The Vagabonds

I almost made it.

Until two days before my return flight to England, I had not been mugged since my last update. What a wonderful swan song for South America, I thought; it would be nice to leave on a high.

Instead, I broke a new record: two mugging attempts in two days, both in the same city, Buenos Aires. So, what savage attacks did I encounter this time?

The one on the final day was a wonderful parallel of the Quito experience, albeit sans the excrement. Whilst passing by the intersection dividing Florida Av with Peru Av (one of the city’s most commercial streets), I felt a drop on the back of my neck. As I felt my (now) moist hair, harrowing memories of flying shit reverberated around my mind. Looking at my hand, the liquid was charcoal coloured. It smelt of vinegar. Suspicious of what had happened, however, I continued to walk. Those tyrants had no idea that this was my fifth mugging experience in South America. I was now a seasoned veteran. And so I remained a bastion of coolness. On cue, as two women approached moments later asking to help, I turned, stuck up my nose and continued to walk nonchalantly down the street.
I would have called this a personal victory, but once I had returned to the hostel to shower, it was clear that the result was closer to a draw. My jumper was stained, as was my bag. At least vinegar is a more pleasant scent than shit.

The other mugging experience occurred the day before this. Again, I was walking in what is considered to be a safe neighbourhood named Recoleta. It was 14:00. Without initially noticing him, a man crossed the road a short distance ahead of me and then proceeded to walk directly up to me, staring intently into my eyes. He then began espousing Spanish rabidly, occasionally touching my jumper. As I pleaded with him to let me pass, he became more forceful, before beginning to actually grab hold of me. Throughout this, he had a hand concealed within one of his pockets – this may have been incidental, but it looked more like a threat. Then, somebody at the end of the block noticed this and began shouting towards us frantically. (It later transpired that this person had noticed what was happening and was telling guy grappling me to let go). Seeing a window of opportunity to escape, I broke free from the vagabond’s grip and turned around. Fortunately, at this moment, four people were stepping out of an apartment block so I positioned myself between them. The assailant ran away.

So, the good news is that I finished the trip without any scarring. That is bar from the indelible insect bites which run like fault-lines around my legs. The bad news is that South America clearly sees me as a victim.

Mugging memoirs aside, the end of the trip was exhilarating.

From Asuncion in Paraguay, I donned my rugged travelling cap and travelling long distances in a short space of time. I boarded a midnight bus to Encarnacion which arrived at 5am; I then took another bus the following morning at 2am, which arrived in Ciudad del Este at 7am. In other words, the GDL (law conversion course) exam period was such a memorable experience that I decided to replicate my sleeping patterns during that period whilst of holiday.
Encarnacion is renowned for the Jesuit ruins in nearby Jesus and Trinidad. Indeed, they were fascinating to see, particularly the latter due to their sheer scope. Encarnacion was also memorable for the 15:00 nap I took in its central plaza. Never has a power-nap been so fulfilling.
Ciudad del Este borders Brazil and Argentina, so it was an inevitable transit point for visiting Iguazu Falls. However, it also boasts one of Paraguay’s principal attractions: the Itapu Dam. Now, it should be noted that one can boast about something without reason – just think of Mcdonald’s healthy salads for instance, or Pakistan’s outstanding contributions towards cricket. The appeal of the Itapu Dam lies within its name: it is a dam. In other words, it is a vast slab of concrete which is about as interesting to behold as a checkout line in Tesco. That it is a symbol of national pride is shame – the country’s delectable chipa bread and affable people is worthy of more merit. At least the tour was free…

I subsequently visited Iguazu Falls, both from the Argentinian and Brazilian sides. The waterfalls are nestled amidst the rainforest and the sheer array of them, varying in size and force, is salubrious. Akin to Machu Picchu, there is little point in attempting to describe the beauty of the scenery. However, it can be stated that the perspectives offered by the Argentinian and Brazilian sides are incomparable: the former is more immersive and allows (much) more time to wander whereas the latter is shorter but more panoramic.

From Iguaza I took an overnight bus to Buenos Aires where I stayed for one night before travelling on to Uruguay. However, during this stopover I went to watch the local football derby between River Plate and Independiente. The football itself was superb, but a particular highlight had to be the Independiente supporter. This gent made a gesture towards the Home Team’s fans which can only be described along the lines as ‘suck on this’. However, this man was no person to make half-witted gesticulations. He stood there looking on towards the River Plate fans with his exposed penis flapping freely in the wind. I think that this was art imitating life.
You can watch the highlights of the match, which was won 3-2 by River Plate, here:

My first destination in Uruguay was Colonia, which is a mere one to three hours away from Buenos Aires (depending on which ferry you board). It was so compacted with riveting culture that I had seen everything worth seeing within two hours. There, I also ate Uruguay’s national ‘snack’ (or so they say):
Chivitos – I think you can find Evander Holyfield’s ear in there too.

