With inspiration renewed, and new skills under our belts, we set off for south, firstly to Panama. A day and a night of travelling by thumb, we met all sorts of people during which we encountered our first woman driver who gave us a lift as well as a religious truckie who preached to us for most of the way and told us how he converted himself six months ago (being a smoker, drinker and frequenter of brothels) while watching an Adventist priest on TV telling him, “you are the next one”, and he got down on his hands and knees and accepted this as a sign to convert. We arrived 50 kilometres from our destination in the dead of the night. Sleepy heads were jolted up and a surprise policeman took us under his wing, giving us refuge from the Panamerican highway and providing each of us with a mattress. Welcome to the cops bunkroom.
A few days of camping on the beach followed, a welcomed treat after some hard work on the ranch. Every night god’s light bulb was shining on our heads and the waves caused a rhythmic sound to which to sleep to.
A mini Carnaval greeted us at the Festival de la Mejorana in Guarare (named after a small guitar with 5 strings originating from the region) where we danced in the rain while watching and being part of the parade, floats passing by with girls dressed in colourful, traditional dresses
with long plats sitting on either side of their necks, celebrating the many traditions that make up Panama. Many pageant queens were displayed on podiums while drums and bottles of rum and aguardiente were being swigged. The kids performed traditional dancers of the region, the boys dressed with a straw hat and a peasant costume, pranced around while the girls rustled their colourful dresses. Some of the ‘couples’ were no more than 5 years old. We watched on with a lot of laughter as some of the boys missed their steps while they became distracted by a fly or adjusted their hats, leaving their partners hanging. On our way back from the Carnaval, we jumped into the back of a ute with a friendly driver and his friends. A few minutes into the drive, I could sense that we were swerving from side to side, veering from our lane on a very constant basis. The drivers friends were both drunk and I figured so was the driver. I became tense and wanted to jump out. In an instant, we were on the opposite side of the road with oncoming traffic heading our direction. I yelled at the driver to move back to his lane and at the last second he swerved back onto the right side of the road. Hearts beating I asked for the car to stop and we got out, the ute continuing on with no thought of what had just happened, what could have happened.
From Panama to Colombia we flew, a simple 2 hour flight that took us all day to accomplish but got us a little closer to our destination, Venezuela. We arrived at the border between Colombia and Venezuela in Cucuta, greeted by some couch surfers who went out of their way to pick us up from the airport, two hours later than the planned arrival. Taken to what seemed like a palace that night in my tired daze, we were presented to the gang of friends that never left each other’s side. Andres, Paula and ‘Los gordos’ treated us like kings, chaperoning us around Cucuta, presenting us to everyone they knew and making us stay out late on both nights we were there. Andres, a journalist, knew everyone in town and is an obvious candidate to be a politician as he so wishes. With great pride, he showed us his city and took us on a wild goose chase from place to place, stopping by for aguardiente shots at the university hangout. Andres, Paula and one of the ‘gordos’, Sebastian, about to set off on a long trip from Colombia to Argentina filled us with question about our travels. Most people had little faith that Paula and Sebastian would make it very far, use to being at home and looked after by their parents, Paula’s parents especially feared that she was destined to doom and the trip was a running joke between all. But they set off on their trip as planned and are still going strong.
While in Colombia, I was made aware that Colombian men manicure their hands and take great care in the appearance of their nails.
While we were sitting drinking cheap beers in Venezuela having crossed over from Colombia for the night, the nail topic came up and we were with surprise, shown the five or six pairs of men’s nails from the group, all with varnish and looking much prettier than mine. On the other hand, men seem to pay less attention to their weight as they do to their nails, many surprisingly obese or close to it. In Cucuta, we learnt how Venezuelan politics had affected the city and reduced trade between the two countries. We crossed over to Venezuela and discovered some more about the politics of Chavez and its implications.
Most people in Venezuela are either Chavistas or anti-Chavistas. There are no fence sitters. The legislative elections that recently occurred showed that Chavez is loosing power after 11 years of being in government, with the opposition winning more than one-third of the legislative seats and 52% of the popular vote.
