VENEZUELA
2 487 Km – 46 Days
24 January – 10 March
2012
MAP
PHOTOS
E-BOOK
24
January - Indiu Village, Brazil – Santa Elena, Venezuela - 40 km
By
early morning, the weather was already scorching and, as more hills waited, I departed
while Ernest was still getting ready.
A
slow climb of a near 1,000 metres in sweltering heat led up to the Gran Sabana
plateau, Pacaraima (the border), and Santa Helena in Venezuela. At Pacaraima, I
purchased more Brazilian coffee, which became a firm favourite during our Brazilian
travels.
Concerned
about my Brazilian visa, which had expired 16 days previously, I wasn’t sure
what the procedure would be. Luckily, the fine of 132 reals was only payable on
re-entry into Brazil. This was great news, as the more cash one could take into
Venezuela, the better. At the time of our visit, changing money on the street was
twice as good as drawing from an ATM.
Once
immigration was cleared, a short cycle took us into the touristy border town of
Santa Helena. Being the starting point for people who wanted to climb Mount
Roraima, the town offered plenty of accommodation. The trek would’ve been great,
but my cycling partner wasn’t one for such ventures.
25
January - Santa Elena
Upon
crossing the border into Venezuela, the first thing I noticed was the cars. Old,
fuel-guzzling monsters bounced along at a snail’s pace. Venezuela had the lowest
petrol price per litre globally, and the fuel price was thus no major concern.
The
lack of infrastructure was surprising, and one could scarcely believe that in
the 1920s Venezuela was the world’s largest oil exporter. At the time of
writing, Venezuela, with 300,878 million barrels of proven reserves, had the
largest amount of proven oil reserves in the world. This meant Venezuela was a
country with vast wealth, and this wasn’t “new money” as they had it for the
past 100 years!
The
next day was spent in Santa Elena. The weather was scorching as the rainy
season had ended. I feared this meant we had missed any chance of rain cooling
us down. The day was spent doing the usual housekeeping and obtaining a
Venezuelan SIM card.
26
January - Santa Elena – San Francisco - 71 km
The
following morning, the map indicated a route north through the Gran Sabana
National Park and showed a few hamlets scattered about. However, we soon learnt
the map couldn’t be trusted. Even the shortest distances were wrong, and place
names didn’t correspond with signboards.
Still,
the landscape remained stunning with the road disappearing over the Gran
Sabana’s grassy hills (Great Plains). The scenery and wide-open spaces reminded
me of Africa. Still, it was utterly different from the Amazon basin we had come
from. Numerous photo stops were made or, at times, purely to admire the views. The
park was massive and included both Angel Falls and Mt Roraima. Much of the park
was characterised by wide-open savannah, scattered with Moriche palms (the palm
tree with a thousand uses). The park was indeed a unique area. It’s situated atop
a plateau of the Guyana Shield, one of the world’s oldest geological
formations, dating back over two billion years to the Pre-Cambric era. The park
was further known for its tabletop mountains, some of the oldest landforms on Earth,
created long before the continents drifted apart. I found those numbers mind-boggling.
27
January - San Francesco - Waterfall - 53 km
Waking
under rustling Moriche palms was something special, but it meant one more day
of biking into the wind. Following a leisurely start, we journeyed onward into
the wind. Our route continued through the National Park, dotted by grassy
hills, waterfalls and indigenous settlements. We called it a day after spotting
comfortable accommodation sporting huts, lush lawns, and a lovely waterfall.
By
evening, a Czech cyclist also pulled in. He was in the process of travelling from
Alaska to Ushuaia and had been riding for seven months. There was a considerable
amount of jabbering until the lights went out at around 9 p.m. At least I could
charge the laptop and write my journal before losing power.
28
January - Waterfall - Las Claritas - 120 km
Mercifully,
the cloudy weather gave relief from the heat as the path continued over more
hills. Arriving at the end of the National Park, the grasslands ended abruptly.
