The Vagabonds

So, Venezuela was not as dangerous as I was led to expect: I have not been murdered even once. Yet.

However, due to the constant scaremongering peddled by locals, danger appeared to lurk around every corner. And indeed, it was only a matter of time before something serious happened.

Here is the scene: I was walking alongside a busy road – something resembling a dual-carriageway – in Central Caracas. It was 14:00. The sun was glowing and there appeared to be nothing to fear.

But then two policemen spotted me. They drove up alongside me on the pavement and asked for identification. Mere routine one would expect. I showed them my passport. This obviously did not suffice as their Laurel and Hardy routine began.
The more slender officer said “trust me” whilst the fatter one searched my bag. As a general rule, anybody who asks to be trusted is not to be trusted (c.f. Gandhi). They felt every part – every crevice – of my body, in what seemed to be no other than a rapacious desire for money. How do I know this? Well, the ordeal ended with them handing me back my money – or more specifically, $3 out of $30.
Trust obviously does not translate well from English into Venezuelan-Spanish. However, I am fortunate that I emptied my wallet shortly before leaving the flat earlier in the day, otherwise I would have lost over $100 more.

Apart from being mugged by the police, I quite enjoyed Caracas. I resided with Cheryl, an effusive 30-year old translator I found on Couchsurfing. She helped me navigate the city and the overflowing metro system which gives Beijing a run for its money (having to haul both my bags on to it at peak-time was a regrettable – and forgettable – experience).
The city´s tumultuous pace during the day gave way to a languid air in the evenings. This may be interpreted as an unwelcoming sign; either way, I did not wish to find out.

Before I left England, another person named Maria from Couchsurfing told me that they were going to visit Choroni, a nearby beach town over the weekend, and that I was invited to join her and her friends. As I was quite constrained for time, I did not intend to heed to this invite. However, on my second night in Caracas, the night before I was scheduled to leave, I happened to bump into her at a Metro station (N.B. Caracas has a population of at least 7 million). I spent the evening with Maria and her affable friends, two of whom were local musicians (one claimed that he was played by John Peel before he passed away). There, we agreed that we would leave for Choroni on Friday – the following evening.

However, once I had hauled my bags to Maria´s flat on Friday (following the aforementioned ill-fated metro journey), excuses abounded about how her friend, who was driving, was waiting to receive his pay-cheque and thus we could not leave until then.
As the evening progressed it was patent that I was not going to Choroni that evening. I was told that at the very least, we would be going the following day.
That night I went out for some drinks with Maria and two of her friends. One was an actor of the fagan/antagonist sort due to his rugged bad looks. It was a pleasant night; that is, until I returned back to Maria´s flat at which point she tried her utmost to, uhm, ´court´ me. Feigning that I had passed-out, I vowed to leave the following morning. All is well that ends well.

Fortunately, Maria had no interest in joining me in Choroni either (as, purportedly, her friend still had not received his pay-cheque).

So, off to Choroni I went. I was due to arrive at 18:00, but due to a combination of the rainy weather and a public celebration of some sort, the bus finally taxied at 19:30 in the isolated darkness of the bus station. I asked a group four people where Choroni is; bemused, they told me that this was it. Kindly, however, Sofia, Eduardo, Oriana and Geoffrey told me to follow them. Together we walked into the centre of the town where there was a teeming nightlife, resplendent with bellowing music. As my course had already been set though, I followed them on to a small motor-boat heading to Cepe, a quieter beach some twenty minutes away.

The journey there was one of my most memorable. I tried to explain to the entourage that I feared the combination of small-boats and darkness following my near-death experience in Varanasi, India whereby the manually-rowed boat was flung like a kite in the torrid waters. The waves here were no less forgiving. The boat dipped and crashed on the waves making it impossible for anybody to stay sat on their seats. I would suggest this as a new attraction at Blackpool Pleasure Beach to aid the park´s ailing fortunes, but it would not be legal (no, not even by the Pleasure Beach´s standards).

Once at Cepe we swam in the warm sea where the waves reached over five-feet high. Afterwards we sat talking around three candles Sofia had implanted into the sand. Then, when we all began to tire, they somehow fitted me into their four-person tent.