Needless to say, I felt nauseous for the following three days.

Next, I visited the country’s capital, Montevideo which with its expansive coast line and quaint downtown area is gratifying to walk around. However, it must be noted how soulless the city becomes at night: I was there the night before Independence Day, and had been informed that the street would be flowing with throngs of merry and inebriated people – come 20:00, the only shops to be seen open were supermarkets, and the people there were certainly not embracing themselves for a convivial night.

Finally, I travelled back to Buenos Aires for my final five days. The city really is as memorable and monumental as I had been told to expect. It is a wonderful and vivid dissection of numerable cultures. The nocturnal lifestyle harks to the Brazilian Samba spirit of Eastern South-America; the elegant architecture and al-fresco dining mirrors Continental Europe; the fervorous mentalities of the people living there is South American. And the food: well, the food is steak, and the steak is distinctly Argentinian.
I saw a great deal in BA, yet this was still not enough. The experience was augmented by the people I met there too – the people in my hostel were diverse, interesting and sociable, and on my final night I also met up with a lovely group of American girls studying there who I initially stumbled across in Cordoba.

Whilst there, I also saw Fuerza Bruta which translates into Brute Force. It is a physical theatre show comprised upon four episodes which are all unique and breathtaking.

More importantly though, Fuerza Bruta provides the perfect analogy for my experiences in South America. Every day was unique and exhilarating. There was also a sinister, or even ominous, aura lurking underneath it. Whilst I would not go as far to say that this lends itself to the region’s charms – for I genuinely hope, for example, that the police in Venezuela do not remain corrupt, if only for the sake of the people living there – it certainly impacts the local cultures: they are at once open, forthcoming but forceful. The scenery and landscapes are perpetually panoramic, with new vistas emerging from every new kilometre travelled. All in all, it was a great experience. And I say that despite the muggings.

And hello Manchester.

Jesuit Ruins in Jesus

Itapu Dam – Now available in 3D

Iguazu Falls

Olé

One way to collect garbage in Montevideo

Don’t cry for me Argentina

South America

San Pedro Prison is located in central La Paz, the capital of Bolivia. Approximately 80% of the inmates are imprisoned for drug related purposes; the remainder have often committed more serious crimes, including murder.
The exterior of the prison is unremarkable. In fact, it looks roughshod and decaying. What makes San Pedro Prison unique, however, is what lurks inside. The outer perimeter is secured by armed guards; inside, the prisoners run riot (sometimes literally). Guards do not step foot inside. The prison is controlled by the prisoners.
The result is fascinating. It functions as a microcosm of society – a Capitalist one at that – with each prisoner having to find and perform a job for money. With this money they purchase cells and food live on. If they are unable – or unwilling – to work, they starve.

I did not visit the interior of San Pedro. There was a drug heist the week before I arrived in La Paz with Georgie; somebody trying to gain access for a tour attempted to smuggle in cocaine, so the ´unofficial´ tours which operate (by way of a bribe to the guards) were temporarily barred.

However, I did visit a prison of sorts whilst in La Paz.

Ladies and Gentleman, what could be worse than being mugged by the police, á la Caracas? Perhaps having shit thrown over you, as in Quito. Did something similar happen in La Paz? Fortunately not, but there was an ordeal. And guess what: it involved being mugged.

As it happens, I remarked to Georgie on that fateful day how safe I felt in La Paz. How droll. That day had already began with a brief panic over our travel plans as the south of Bolivia was ostensibly undergoing a minor revolution of sorts (more on that below). Sometime around midday whilst walking down La Paz´s main thoroughfare a woman tapped me on the shoulder and pointed at the unzipped pocket at the front of my bag. As a felt through the contents to see what was missing, she informed a nearby police guard. As I discovered that my mobile phone and diary had been diary, he told Georgie and me to wait.
So we did. And five minutes later he came marching back down, with reinforcements, and three people sullen looking people. The vagabonds had been arrested. On to the station we went.
One of the thieves – yes, I took a photograph of them being marched to the station

Down to the station we went, and the three tyrants were taken into a separate room as Georgie and I were told to wait outside. A farce then ensued. Phone upon phone was brought out from the room, but none were mine. Over eight must have been produced before finally, the chief policeman had an epiphany. He recruited three people and ventured outside to the streets. Soon afterwards, they had arrested another person. They took him into the small and damp room; minutes later, my phone appeared.