The way climbed up to the high point through thick and dense forest. Reaching
the forest line, the weather came in and it started raining, which lasted for the
rest of the day.
I
cycled like a person possessed. I pulled my cap low, and climbed higher and
higher up and over the ridge. While the rain bucketed down, people in passing
cars cheered me on, most likely thinking me quite mad. Once over the high
point, the road descended to the small mining community of Las Claritas. Frozen,
and teeth chattering, I sped downhill and was happy to reach level ground, and
even a slight incline where one could start pedalling to warm up.
I
only saw Ernest once at around the 30-kilometre mark, and once in Las Claritas,
I located a guesthouse which turned out a disappointment. The room was pricey, the
shower was cold, and the water ran out. Virtually nothing worked. At least the
power didn’t go off, and one could close the door to ward off the midges. By then,
I was covered in bumps - from my scalp to my toes. Amazingly, I discovered antihistamine
tablets in one of my panniers, which took the edge off the itching.
Places
like Las Claritas were novel villages to overnight. The community resembled
something from a Wild West movie. The main thoroughfare was a muddy, potholed
street, where old cars bounced along, spewing black fumes, and where barbers did
business under rickety, corrugated shelters. The entire road was a tad of a
shantytown where each man and his dog had a leaking shop, selling anything from
toilet paper to sweets.
Ernest,
again, had bike problems, highly likely due to his overloaded bicycle, and
needed to do maintenance. We, consequently, had to stay yet one more day.
30
January - La Claritas – El Dorado - 90 km
As
always, when in a new country, nearly all things come as a surprise. In
Venezuela, the amount of trash alongside the road was astonishing. The no-mans-land
next to the highways appeared solely for discarding empty beer cans. Secondly, the
lack of infrastructure was shocking for such a wealthy country. Trucks still
delivered water to houses in villages. In a country receiving that much rain, practically
no one had a water tank to harvest rainwater. It, thus, came as no surprise to
find taps dry, and no one seemed perturbed by it. The Boiling Frog Syndrome sprang to mind.
Our
route ran through densely forested areas with light traffic, making chatting
while riding possible, not something that happens every day. Ruta 10 was wide and
featured a good shoulder but, sadly, it soon became overgrown and relatively
narrow. Road maintenance didn’t appear high on the Venezuelan agenda. The lack
of infrastructure was a surprise after spending such a long time in well-organised
Brazil.
Following
90 kilometres of biking, El Dorado made for a convenient overnight stop. Being another
typical Venezuelan town, the centre appeared disorganised, revealing muddy,
potholed streets, a small market and a central square. A few Chinese-run shops lined
the street and old V8 cars were lined up at the petrol station. The queue
extended from the start of the village, along the main drag, and into the
petrol station!
The
guesthouse we located couldn’t have been more basic. The room had a cement-screed
floor, a hole in the wall as a window and two wobbly, sagging beds. The bathroom
had no water and was useless. It, however, had a TV offering one English channel.
One could only laugh, and I quite enjoyed the craziness of it all.
The
name, however, conjured up images of the search to find gold in the mythical
place of El Dorado. Remarkably, El Dorado was indeed situated in the centre of
an immense basin containing a large amount of gold deposits. Over the past
centuries, many came to find their fortune.
31
January - El Dorado – Tumeremo - 71 km
It
rained on emerging, rain that continued through the day. Cycling was thus quite
enjoyable, as I enjoy cycling in a drizzle. The weather cleared shortly before we
reached the small mining town of Tumeremo. More dark clouds loomed ahead, and
we wisely opted for accommodation. It was a good thing too, as no sooner were
the bikes unloaded when the rain came bucketing down. I was happy to see the
rainy season wasn’t over, as it brought a welcome relief from the heat.
I
dashed to the bakery, and bought fresh bread and ingredients to make soup. Afterwards,
Ernest peeled, chopped, and cooked vegetable soup which we ate with bread.