In the morning, knowing I was short of time, I left the group and visited another nearby beach town named Chuao. Chuao is renowned for making Venezuela´s finest chocolate. I treated myself to chocolate ice-cream and cake for breakfast; this is treading down a perilous path, I know, towards trying a Dixie´s Chicken in Manchester, but I think I can justify this on the grounds that I am in another country.

That evening I took a night-bus to Coro. However, rather than arriving at 4:30am as expected, it arrived at 2:00am. I took a taxi to from the bus station to the centre of the town where the Posadas (guesthouses) are located. Every one was closed. There was not even the faintest sign of life.

Exasperated, I returned to the bus station where I fell asleep. The good news is that I woke in the morning with my bags (although, I had instinctively wrapped my legs around them during the night). I returned to the centre in the morning and left my bags at the Casa Tun Tun posada. If anybody from Google had searched for Casa Tun Tun and is reading this, stay there: the owner is kind and helpful, and the rooms looked to be in good condition.

Coro itself was fairly languid. As it happens, I was there on Simon de Bolivar day (i.e. Independence Day), so whilst there were a few public processions taking place, most of the shops and stalls were closed.

In the evening I boarded another night-bus, this time to Merida. It started off badly as it played the opening jingle from a crass and suicide-inducing film named Marmaduke on repeat for at least half hour. Once that eventually resided I fell asleep and woke at 7:00am at Merdia´s bus station.

Merida is a university city with the accompanying liberal aura. It is engulfed by the Andes mountains; whilst I could scarcely see them when I first arrived due to thick cotton-wooled clouds, by the end of the evening the mountains began to emerge and it was a beautiful sight to behld.

In Merida I watched the Uruguay v Holland match at a local bar (a great game and a fair result I thought). More importantly, I went to Heladeria Coromoto which is the World Record Holder for featuring the most flavour´s of ice-cream. I decided to taste the rice-krispies and salmon flavours (just to spite you JK, AJ and Ros!). I am unsure whether it is a cause de celebre that the salmon flavour tasted of, well, salmon.

Tomorrow I am crossing into Colombia. Here is to hoping that I am not kidnapped…

Retrospective

So, what is my overall opinion of Venezuela? I think that a drawn-out metaphor is appropriate.
On the buses I boarded, music continously pulsated at a deafening volume. The music came in two forms. First, there was the Reggaton. This gives you an impression of what it sounds like:

In short, it is dreadful. The lyrics are also supposedly highly Misogynistic. As Geoffrey from Cepe explained, Reggaton is the result of a culture where sexual expressions have been restrained (if there was ever another reason to celebrate the advent of the pill, this is it).

Salsa is the other type of music perpetually played on buses. This is overloaded with exuberance; it is sensual but jovial.

So, reggaton represents the ominous side to Venezuela. It is pervasive and ugly. It is Machismo personified. However, I did not meet a single person who actually liked the bastardised form music. Conversely, most people and places I encountered were akin to Salsa. They smiled, laughed and had a genuinely friendly disposition. There was always a helping hand whenever somebody overhead me mumble “no hablo Espanyol”.

Let´s hope that the existence of Reggaton does not undermine the Salsa.

P.S. I forgot to bring the card reader for my camera. Hopefully I will find one in Bogota and upload my pictures in due course.
P.P.S. Comment by scrolling to the bottom of the page after either clicking the title to this post or by clicking HERE.

Update – Video and Photographs

Cheryl, her mother and Robbie

El Presidente speaks

Cepe Beach

Oriana, Geoffrey, Eduardo and Sofia

My lodging in Coro

World Cup fever in Merida

I kid you not

Backpacking lesson #42 – Invest in a good bag

Other pictures can be found at the link below:

South America

What the next hour, or two, shall entail is daunting. Negligence is not an excuse, but a fact. Every day, if only for a matter of seconds, I contemplated updating this blog. But as the content increased, so did my apathy, for fear of how long it would take to complete.
So, without further ado, let’s begin.

At some point, the pollution cleared, the smog disappeared (visibly that is, as, even during the Olympics, it will still linger in the air) and sun began to twinkle. That is irrelevant however. I must not digress; I must persist in writing only about how I spent the remainder of my stay in Beijing.