Great. Ready to go then? Not quite.

To retrieve my phone, we needed to go to the main police station to fill out a disclaimer form. The policeman also explained to Georgie (and thank God she was there throughout this to translate for me) that they needed this to formally arrest them, otherwise they would be let loose on the streets again without repercussions. So, in other words, we had a civic duty to perform for Bolivia. Viva!

We were in the main police station for around six hours. Bureaucracy prevailed as we were forced to wait. And wait. And wait. It was tedious. Moreover, there was a small-scale riot going on outside as some people were protesting over a tax rise. Tear gas was fired at one point. An array of bedraggled arrested people were fluctuating in and out of the station.

Three points made this whole saga infuriating. First, I scarcely cared about the phone. It cost me £10 from China and I only used it as an alarm. Second, my diary was never retrieved. The police did not care about it; a diary hardly has the same allure as a consumer item. The diary was inexplicably more important to me than the phone. Third, Georgie and I felt less like victims than prisoners. Once we were inside the station, we could not leave until the form was signed. Moreover, it did not help that there were actually prisoners locked up in cells in the floor below us.

The good news is that, eventually, the phone was handed back to me. Thank goodness for that.

So, what happened before and after this incident?

Rewind

In Peru, we travelled by bus from Ayacucho to Cusco which is the country´s cultural heartland. The views of the landscapes outside were stupendous. Unfortunately, a single song was played on repeat. Again and again. Over and over. And this was no normal song. Why no, it was no other than Sonia Morales!
“Who is Sonia Morales?” I hear the uncouth asking. Listen, lament and languish:

We spent our first few days visiting nearby inca sites. This was a nice preamble to the Inca Trail.

The Inca Trail itself was four days long. We were fortunate to be grouped with a fantastic and diverse array of people. The first day was simple; the second arduous as we stooped up steep inclines – and note that Georgie and I carried our own rucksacks; the third simpler; and the fourth euphoric. There is little point in describing the views. Have a look at my photographs, but even they do not do the trip justice; Machu Picchu in particular is a different sight to behold in person.
There were two slight setbacks to the trip though. The first involved Georgie: she was sick on the second night. The second involved me: I was sick on the third night and fourth day. It probably did not help that on the third day I carried a bulk of Georgie´s clothes in my own rucksack. If the law does not work out for me, there may be some work as porter as there…
The illnesses were not mild; for me at least, it was debilitating. Nevertheless, the phantom plague which almost certainly came from the food (or perhaps the quantity of it) did not mitigate the trip.

Following the Inca Trail we travelled down to Puno and Lake Titicana. The sheer immensity of the lake was impressive, although my sea sickness prevailed on the boat out to the islands. In Puno we also bumped into two people from our trip on the Inca Trail; that night for dinner I ate Alpaca. It was tepid and took about ten minutes to chew into a digestible format.

Fast Forward

Then, from Puno we went to La Paz. Apart from the mugging incident, the city was thriving and much nicer than we had anticipated. It did not help though that Bolivia´s independence day lurked around the corner.
Our plan was to travel south to a city called Potosi, and then onwards to Uyuni for a tour of Bolivia´s Salt Flat, also known as Salar de Uyuni.
There was, however, a problem.
A spectre was haunting Potosi, the spectre of Socialismo. The residents there were up in arms – quite literally – over a myriad of issues and they had instituted a roadblock. Nobody was going in or out. Passing buses were having bricks thrown at their windows, and, according to one account I read, all of the hostels were closed down to show their solidarity to the protesters (or fear of it). The Foreign Office is now advising against travelling there: That´s great and earnest advice, apart from for those already trapped there.
What were the people from Potosi demanding? Oh, only a few minor things including an international airport, new municipal borders and the nationalisation of the mining industry. Believe it or not, the conflict has yet to be resolved.

To fast-forward even further, once I had split from Georgie in Argentina, I hoped to visit the Salt Flats by entering the southern point of Bolivia. The day before I intended to take my bus to the border though, the protests had spread to Uyuni and an akin situation was taking hold there. Great.
More harrowing, the Mayor of Potosi had finally come out and declared that the roadblocks are the work of right-wing forces. How terrifying. How ominous. I can only imagine the type of thing he has in mind:

So, in short, I did not re-enter Bolivia.