Chavistas are usually able to see that Chavez has contributed positively and negatively in running the country. Anti-Chavistas call him crazy and just want him out as soon as possible, not admitting to any positive changes since he has taken power. On saying this, the people we usually interacted with were people from the middle class. Opinions might vary dramatically with people from low economic backgrounds, Chavez initiating many positive changes for this particular grouping of people. Merida, a mountainous city known for its lakes, snowy peaks and villages set up in the hilltops, is where we ended up after crossing over from Colombia to Venezuela. A day up in the mountains to El paramo, we ate strawberries and cream and got a ride back to Merida with a young guy who’s view on Chavez was that he has good politics but no one to support him in government and no one who knows how to confront him on his bad policies.
Days later, we set off for Maracay to visit our new friend Fabiola that we had encountered on our way through the last time, going up to Costa Rica. We set off in the early hours of the morning and luck seemed to be on our side, offering us a second lift straight to Maracay! A few kilometres later, a sudden stop occurred. A picket line had been erected and was blocking our way forward. The picketers were requesting for a block to the take over of the company by government forces and had blocked many roads all over the country. Cars and trucks piled up and waited. Hours passed and the day grew on, sometimes the sky tricking us and threatening rain and the sun then reappearing hastily afterwards.
At around 5pm, the burning tyres were put out and a space appeared on the road to which everyone hurriedly rushed through. Maracay was about Fabiola and her apartment, cooking fancy foods, making ginger beer, Spanish misunderstandings, catching up on emails, travelling chats and a trip to Cayo Sombrero in the national park of Morrocoy with its breathtaking islets of paradise. The beach culture in Venezuela isn’t one where you relax but one where you bring your esky overflowing with beers, spirits and mixers and your entire family and/or friends set upon a day of becoming inebriated. People sat in the crystalline water that felt like a giant bath, the sun shining on top of them with drinks in hand, no waves to be seen for kilometres, the Caribbean being well and truly present. Chairs were placed in the water and sometimes even a drink float was put into use for easy accessibility of drinks within the water.
Traditional foods of Venezuela were plentiful on the street, normally consisting of an areperia (just like in Colombia but with many different versions such as wheat arepas which are delicious!), empanadas such as filled with caraotas (beans) and cheese, tequenos which are a cheese filled bread roll, deep-fried (my favourite especially when hot!), cachapas, a corn pancake served with soft, white cheese, plantain salad where the plantains are boiled than grated served with olive oil and other salad greens, cocada which is a milkshake made out of coconut and pizca andina which originates from Merida and is made from milk, potatoes, eggs and parsley.
Venezuela ended up finishing in Maracay. We decided that we didn’t have the money to go to La gran sabana and visit El salto Angel, the highest waterfall in the world measuring over 1000 metres and Roraima, a mountain where the continents first separated from (Agustin assuring me that it’s spectacular having done it a few years back).
A day attempting to catch a ride out of Maracay was a complete failure; sizzling, weary, thirsty and hungry, we made our way to the dreary bus terminal and caught a bus towards the South of Venezuela. The next day was another day of attempting to move hitching with little luck. A beautiful soul stopped and although could offer no lift, forced money onto us for a bus ride to the border. 100 Bolivar’s richer, we ended up catching a bus to the border town of Santa Elena and arriving at night, we hitched our tent in the bus station and made night there. After a few disagreements we set off on route for the border and passed through an hour or so later after being thoroughly searched by Brazilian border police, disturbing my meticulous packing and making it very complicated to fit everything back in again.
On Brazilian land we got a lift after quite a few hours out in the sun, to Boa Vista. With hopes high, we thought we might be able to arrive in Manaus by the next morning. Unfortunately no trucks were willing to stop or were heading that way. On saying that, the Brazilian warm nature shined through and many people greeted us and indicated that they weren’t going very far, at least responding to our request. That night we spent the night at a petrol station that seemed to be the hot place in town to hang out. People driving through and stopping to have a few beers right next to the petrol pump and then driving off happier than when they arrived. A couple of guys shouted us to some drinks and we found a small corner to huddle in and see the night through. More and more cars came through, blasting louder and louder music, most probably having a battle about who’s stereo is loudest. The next morning we set off bright and early with renewed hope that today would be the day for a ride to Manaus. An hour into our attempts, a motorbike crashed into the back of a truck that was turning and hadn’t put its indicator light on. The woman passenger bolted off the bike and ran to the safety of the footpath. The driver, laid in the middle of the road motionless. Cars stopped and blocked traffic from passing. The woman wailed and screeched as she attempted to comprehend what had happened to her partner. The shock of the accident shook me and I lost some inspiration for our task ahead. We lasted 6 hours out in the sun.
