This reaction may be just some left over adrenaline from navigating Caracas in one piece but I'd like to think it's more a result of how my travelling has changed the way I think in terms of overcoming things which appear challenging but in reality, are a doddle. The vigour with which I rose this morning at nine to start phoning car insurers and the benefits office was astounding. I felt I was walking round in someone elses body. And what a great body.
Though James II is in his infancy, I know that only with time will I be able to see how the past seven months have affected me and changed me for the better. This stage maybe isn't as enjoyable as lounging in a hammock on the Amazon but it is a huge bonus that comes from travelling as going through the experience certainly seems to ignite a few redundant brain cells.
Enough praise for my new self for now, although this is my last post so I think I can be forgiven.
Back over in Colmbia, my journey home began last Wednesday from the town of Santa Marta where my walking stab vest (Paul) joined me for the four hour bus to a border town known on a map as Macao. Confronting us at the terminal was a literal shedload of seventies Chevys, waiting to taxi us over the border and into Neverland. I mean Venezuela.
At first I thought the retro cars were just some strange tourist gimmick but soon after I discovered it was far more bizarre than this.
In the rear of the white Chevrolet, my backpack actually looked quite petite in what was an abyss of American spaciousness. When I got seated, I squeezed up to allow in a couple of chicas from the other side who conversed with me in their lightning quick Venezuelan tongue under the deafening roar of the V8. I managed to understand enough however, like that we had to pay off immigration and then the National Guard so they wouldn't check our bags and let us get on our way. I also understood why there were so many Chevys, Fords and Chryslers from a bygone era and drinking fuel like thirsty horses. These people were poor but if a tank of petrol costs the same as a cup of coffee, then a depleted American muscle car is a great way to get around. And so I noticed around ninety percent of the population between the border and Maracaibo clearly felt the same. At times I actually experienced time travel in a very pure state and I loved it.
We touched down at the bus terminal in the late afternoon where we hung around for another three hours before stepping aboard the 8.30PM bus to Caracas. The journey was extremely pleasant although we did have to stop for security checks which involved x-raying all our lugguage and then the trip dragged on for another fourteen hours.
Caracas and I finally met at 11AM the following morning and ignoring the trusty guidebook, me and my companion hailed an unmarked cab. We weren't abducted, abused or stabbed but we were taken to our desired destination which did turn out to be a hostel/sex motel hybrid, as we'd been warned it was.
With our room not ready (I didn't want to know why), me and Paul left our belongings behind and under the instruction of the manager, set off onto the streets of Caracas armed only with passports, a little cash and lots of paranoia. We navigated things quite well although the notoriously corrupt police did give us an extremely exhuastive search, sticking their hands in every pocket without a hint of hesitation. I gave them nothing but a huge smile and thank you before ushering Paul along to join me for a hasty getaway.
Back at the love shack, we checked in to our cosy double room although I had cash missing and later started pointing fingers at the hostel staff for relieving me of my solitary twenty pounds. A few hours later I found it in my bag and happily apologised to the theiving Venezuelans.
On Friday morning, I took a final walk through the centre with an Aussie girl and even managed to take a few photos. Had I been robbed, I'd have offered her instead of the Kodak and run off a screaming mess.
At around lunchtime, I slung on my trusty backpack once more and together we rode the metro eight stops to Gato Negro then caught a thrity minute shuttle bus to the Simon Bolivar airport terminal.
At 6.50PM Venezuelan time, I left South American soil and started my return home.
The flight was exceptional as I had some superb in-flight food, red wine and a couple of cinema sessions including Avatar, although most of my enjoyment came from imagining it in 3D as opposed to actually enjoying what I was watching.
In Paris some eleven hours later I struggled to speak a word of French in my tired and confused Spanglish state but it mattered diddly squat as I was soon aboard my final flight back to Mancunia.
Though the original plan was to land back in time for summer, I had to check the date on my watch because as the plane doors opened, it felt like the depths of winter. Like crispy Autumn leaves flaking from the trees, my demi-tan will not last long in these climbs.
Consolation was found in sharing a pub meal and ale with the family, the African and the lady.
And now back in Dolphinholme, the memories are already beginning to fade but the impact will remain.
Hasta luego.
xxx