Rewind again, and Georgie and I decided to travel to Chile instead. This was a safer route where there was no risk of being scorched.

We travelled to San Pedro de Atacama in northern Chile via Arica. The latter was only memorable for how unmemorable it was. In fact, my most vivid memory of the place – and I am sure it is the same with Georgie – is of how many banks there were, and how none were allowing Georgie to withdraw money. What place. It may be the world´s next Capital of Culture.

San Pedro, on the other hand, was superb. The town itself is a dusty outpost in the desert, but the surrounding scenery is salubrious. On one night we went out into the desert to stargaze. It was like being trapped in a dome as stars engulfed the sky in an uninterrupted arc. The tour had been organised by a French astronomer who has set up seven telescopes amidst the arid landscapes; to see thousands of stars clustered together has the effect of making life feel (paradoxically) transcendingly diminutive. Eat that Wordsworth.
The following morning we also visited the El Tatio Geysers from San Pedro. It was -15 degrees outside and I felt like an icicle. Fortunately, hot springs were around the corner which provided a welcome respite.

Down from San Pedro we went to Santiago and Valparaiso. Both were interesting cities – with the latter adopting more bohemian streetscapes – which would have been even more enjoyable in the sunshine. Remember: The further south we travelled, the further we are plunging into the depths of Winter. It is not that cold though.

From Santiago we crossed the Andes (in what was another memorable bus journey) into Mendoza, Argentina´s wine region. Unsurprisingly, we went wine tasting there – On a bike. Literally, we cycled around and visited three wineries, becoming progressively more inebriated. As Georgie had to travel onwards to Buenos Aires to catch her flight home, we also indulged on a munificent meal in Mendoza. The steak was the size of my plate. It spoke to me and said: Welcome to Argentina.

So, I took a bus to Cordoba, alone for the first time in four weeks. Cordoba is supposedly Argentina´s second City with a thriving nightlife, but it was fairly insipid. I had been told that this was due to the Winter season. I had a great time there though: one night, when walking to fill up my hot water bottle for bed (yes, I have a hot water bottle and it is the best investment I have made on this trip), the owner demanded I sit down next to him. Why was I so cold he asked? He then produced a bottle of Bolivian rum and insisted I drank a glass. More people joined including a guy from Buenos Aires who knew more about the Manchester music scene than Morrissey – not that anybody would want to talk to Morrissey, that miserable bastard.

After Cordoba I went to Paraguay via Salta in Argentina. Salta looked like (to use a lazy metaphor) salt. I climbed a hill there during my seven hour stopover and the city was shimmering in its pristine whiteness. I decided not to stay for longer though as I would have been required to take a tour, and I feel as if I have seen enough superlative scenery already to not be able to justify spending more money.

Arriving in Asuncion, the capital of Paraguay, was a shock. The buses looked familiar. And this is what I thought: Welcome back, to Caracas.
But I was wrong. Asuncion was more akin to a tranquil La Paz. The downtown area is walkable and pleasant and I have had a great time here. Arguably, I also saw the most beautiful sunset of the trip this evening as I took a bus to Lambare where there is a hill which overlooks Asuncion.

So, that is it for now. I have bus this evening to Enarcion and will probably be in Paraguay for two or three more days. The end of the trip is beckoning as I have a clear idea of each and every destination I will be visiting.

Here is to hoping that I do not get mugged again!

P.S. My pictures have been updated up to San Pedro de Atacama. I should be updating the rest by Friday.
P.P.S. Comment if you want, please, by clicking the topic or HERE


An idea of what is going on in Potosi

Ayacucho

Inca Ruins at Sexywoman (or at least, that is how you pronounce the name)

The future of the Labour Party starts in…Cusco?

Inca Trail

Machu Picchu

Protest in La Paz

More Pictures:

South America

In 1970, the captain of England´s football team, Bobby Moore, was arrested in Colombia under the false premise that he had stolen an expensive bracelet from a jeweller. In retrospect, he probably got off lightly.

When I was in Quito, the capital of Ecuador, something worse – much, much worse – happened. I was walking around the Old Town; an area renowned for archaic architecture. It was midday. I was near the Plaza Grande which could be called Quito´s equivalent to Trafalgar Square. In other words, it is the centre of the city, bustling with tourists and, supposedly, security.

So, picture this: There I was, minding my own business, when I felt something fall on my left arm. As I looked down, I felt something in my hair and the bottom of my legs. It was brown and fluid. ´Surely not´ I thought. But my worse fears were true: as I gathered a dollop of the substance in my hair and steeped down to smell it, it became clear that I had been attacked by shit – literally, faeces.