In
subsequent years, sleepy Tumeremo became infamous for two massacres in the
town. On 8 March 2016, 28 miners were kidnapped and murdered. However,
according to reports, the National Armed Forces and the CICPC claimed no
evidence of any such massacre or confrontation could be found. The governor of
Bolívar state declared: “There wasn’t a single thing to show they’ve died or
been massacred.” In October 2018, another massacre occurred, and, this time, a
Colombian guerrilla group was held responsible for the murders.
1
February - Tumeremo – Guasipati - 61 km
Guasipati
was a short cycle away and an additional settlement whose economy depended heavily
on gold. Though we encountered more rain, the ride remained scenic. The traffic
sometimes scared me, as vehicles drove only at top speed. Nothing slowed them,
neither potholes nor sharp corners. They flew past, squeezing between us and
oncoming traffic at high speed.
Guasipati
didn’t look like much, and one could barely believe that in 1853 “the richest
gold mines in the world” were discovered there. But unfortunately, no sign of
its former glory remained.
2
February - Guasipati – Upata - 101 km
The
100 kilometres to Upata were, yet again, enjoyable. Our path wound over hills
and through forests until arriving in Upata. Once in Upata, we headed to the
supermarket, as usual. By then, we were used to receiving a few stares, but I
didn't know what to answer when asked if I was a hippie. LOL!
3
February - Upata – Roadside restaurant - 107 km
Ernest
had stomach problems and wasn’t feeling well but wanted to continue. At last, a
wide shoulder made it comfortable biking. Vendors sold massive pieces of crackling,
obviously a favourite in that part of the world. Still, I couldn’t imagine
eating such a thing.
We
continued past Cuidad Guayana until reaching a restaurant sporting a shelter that
made an excellent overnight spot. Albeit closed, the restaurant owner generously
brought us each a massive plate of food. Then, preparing to crawl into our
tents, not merely the dogs but also the cats and chickens, settled around us.
4-6
February - Roadside restaurant – Cuidad Bolivar - 71 km
I
departed long before Ernest as he was too slow in packing up. However, the ride
to Bolivar was comfortable and came with a tailwind. Halfway, a truck stopped
and out jumped two friendly guys from Caracas. They took a few pictures, gave
me a cap and continued with their journey.
The
day became an amble, and I enjoyed the views and stopped a few times for coffee.
Finally, at the turn-off to Bolivar, I waited until Ernest caught up before we biked
into the city.
Bolivar’s
old historic centre features a lovely plaza and equally charming, renovated
buildings. However, the town centre was atop a steep hill and accessed via
cobblestone streets. Walking the bicycle up the hill we were lucky to find a
small pousada behind the cathedral.
The
following day was spent exploring the historic centre with its gorgeous
ensemble of brightly painted colonial buildings, shady squares and the famous
Paseo Orinoco overlooking the Orinoco River. The town was named after Simon
Bolívar, Venezuela’s independence hero. Unfortunately, being Sunday, it seemed the
entire village had closed—however, a need to use the internet ensured we stayed
one more day.
7
February - Cuidad Bolivar - Tollgate truck stop - 95 km
I
was reluctant to leave our cosy accommodation, but it was time to move along. The
map indicated 120 kilometres to El Tigre. Armed with this information, we descended
the steep hill to the river and left Bolivar via a substantial bridge over the
Orinoco River.
Fifteen
kilometres out of Cuidad Bolivar, a sign indicated El Tigre was 165 kilometres
away, making it a total distance of 185 kilometres. I wondered what happened to
the 120 kilometres indicated. At sunset, a toll gate appeared, providing a spot
to pitch the tents. A toll gate has never made the best spot to overnight and this
one was no different. It was noisy with a strong oil smell, but water and
toilets were available, and a few street vendors provided food.
8
February - Tollgate truck stop – Anaco - 108 km
As
one can imagine, there’s no sleeping late at a truck stop, and we were up and
away early. Plenty of rusty shrines lined the road, which didn’t come as a
surprise, considering how Venezuelans drove.
