and there was a sauna too. The water was unappealingly brown, though, had a rather gruesome amount of human hair floating around in it, and also a rather nasty niff (which was most pronounced in the sauna – a pong of wet clay and horse manure). Still, having made the journey and paid the entrance fee, I decided to get changed and jump in. Actually, if you ignored the smell, colour and texture of the water, and just focused on its heat, it was rather nice. Closing my eyes (and trying to block off my nose), I imagined I was in a nice warm bubble bath – a simple pleasure I have been deprived off for months now (places in this part of the world only seem to have showers). Ahh, that will be the first thing I do when I get back to the UK I think, run myself a nice, deep, hot bath, then lie back in it and close my eyes…
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