It was beautiful; love at first sight. As I waved the taxi down one Saturday morning, requesting to be transported to Beijing’s football stadium, I knew immediately that I had met a kindred spirit. The driver smiled, danced in his seat and to my eternal pleasure (his sweet hymns are still resonating in my ears), even sang too.
Oh what a contrast this was to the asphyxiating subway, which I had yet to endure. For, once I began studying for the International Relations course on China’s foreign policy, I had an interminable daily commute to Beida (Peking) University.
My routine:

• 06:45 am: Wake up
• 07:15 am: Leave Alice’s apartment. Purchase ‘balzer’ – steamed buns riddled with surprises ranging from meat to vegetables to nothing – for breakfast (hence the title of this post) whilst walking to Subway station
• 07:30 am: Arrive at the Subway’s Pink Line
• 07:45-50 am: Change to Blue Line
• 08:05-15 am: Change to Yellow Line. (This, is not a meagre task; it entails a ten minute walk, mostly up stairs, whilst jostling between hundreds of other eager commuters).
• 08:25 am: Arrive at Wudako station.
• 08:25/30/35/40/45/50/55 am: Find a taxi. Request/Insist/Demand/Beg that they drive to Beida University. (See below)
• Five minutes hence: Arrival!
• 15:30: Repeat

Now, business is business, one would assume. Not in Beijing. The commute to Wudako was debilitating; that I had to plead with most taxi drivers to actually accept my simple proposal was simply devastating. From Wudako station, Beida was a mere five minute drive, but thirty minute walk away. My legs, already scathing me for depriving them of sufficient rest, could not endure the latter. Moreover, that would have forced me to wake up thirty minutes earlier. Five hours of sleep is inadequate. Any less and I would have imploded from fatigue.

But, back to the bliss, before the Beida course began. Driving to the football station, the endearing taxi driver inserted his favourite cassette.
And then it happened: Years of childhood trauma came flooding back like a terrific torrent of denial. I thought, foolishly it seems, that those days were behind me. But they were not. He was back.
[MEDIA=2]
Too many days were wasted, ruined and desecrated by that pernicious monster. I despised how, thanks to my mother, I would have to wake up listening to John Denver and then continue to endure him throughout the commute to and from school, supper, sleep and so forth.
And now he was back in Beijing.
But how could I remain vexed at the taxi driver? He was sweet and affable; a real gentleman. So we embraced each other and sang a duet – he in broken English, me out of tune…
Did I write that I would not digress?

Okay, warning: Never, ever, even if for free, watch a Chinese football match. It may have potentially been an exhilarating affair. Beijing vs. Shanghai, replete with doting European footballers, Brazilians who did not quite make it to Spain, Italy or England (or even France for that matter) and a crowd of enthusiastic onlookers. Sunday league football however, has never been as appealing as during the ninety minutes I endured in Beijing. Shanghai eventually won. This was not because they were particularly adept or skillful. Rather, it was Beijing’s sheer ineptitude to even kick the ball out of their own half (I do not jest) that made the impending 3-0 obliteration inevitable.

Beijing was marked by several riveting nocturnal forays. First, there was the night at the Russian restaurant where we subsequently idly chatted through the night in a bar overlooking the ‘Drum and Bell Tower’. Emerging from the bar, the birds chirped and local residents were walking their dogs. It was time for breakfast…
There was also the reggae night, the European cup final (the prior three night’s, were, in fact, on three consecutive) and of course, the time I swam in Xihai lake with a group of Alice’s friends, as the sun rose from its nightly slumber.
This, of course, exacerbated my jet lag.
What made the aforementioned escapades so notable however was the people I met. Through Alice and her roommate Pete, Beijing’s expatriate scene was opened up to me. There were no pretensions and the overall milieu was mired with generosity. Unfortunately, 3/4 of the expats I met have since fled China due to the Olympics and the ongoing unremitting debacle.

Somewhere amongst this, I also visited the old Summer Palace. The grounds were elaborate and expansive, yet, not as exquisite as Beijing’s primary Summer Palace which I visited last year. This may be because the French and British ravaged and plundered the former during the Colonial era. Thus, it can remind the Chinese of their haphazard history and re-instill nationalist fervor.
At the old Summer Palace, whilst composing a photograph, I accidentally dropped the lens of my camera lens into a swamp. Was my subsequent anxiety rational? Of course not! Asian values salvaged the day! Upon discovering my ordeal, not one, not two…but a whole troupe of Chinese tourists strived to recover my loss. And they prevailed, but only after ten minutes of toiling in the marsh. It was embarrassing, yet endearing. This epitomises Chinese culture.