Vendors
sold interesting nibbles, mainly cassava flatbread made from the cassava root.
The bread was immensely popular and accompanied most dishes. However, I considered
it slightly dry and chewy.
This
must’ve been a day for things to break. Not only did my front hub appear to be at
the end of its life, but one of my sandals also gave in, and it wasn’t like I
had another pair. Fortunately, cable ties did the job, and I hoped it would see
me through to the next big town.
9-11
February - Anaco – Barcelona - 90 km
Barcelona
turned out more fascinating than anticipated. Founded in 1671, the centre was
graced by an ensemble of old colonial buildings and churches. The bustling pedestrian
mall was crammed with clothing traders and delicious-looking food.
That
evening, while looking at the map, it dawned upon me that I had crossed yet one
more continent. South America took a while, but I finally arrived at the Caribbean
coast of Venezuela.
12
February - Barcelona - Puerto Píritu - 60 km
The
60 kilometres between Barcelona and Puerto Piritu was peppered with carts,
selling freshly-baked pies, and quite impossible to resist. A short ride took
us to Puerto Píritu, and I had my first glimpse of the Caribbean Sea. As anticipated,
the coast revealed the obligatory palm trees and hammocks.
Staying
right on the Caribbean coast would’ve been the cherry on the cake, but lodging
was more challenging than foreseen and, in the end, we settled for digs in one
of the alleys. Rooms were rented by the hour, and customers were coming and
going all night, precisely on the hour.
Instead
of listening to our next-door lovers’ oohs and aahs, I walked to the lagoon and
was rewarded with a gorgeous sunset. Brown pelicans descended upon the quayside
where fishermen cleaned fish, waiting their turn for bits thrown their way.
13
February - Puerto Píritu – Cupira - 104 km
The
way to Cupira was lush and green and, as expected, overgrown and narrow. I love
the tropics and enjoy the heat and humidity, but I didn’t appreciate the many snakes
basking in the sun.
Cupira
came after 104 kilometres, and the town centre was merely a few kilometres
further. As with many of these towns, the centre was utterly hectic. Still, we
were warming to the chaos and managed to find a lovely pousada that was ever-so
homely.
14
February - Cupira – Caucagua - 101 km
Even
though a mountainous area, the route was stunning. Villagers sold cacao and
thinking “chocolate” it wasn’t as tasty as I envisaged. In fact, it was
extremely bitter, which made its popularity even more surprising.
Caucagua
was situated atop a hill, and a narrow cobblestoned path led to the (anticipated)
chaotic town centre. There wasn’t anything of interest, and we returned to the
turn-off. The petrol station at the junction offered toilets as well as a few
shops and at first looked good enough to spend the night. The place, however, turned
out extremely noisy, with a strong smell of pee, and easily one of the worst
places I had ever pitched a tent. If that wasn’t enough, people warned us that
it could be dangerous and that one could be robbed or, even worse, killed at
night! We set up the tents anyhow.
15
February - Caucagua – Higuerote - 46 km
By
morning I was relieved to wake without being robbed, shot, or anything warned
about.
The
stretch over the mountains to Higuerote was a short and pleasant one. The state
of the cars astounded me: old rust buckets bounced along without shocks and I
thought it quite astounding they were still going.
16
February - Higuerote
As
usual, Ernest took forever to get ready (he was dreadfully slow in the
mornings). Waiting, I updated my travel log at the little table outside our abode.
The pousada had a charming courtyard, even though builders worked on the upper
floor. I popped inside for a minute and upon returning, discovered my notebook
gone!
I
was understandably upset as nearly all my recent pictures and journal was stored
on the laptop. Everyone was running about trying to locate the culprit –
presumably one of the workers – but he was long gone, and I’m sure never to
return.
I
went to the shop, bought a new notebook and modem, and spent the rest of the
day loading programs.
17
February - Higuerote – Chuspa - 40 km
The
modem I bought was faulty which required returning to the computer shop. Solving
the problem involved downloading a program. I returned to the guesthouse,
packed up and on departing collected the laptop.
