So, here I am on the bus. I wish I could take photos to show you what it’s like, but my fellow passengers might think I’m a bit strange. To be honest, though, being a ‘gringa’ to them, they probably already think I am. Venezuela is the only place so far where people have been so very blatant in using the term – often actually right to my face. It doesn’t seem to make much difference if I explain that I’m British (and therefore not technically a gringa) – us ‘whities’ obviously all seem the same to anyone who’s going to use the term so directly. It’s pretty alienating, and I’ve got to say I don’t like it. Although I have heard and read that ‘gringo’ and ‘gringa’ aren’t necessarily terms of offence, they never seem to be used with kindness or affection. In fact, it’s usually the exact opposite – the terms leave peoples’ lips with a sneer. Maybe political correctness just hasn’t come to this part of the world yet. Although I certainly don’t approve of all things ‘PC’ (the situation has got a bit ludicrous in the UK of late), I am glad that I come from a place where it’s no longer really acceptable to call people ‘darkies’ or ‘chinks’ or ‘pakis’. I’m not really sure if ‘gringo’ or ‘gringa’ can be lumped in with these terms, but to me it feels like they should be. I’m not going to make out that what I’ve experienced anything as heavy or oppressive as ‘racism’ in this part of the world (I’m well aware that that wouldn’t go down too well from a white middle class girl with sufficient freedom to be travelling like I am). However, I have come to realise how lonely and isolating it can be to be marked out a mile off and treated differently on account of the colour of your skin and your physical characteristics. This can be in the form of getting ignored in a shop or restaurant, being overcharged or ripped off for services (because your assumed to be either blind to it, or made of money), or, oh yes, if you’re a woman, being hooted and hissed at by men whose only prior exposure to North American or European women has been in nasty porno films. Of course, this doesn’t happen all the time, and it doesn’t even happen the majority of the time, but it happens – and when it happens to me, I go right back to being a kid in the playground again when someone was mean to me or called me a name. Wounded, withered up inside, and worried - that's how I feel. Was it something I did? Am I in the wrong? I always used to think it must have been my fault, and I still tend to fall back into this position. In terms of what we’re talking about now, though, I must try to break that pattern. I’m just white and British – two utterly unchangeable facts about me that were pretty much confirmed at my birth. If my behaviour causes problems with local people while I’m travelling, I wish they’d tell me and I’d try to change it. Otherwise that’s it, though - I’m me and I obviously can’t alter my ethnicity and nationality.
Anyway, back to the bus, I was a bit vexed (but not hugely surprised) that my bus to Ciudad Bolivar had been cancelled this morning and that, instead, I was going to have to get on a bus to somewhere called Puerto La Cruz and change. There was nothing I could do really about the situation, though, and the clerk behind the desk at the bus company was pretty deadbeat and definite that the bus to Ciudad Bolivar wasn’t going to be running today. "How strange", I contested as diplomatically as I could, "seeing as I only bought my ticket two days ago, and I was told the bus would definitely be running then?". As soon as the words left my lips, however, I knew they were essentially useless. This bloke who was clearly one of those travel-agency employees who takes great relish in telling customers their flights, boats, buses, whatever, have been cancelled. At least he swiftly reissued me with a new ticket to Puerto La Cruz, and a refund to cover the rest of the journey to Ciudad Bolivar, seeing as I now won’t be going directly. At first, I thought this would make the journey there even longer and more convoluted. Perhaps not though... Apparently this bus gets to Puerto La Cruz at 6.00am tomorrow morning, from where it’s only 4 hours to Ciudad Bolivar. It all depends how frequent the buses there are though... It’d be just my luck if there’s not another one until midnight or something. Oh well, it’s just another situation where there’s nothing I can do ‘but go with the flow’. Who knows when and how I’ll make it to Ciudad Bolivar – but I’ve got the numbers for some Couchsurfing contacts I can call up when I get there. I don’t think any of them are able to provide me with a bed for the night, but maybe they’ll be able to guide me towards a decent hostel, or join me for a beer or something after my long journey.
Ah, a drink! That would be so nice now. My coldy, achey sickness continues and just the thing for soothing and comforting me at the moment would be a hot honey and lemon with a tot of whisky, or a ‘whisky Mac’ (that Runchman perfected mix of Stones ginger wine, and, er, more whisky). Night is about to fall and the bus that I’ve now been on since midday just stopped at a service station so people could get food and drink and go to the loo. I noticed a ‘licor store’ near to the service station and wondered towards it with half a mind to buy a mini-bottle of brandy or whisky just to zonk myself out for the long overnight stretch to Puerto La Cruz. I have to say I chickened out though. Buying booze in certain places remains a man’s realm in much of Latin America, and this particular store looked like it was full of pretty hardened male boozers buying pretty heavy duty booze to get plastered on. Knowing that I was sticking out in general, I didn’t want to walk into a place where I would stick out even more and probably invite unwanted hassle. I therefore turned on my heels. Next time I’m in a supermarket or somewhere a bit ‘easier’, though, I must remember to buy myself a little bottle of something to ease me through these long tedious night journeys (an on-board refreshment service – just for me, and served by me, if you like!).
As it turned out, at the service-station, I had a papaya juice and a slice of a cake that looked a lot more exciting than it generally was. Still, like the curate’s egg, it was ‘good in parts’ and, as I picked at the nutty topping and toffee-like filling, I remembered I still had some of the sleeping tablets Mum and Dad gave me in Mexico as desperate measures for desperate times when sleep is needed but not easy to come by. I popped one (as I don’t want to feel as lousy tomorrow as I did after Friday’s practically sleep-free overnight journey) and I guess that was just over an hour ago. Is it going to have any affect? I hope so. I’m afraid I just want to completely blank out tonight, with my headache, and all over body aches, and knowledge that such vast travelling distances lie ahead of me. I almost wish I could just switch myself off, pack myself into someone’s suitcase in the luggage compartment, and wake up when it’s all over (preferably to go off for a hot stone massage and hot honey and lemon!). That’s very wishful thinking, though, so I’m just going to have to ride it out as best I can, and hope that sleep lays her benevolent hand upon my weary traveller's head tonight.
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