Before I had time to orientate myself, somebody was ushering me into a shop with a tissue, telling me to clean myself. ´How kind´ I thought. ´What a mensc h´. But he seemed awfully persistent in telling me to take off my bag (which I must add, also had excrement running down it). When I eventually did, he seemed to want to take it away. As I protested, another man swooped past the shop – which had no doors – and tried to snatch my bag. When I firmly took it back, he began shouting at me in Spanish, presumably complaining about the mess I had made.

In despair, I fled the shop and walked to a nearby square where I began to clean myself with wipes I had in my bag. I must have been looking away for less than three seconds before someone else tried to steal my bag.

So there I was, with shit infesting all over me, and it seemed as if the whole of Quito had their eyes gleaming over my bag. My guidebook states that The Old Town “is what makes Quito special in terms of sightseeing.” How so.

Even now, I am unsure whether Venezuela or Ecuador has the worse capital city. On the one hand, in Venezuela, the police mugged me. On the other hand, they did not throw shit over me.

I subsequently learned that it is a common ploy in Quito for thieves to throw mustard over unassuming tourists, hoping that they can snatch their bag amidst the locomotion. I obviously received the professional treatment.

The good news, at least, is that I still have my bag.

Things seemed to be going fine before the curious incident of the faeces in the day-time incident. Bogota, the capital of Colombia, was pleasant to walk around – or at least the Downtown area was. It has spacious plazas juxtaposing with nearby cobbled streets and the city seemed to have a thriving purpose without ever feeling unsafe.

I embarked on a daytrip to the Zipaquira Salt Cathedral with Roland, a friend of Cheryl´s from Caracas. In comparison to the solemn and striking sight of the cathedral buried underground – which despite being somewhat of a tourist trap was fascinating to behold – Roland was a boisterous and gregarious guy to spend the day with. We also ate the best steak I can ever recall laying my eyes upon (not that I eat steak often, mind you).

That evening I trawled my bags across the city to meet Roland and his friends in a thriving area of Bogota before leaving for Medellin. The conversation was interesting until one friend, Wilder, began screaming and flailing that I must leave ´now´ – as in that second – in order to catch my bus. So hurried into a taxi with Roland´s and Wilder´s support and soon was on my way out of Bogota.

Medellin is the most interesting, diverse and beautiful city I have hitherto visited on this trip. It is also, coincidentally or not, the plastic-surgery capital of the world. Each of the city´s districts had a unique vibe, ranging from the spacious commercial centre to the leafy resort-like El Pobaldo. The highlight was undoubtedly Puiblito Paisa – a viewpoint offering picturesque viewpoints over the city.

After Medellin I visited Salento which is in the heart of Coffee Country. Salento itself was a quaint hamlet which has based its economy upon tourism. The highlight, however, came when I trekked through the thickets of forestry in Cacora Parque alone. The Parque had numerable rickety bridges without support which you had to cross over small but gushing river streams; thankfully, my balance whilst trekking is better than whilst playing football and I managed to not to fall.

On the walk back I also met Dave and Becks, an affable couple from Ireland who have the most unique plans I have yet to encounter: in a few months time they will be volunteering for a year in northern Canada to help support the Inuit tribes there. And who says backpacking has lost its de rigueur!
Later that day I also toured a coffee farm. The views were blissful; the coffee was average. I guess it shows: I miss my chai.

Then, I went to Quito.

My main reason for going to Ecuador was to visit the Amazon Rainforest before meeting up with Georgie (King) in Peru´s capital, Lima. Short of time, I realised that I had to book my ongoing bus to Lima in advance. However, whilst the travel agency guaranteed that I would be able to visit the Amazon and arrive in Quito in time to reach my connecting bus to the border four days later, it later transpired that this was not viable. Thus, I had to run around the New Town – not the safest of places at the best of times (although, there is seemingly never a best of time there) – trying to find an alternative bus company to travel with. This also happened to be on the day I had shit thrown over me. It was also raining. Heavily. Never have I encountered pathetic fallacy personified so acutely.

Besides the incident in Quito – you should know which one I am referring to by now – it was still a ghastly city. It never bodes well when locals incessantly warn you not to take any valuables, or much else, out with you. Even in the New Town, outside of one small square with upmarket bars (and by small, I am referring to something no larger than the size of lorry truck), the city had a pernicious and perilous air. It seemed as if I was under siege.