As
a result, the time was past 11h00 before getting underway, in a westerly
direction. Soon the path deteriorated and later vanished altogether. The track
became muddy and offered no bridges across rivers. Luckily, the rivers were
small, and one could walk the bikes across. But, unknowingly, the worst was
still to come. Cars and motorbikes wisely turned around, leaving only 4-wheel
drive vehicles and us. This should’ve been enough to make any logical person
follow suit. Still, we weren’t rational and persevered along an almost
impassable track.
I
became utterly bogged down at one stage as the sinking mud sucked me and the bicycle
in. Dragging the bike, my feet pulled out the sandals which then disappeared
into the sinking mud. After spending time retrieving the sandals, I proceeded barefoot
through the slippery mess.
Slinking
into Chuspa was past 16h00, and searching for lodging made it even more tricky
as Chuspa was a teeny seaside settlement in the midst of celebrating carnival
week. The village was packed and the rooms full. People were in a festive mood
and all wanted to help find lodging. Finally, with holidaymakers’ help, we
located a lovely guesthouse with five bedrooms around a tiny, pleasant
courtyard.
18
February - Chuspa – Naiguata - 64 km
The
stretch between Chuspa and Naiguata was barely 65 kilometres and was initially
surprising and innocent-looking, and the day started promising. Soon, however, the
path started climbing and I wheezed my way up the near-vertical inclines
through the thick and dense forest.
In
hot and humid weather, the road climbed hill upon hill, only to descend sharply
to the ocean and then lead straight up the mountain once more. If not so stunning,
one could’ve had a severe sense of humour failure. However, while challenging biking,
the views were spectacular. This was, after all, Venezuela’s Caribbean Coast.
When
authorities make grooves in the road surface to prevent vehicles from sliding
when going up or down, it’s steep! Even cars and motorbikes had difficulty
encountering these hills. A man having his car towed away burst out laughing
when he saw us wrestling our bikes up the same hill his vehicle couldn’t. All
in all, it was a tough day, and on top of that, I had three flat tyres, and
Ernest two! Crawling into Naiguata, people were astounded to learn where we came
from. The coastal route was clearly not the one taken by the majority.
Being
carnival week, stacks of people were out enjoying the holidays, and it was fun
camping on the beach amongst other holidaymakers. Music was going full-blast through
the night, and I thought it amazing that a car battery could last that long. The
music resembled the battle of the bands as each group had its music.
19
February - Naiguata – Maiquetia - 27 km
Packing
up was slow as the festival atmosphere created a relaxed mood. The path levelled
out, making it easy cruising along the coast to where the road veered inland
over the mountains to Caracas. Traffic was horrendous and bumper to bumper. However,
people were in a good mood, dressed in colourful wigs and spraying us with foam
as we negotiated the traffic.
Instead
of tackling the climb to Caracas in the carnival traffic, I considered it
better to find lodging and continue in the morning. Locating accommodation was,
however, more difficult than anticipated. It took hours to find an abode but we
managed in the end. The place even had hot water, something we haven’t had in
quite some time. By then, there were seven inner tubes to fix, and Ernest set
to work immediately.
20-21
February - Maiquetia – Caracas - 37 km
Although
a short distance from the coast to Caracas, it provided a steady climb in oppressing
heat, making riding exhausting. Mercifully, we travelled against the traffic
(all seemingly en route to the coast). However, the two tunnels we encountered
made me nervous. Therefore, I chose to walk the bicycle along the pavement instead
of cycling as cars flew past at high speed.
Arriving
in Caracas – a sprawling, densely-overpopulated, crime-ridden city – I had the
feeling one had to barricade yourself in. Caracas was situated in a valley, at
an altitude of almost 900 metres, with shantytowns stacked along the city’s
steep hillsides.
We
didn’t plan on entering Caracas, but we landed there anyway. The hotel discovered
was an old one offering massive rooms and old Formica furniture, which seemed
unchanged in 50 years.