Beida University’s International Relations course was superb. My fellow classmates are best described as eclectic in both their respective backgrounds and personas. They spanned the globe and whilst some were informed and intuitive scholars, others were imbeciles (without wanting to name anybody, one person departed with 100 pounds to purchase a Mao suit).

As always, I become disillusioned with staring at a solitary screen for too long, and thus all enthusiasm to write dissipates from my mind. So, I apologise if this is too terse.
Following my the conclusion of the the Beida course, I left Beijing for Yangshuo. For regular readers (i.e. all three of you), you may remember (but most probably do not) that I visited Yangshuo last year. So, ‘why return?’, I hear you scream. Because, I hoped to teach Chinese migrants English for a short while.
The train journey to Yangshuo was unremarkable. However, ninety minutes before arrival, I met two Brits, Clare and Marcelo, who had been studying Mandarin at Beida for the past six months.
Auspiciously, they provided some respite from my exasperation upon discovering that the ‘migrants’ whom I was meant to be teaching, were actually affluent business people hoping to acquire competency in their English. With my flight departing Beijing on August 12th, time is scarce. I was livid.
Oh well, what the hell.
Yangshuo was as beautiful as I remembered it to be. At night, I ‘taught’ my students before meeting up with Clare and Marsello.
Notable on my final day, I woke early and met the Brits. We walked for several miles, leaving the town’s vicinity. Eventually we plunged into Yangshuo’s supple, shimmering river and swam back towards the town centre.
It was refreshing, invigorating and beautiful.
Only nothing can ever be perfect.
Mere minutes away from the shore, we encountered a pipe protruding from the water. It was disposing waste. So we clambered to the side and, following an audacious (and imprudent) climb up a steep cliff, we managed to escape.

Almost there…

My plan was simple. After agreeing to conduct research for Durham University’s geography department, I had to reach Xishuangbanna. Consequently, I hoped to board a bus to Guilin (approximately 45 minutes in transit) at 14:00 and book a ticket for the 16:55 train to Kunming (because Xishuangbanna does not possess a train station, I would subsequently board a bus to reach my destination). Of course, one could not anticipate that the bus would taxi at Yangshuo’s station for thirty minutes. Similarly, only a bold, brazen individual would predict that the bus would opt to refuel before reaching its destination, in an endeavour which would last thirty minutes.
But it did.
And hence, I was late.
Furthermore, after queuing a the train station for a further thirty minutes with the lofty hope of purchasing a ticket for the following day’s train, as I approached the counter, the clerk drew his curtains and hung a sign stating the desk was closed.
At this moment in time, for subliminal reasons which even now I am unable to discern, John Denver’s lyrics penetrated my mind.
Moping around the station, deliberating my options (return to Yangshuo? reside in Guilin? Board another train?) my first moment of luck materialised. A senile old lady, asked me, I assumed (she could not speak English) where I wanted to go.
“Kunming”.
“Bus”, she croaked.
And so she explained through various diagrams and exotic symbols: I should board her bus which will arrive at Nanning for 23:00 and once there, connect to another bus which should reach Kunming the following day at 12:00pm. Apprehensive that the kind, gentle lady may actually be a wicked witch determined to wrangle my money, I desperately rang Marcelo, asking him to clarify the situation in Mandarin with the woman. After speaking to her (this required three phone calls since even he was perplexed) he gave his grace to the deal.
I handed her my money and boarded the bus.

I am writing this entry in Xishuangbanna. The journey was not bereft of travails however. There was no connecting bus from Nanning to Kunming; I had to board the train. This was not a grave issue. That there were no ‘sleeper’ tickets available however, was. Restrained and resigned to destiny, I purchased a ‘hard seat’ instead. The name of the ticket was a misnomer however; there was no seat. I sat on the floor, my bag and later, perseverance rewarded me with the edge of a seat (my tailbone is still writhing). Oh, and the journey was not thirteen hours as the geriatric from Guilin averred, but nineteen. And once I arrived in Kunming, after a two hour break (a cherished prize), I boarded a bus to Xishuangbanna, which arrived nine hours later.

I am still in pain.

But, let’s hope that it was worthwhile…

My plan for tonight: Sleep.

My plan for tomorrow: Balzer for breakfast.