Our hunger and thirst for shade and water made us head back to the petrol station. We spent the afternoon asking trucks that had stopped if they were going to Manaus but none of them were. We were told by one truckie that there probably wouldn’t be anyone going for three or so days. With this new piece of information in hand, we decided to fork out the $120 it was to catch the bus. From Manaus we were to catch a ferry that would take us to Belem. The day we arrived we were informed that we had just missed the ferry to Belem and that the next one wasn’t until five days later. A ray of light shined through as we were told that we could catch a ferry to Santarem and then catch another ferry to Belem from there. We decided that this was better than waiting in Manaus for five days.
That night we were offered free tickets to the famous Teatro Amazonas by some theatre students who took a liking to us. We went to see a play called Gilda, about a prostitute and her interactions with her parents and lovers. The theatre is glorious; paintings highlighting the ceilings and gold rims trimming the seating. A pleasant extravagance and change from the five days of travel that we held behind us.
The two-day ferry ride to Santarem gave us time to make macramé bracelets and near the end of our trip, sell them to other passengers. Arriving in the early hours of Monday, we were informed that there was no boat to Belem till Friday. Shocked, tired and irritated we investigated to see if there was any way to catch a ride to Belem with a truckie, knowing that there are roads going through this part of the Amazon. Unfortunately there aren’t many trucks who make the two to three day trip and none to be found who were undertaking the journey.
Luckily in our angst to get out of Santrarem, we bumped into two artesana girls who divulged that they were staying in a very beautiful place 40 minutes from Santarem which holds one of Brazil’s nicest beaches: Alter do Chao
Indeed it was beautiful.
Not your typical beach, it’s set on a river in the Amazon and has islands of white sand amongst crystal clear waters which are at a beautiful temperature to swim in and are completely tranquil and still. Small bars offer their tables in the shallow waters, cooling your feet as you sip or munch. The vibe is very chill in Chao, a small and pleasant village, at least during the week and out of holiday season, with hardly any souls to be seen. Here we were introduced to the cashew tree and its succulent, juicy fruit that was in abundance all over Chao. We also tried the traditional meal of tacaca which consists of a soup with goma (a tapioca gummy substance which is interesting to eat), tucupi (a broth made from cassava), dried prawns (white river ones in this case) and jambu (a para cress). It´s served very hot in a cuia, a bowl carved out of a gourd.It’s amazing how things work out at the perfect time. Staying in Chao was exactly what we both needed after a non-stop week of travelling. I was close to cracking into pieces after little sleep, living on sandwiches and heat stricken. We were led to this beautiful place, to relax and rejuvenate when we were unable to offer this to ourselves. The reason for our visit to Chau was money orientated (as it was cheaper than staying in Santarem) but instead we were offered a holiday in paradise.
On our last night in Chao, a small gig took place on the beach with traditional music from the state of Para called Carimbo. A vibrant assortment of drums (made from tree trunks) and singing with a strong African influence, girls dancing in long, colourful dresses which they hold the ends of in their hands and the men dancing around them in circles, re-enacting the ritual dance. Definitely recommended for those musos out there!
Our ferry to Belem was waiting for us on the Friday morning as we rushed to walk from one port to the other with our heavy packs and the hot sun stumping our stride. It cost us 140 reales for the both of us instead of 200 reales which was the price in the port that we left behind (a saving of $40). The two days that it took us to arrive in Belem navigated us through the Amazon once again, passing many houses situated on the riverbank amongst the jungle, isolated from the rest of the world but located in a dazzling setting.
We saw a lot of shipping of timber taking place on large platforms being pushed up or down the river. Small villages based entirely around logging companies were spotted along the way, the destruction of the Amazon rainforest sadly taking place right in front of our eyes but legal logging is not the biggest culprit, strictly monitored and operating under demanding guidelines; clearing for cattle pasture and agriculture are the most destructive as well as illegal logging. On the last night at sunset, we encountered canoes waiting for our arrival. Small plastic bags filled with food were being thrown into the water by passengers, the canoes manoeuvring to fish them out of the river and take home the goods.
We arrived in Belem to a full moon rising from the river, tremendously orange with the appearance of a bush fire sun, it slowly made its way up into the sky, looking magnificent in its splendour.
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