I
wouldn’t say I liked the vibe in Caracas, but Ernest wanted to stay an
additional day. Not a great deal was happening in the city, shops were closed,
and the open ones traded from behind thick bars. Generally, people went away
during carnival week, and hardly anyone was around, and the centre was deserted.
I didn’t much care for Caracas and couldn’t wait to get away.
22-23
February - Caracas - La Victoria - 103 km
I
wasn’t sorry to say, “Bye-bye, Caracas!” as we cycled out of town via more
tunnels and past more hills jam-packed with colourful shantytowns. Once again, our
path led against the traffic as people returned home after the holidays. The route
descended until we reached a valley, which made it effortless riding.
Following
another flat tyre, I believed it time to buy a new one. The next settlement of
La Victoria luckily offered a bike shop. One couldn’t mistake it being carnival
week as colourful banners decorated even the smallest village. With my purchase
of a tyre and box of patches, we headed to the nearest accommodation to do the
necessary repair work.
I
was coming down with a cold, and an additional day was spent in La Victoria.
25
February - La Victoria - El Limon - 49 km
Albeit
not feeling 100%, I was keen to move along. The intention wasn’t to go far, merely
far enough for a change of scenery. We followed the highway that provided a
good tailwind, even though uninteresting.
We
were firmly entrenched in mango country, and artfully arranged and colourful
stalls lined the road. Stopping to buy a few, the generous owner gave us an
entire bag free of charge. Shortly afterwards, signs pointed to El Limon, a
suburb of Maracay at the entrance of the Henri Pittier National Park. It’s a
beautiful area at the foothills of the mountains and, luckily, it was still early
enough to enjoy the vistas.
26
February - El Limon – Naguanagua - 73 km
We
returned to the highway the following morning, as it was the only way through
the valley. Even though tedious, friendly fellow travellers made up for the
lack of views as many stopped to chat or take photos. In the process, offerings
of beer, water, cupcakes and even places to stay were received.
The
tunnels we encountered were, mercifully, short and not hair-raising. However, at
one of the roadworks, I found it amusing that an electronic ‘flag-waver’ did
the job. He appeared more reliable than the real one who was fast asleep on an
oil drum!
27
February - Naguanagua – Tucacas - 95 km
The
road left the valley and climbed up and over misty mountains. The route seemed a
sharp climb, but somehow we encountered little climbing. Instead, the route descended
steeply to the coast from where our path veered westerly.
Cycling,
one got the feeling that Venezuela was 50 years behind the rest of the world. Big,
old V8 Ford cars came rattling past (generally without any shocks), one arm hanging
out of the window and the other one clutching a beer. Then, seeing a woman on a
bicycle, their heads spun around – they whistled and usually shouted something
in Spanish, returned the elbow to the window and continued down the road. I
swear I could hear a good belly laugh as they disappeared over the hill.
28
February - 1 March - Tucacas - Chichiriviche - 42 km
Soon
after departing Tucacas, we met another cyclist who had been riding for seven
years. At the time, we considered seven years a seriously long time to travel. But,
little did I know that 13 years later I would still be touring.
Spotting
a sign to the Morrocoy National Park, I turned off to see what the park was all
about. The park turned out to be a stunning area consisting of beautiful,
isolated beaches and small islands, as well as mangrove swamps teeming with
birdlife. At last, I had the opportunity to see Red Ibises up close and couldn’t
have been happier.
A
chest infection made us stay the next two days. Thank goodness Chichiriviche
had a wonderfully comfortable pousada, which sported loads of books, and a cute
little garden area. That evening, on a walk to the pharmacy to get medicine, police
stopped and frisked us, searched our bags and, eventually (and very reluctantly),
let us go.
2
March - Chichiriviche – Mirimire - 84 km
We
continued past a vast lake two days later revealing thousands of pink
flamingos. Ernest had a flat tyre, allowing for plenty of time to take pictures
of those beautiful birds.