Outside of Quito though, Ecuador seemed more pleasant. I hiked up to the bottom of the glacier of Mount Cotopaxi – Ecuador´s highest active volcano.
The Amazon Rainforest was also beautiful. I visited the area in the Oriente part of Ecuador – or more specifically, Cuyabeno. There, I saw an array of wildlife including anacondas and monkeys, fished for piranha, walked through the jungle in the day and night and swam in a warm lagoon with Caiman lurking underneath. The four days passed quickly, not least because of Robert, a towering and confident, but considerate German student who had spent the past year in Quito.
Back in Quito, I managed to arrive in time for my bus to Guayaquil, which I cannot comment upon bar its magnificent bus terminal. From there, I took another bus to the border and onwards to Lima. I had been travelling for close to 48 hours by the time I arrived. Hoorah!

Lima, despite the plethora of pitiful descriptions of it I had heard, was nice. The downtown district was industrial, but I never felt unsafe and it had a pleasant aura about it despite the blaring traffic. Miraflores, the area where I resided, was as safe as a remote Fijian island.
Georgie arrived on time and immediately it became clear how bereft I was without speaking Spanish.

We spent the following day in Lima before taking a luxurious bus (sans the bellowing baby which threw up in the middle of the night) to Ayacucho where we are now.
Cusco tomorrow, then the Inca Trail, then who knows. Time is short. But everything is great. Bar the flying shit, that is.

P.S. Comment by scrolling to the bottom of the page after either clicking the title to this post or by clicking HERE.

P.P.S. After my first post from this trip, I have received several threats from people in Venezuela due to my recollection of the ´courting´ incident. They told me never to write about Venezuela or Caracas again. So, I will not. Instead, here is the better part of the last message they sent to me:

“The worst is that u dare to make laugh of me…. Yes, i know what`s mean Court, also, my english friends, who by the way are real gentleman, read ur blog! also the comment of ur friends about me trying utmost to court you!
So, this is my advise, delete everything about Caracas written by u….. everything!
If we (me, my mother, my venezuelam friends, my friends all over the world) find a little word about Caracas, about me, my friends will go to the police in england!
They also will go to The low College, to ur work… they gonna say how ungratefull you are!
Do never write to my friends! never! never to anybody about me! never about Caracas!
Do as u never had been here.
Cause the world is smaller than u think, and if u continue saying things about me… MY friends will kick ur ass and this time u will PASS OUT! REALLY, U WONT NEED ACT.
u don´t know whith who u got troubles, im a lovely girl who have friends around the globe.”

Happy days.

Downtown Bogota

This is made from salt – Zipaquira Salt Cathedral

Roland and Co.

Medellin

The PC is unfortunately running too slowly to add more pictures to this post. View the gallery here:

South America

The border crossing from Venezuela into Colombia was seamless. Here are a few observations of the politik sort:

This is the first border crossing I have encountered which was entirely optional. You could just walk from one side to the other. Actually, had I taken a taxi or bus, it would have driven straight through the crossing, so I would not have even had the option. The administrative buildings were set aside and whether you have your passport stamped or not is up to your own volition.
Thus, A to the J’s advice from the previous post that I ought to hide my talcum powder in my socks was made redundant. Had I so chosen, I could have transported a cow to the other side without any interference. In fact, I could have ridden the cow like a donkey whilst singing the theme tune to Countdown and nobody would have even blinked an eyelid.

A small community resides within the No-Man’s Land between the two borders. They are, literally, stateless people. They were also impoverished. Never has Reagan’s dictum that ‘government is not the solution to our problem; government is the problem’ been so readily disproved.

Petrol in Venezuela is significantly cheaper. Accordingly, there is a bustling trade on the streets of the Colombian side of the border selling cheap Venezuelan petrol without the hassle of crossing the bridge separating the two countries. This is done under the (un)watchful eyes of the border guards.

At 9pm, my bus to Bogota stopped in an area named Pamplona. Within thirty minutes, approximately thirty buses had joined us. For the next step of the journey, we formed a motorcade led by the police. This was as a protective measure against the FARC terrorist organisation which has a penchant for kidnapping people.

Spot the difference: Upon arriving in Bogota, a police officer asked me where I was going; he then proceeded to follow me. In Caracas, the police spotted me and followed me too.
Answer: In Bogota, the policeman was making sure that I reached my destination safely and easily; in Caracas the police had no interest in what I was doing – they wanted my money.

P.S. I have also updated the post below with pictures and a video.

Motorcade
From South America Photo Album