Mirimire
was so rural, we felt positively alien. The search to locate an ATM excepting Visa
didn’t reveal anything, leaving us to find the most basic digs. With it being a
budget room, the door couldn’t close. It took piling all our noisy equipment in
front of the door, hoping it would make sufficient noise to deter any intruder
and wake us in the process.
3
March - Mirimire - Puerto Cumarebo - 97 km
Bike
problems marred the ride to Puerto Cumarebo: first, Ernest had a puncture, and afterwards,
his tyre tore along the side. There was not a great deal one could do about
that, and he sewed the damage up using a fishing line, which did the job. The route
was reasonably hilly, but provided a strong tailwind that made it comfortable
riding. We turned into Puerto Cumarebo to find a bank but, again, it was a
fruitless exercise.
However,
I still had enough money to buy food and beer. So, following shopping for these
essentials in town, we headed out and sneaked behind a petrol station to pitch
our tents at the car wash. A couple stopped to chat and gave us 50 VEF. How
nice was that?
4
March - Puerto Cumarebo – Coro - 43 km
Following
our morning coffee, we resumed our ride to Coro, Venezuela’s loveliest colonial
city. A good tailwind helped us meander into Coro in good time where a cosy
hostel had rooms around a courtyard. Birds and windchimes made the
establishment a delightful stay.
Mercifully,
Coro had a Mercantile Bank, which seemed the sole bank in Venezuela where I could
draw money. In addition, Coro was a UNESCO World Heritage Site, where cobbled
streets and old colonial buildings abounded. Following a walk to the bakery, I returned
empty-handed but with loads of photos.
7
March - Coro – Dabajuro - 130 km
What
was expected to be a dreary day turned out precisely the opposite. Meeting fascinating
people, I was sorry I had such a poor command of the Spanish language.
The
lack of facilities and places of interest made us cycle the 130-kilometre to
Dabajuro. Fortunately, we were aided by a good tailwind. As the road headed in
an easterly direction, the scenery changed entirely and became drier, hotter
and windier. Strange stalls kept us amused. A few sold goatskins with the bones
still attached, and we had plenty of theories about its uses. Finally, the day’s
ride ended in Dabjuro, where accommodation was available along the outskirts of
town.
8
March - Dabajuro – Santa Rita - 137 km
Nothing
much happened during the day and we pushed on, reaching Lago de Maracaibo (the
largest lake in South America) in the late afternoon. Venezuela gets nearly all
its oil from underneath this surprisingly picturesque lake. In our hunt to find
a spot to pitch the tents, a lakeside restaurant looked like the perfect place.
The owners were busy closing and allowed us to sleep inside the restaurant, on
the deck overlooking the lake.
Later,
the owner handed us each a cold drink and no sooner, two plates of food arrived.
How exceedingly generous the Venezuelans were.
9
March - Santa Rita - San Rafael del Mojan - 77 km
The only way of
crossing the Tablazo Strait was via the General Rafael Urdaneta Bridge (Lake Maracaibo
is connected to the Gulf of Venezuela by the Tablazo Strait). The bridge was
8.7 kilometres long and cycling across was prohibited.
Thus,
the single way across was to hitch a ride with a friendly Venezuelan. Finding a
ride turned out surprisingly simple and even though the man drove like a bat
out of hell, I still managed to snap a shot or two. Our kind Samaritan dropped
us on the opposite side of the bridge, from where we could continue toward the
Colombian border.
The
route changed direction and came with a strong headwind as our path turned more
northerly.
In
San Rafael del Mojan, the beer store owner escorted us to a guesthouse at the
beach, which turned out inexpensive.
10
March - San Rafael del Mojan, Venezuela - Macao, Colombia - 90 km
The
section to the Venezuela-Colombia border was surprisingly pleasant, and along a
salt lake. Even though windy, the landscape was scenic featuring plenty of
birdlife. Soon afterwards, the road reached the border, and an uncomplicated crossing
took us into our next country, Colombia.
