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  Santa Fe, Venezuela
Saturday, June 3, 2006

Staying at Posada Shalimar in Rio Caribe is a bit like sheltering from the real world that awaits outside. Its time to move on and we have to decide: go home early, or explore Venezuela further.

Going home is akin in chickening out, and besides most of what we've seen in Venezuela is interesting, despite some awkward people. So the decision isn't really that hard. We decide to keep travelling. Perhaps the 'going home' option comes up because of cumulative travel fatigue.

We look at possible places to go to stay along the Caribbean coast. Parque Nacionale Mochima looks beautiful and there's a pleasant town nearby called Santa Fe, which has plenty of beach-front posadas and is known to attract a few backpackers.

01 Sunset in Sante Fe

We say sad goodbyes to Lothar and wish him well with his venture in Posada Shalimar. The night before, Lothar's 30 year old girlfriend (he is 56) gave Rachel a new bikini from her shop. Its not every place you stay in that you receive such a warm welcome. Rachel also wonders just how bad her old swimsuit looks.

Armed with detailed travel instructions from Max, the Swiss chef, we head up to the plaza where there are por puestos awaiting passengers. We have to take two por puestos and one bus to get to our destination. Despite us knowing the price is 2000 Bolivares (GBP0.50) to get to Carupano, we have to pay 3000 Bolivares (GBP0.75) to get a seat. Its a good example of the every day attrition that we have to deal with in Venezuela.

We arrive in Carupano, and find another por puesto driving the 2 hours to Cumana (12,000 Bolivares or GBP3.00). Not surprisingly the car is a crappy Chevvy Malibu V6 and the drive is pretty uncomfortable. We get annoyed when the driver deliberately dumps us at the wrong bus station and refuses to take us where we asked to go. He mumbles that we can take a bus to the bus station we need, so I deduct a few thousand from our fare and pay him the remainder. More arguments and hassle

02 Boat trip and dolphins

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We hit a fairly low point as we stand at the roadside in Cumana loaded up with all our bags in the sweltering afternoon sun. Buses roll past completely full to bursting not even bothering to stop for us. Eventually a local girl, who's also waiting on a bus, takes pity on us and helps us to get on board the right one, and gives us a nod when its time to disembark. Her help buoys us up a bit and we feel more cheerful now that we have found the correct bus stop for Santa Fe.

We spot an air conditioned café and duck in for an hour to drink some fresh fruit juice and allow our bodies to return to a more normal temperature. One of the lads serving speaks good English and is completely blown away when we tell him where we've been. Now we really feel ready, both physically and psychologically to tackle the final bus journey of the day to Santa Fe.

We arrive in Santa Fe in late afternoon, and walk along a narrow strip of sandy beach checking out the various Posadas. Eventually we plump for Bahia del Mar, a French-run joint which goes for 35,000 Bolivares (GBP8.00) per night. Lynne, the owner, seems to lack the vitality of the Germans when it comes to keeping the place clean and tidy, but it's a reasonable place to stay, if a little run-down.

The location is perfect though. We sit on the sand at the back door and watch the sun kiss the water in a fiery glow. On the bay, we see many pods of dolphins in the distance, jumping into the air as an expression of pure exuberance. This is definitely one of the most beautiful sunsets we've seen on our travels

03 Young fisherman

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A café a couple of doors down makes a enticing range of cocktails for under 4000 Bolivares (GBP1.00), not to mention some delicious fish dishes for 10,000 Bolivares (GBP2.50). We spend the evening there, watching the money carefully as we have almost run out of cash.

Its low season, and this appears to be the only beach-front restaurant open. Soon, all the foreign travellers in Santa Fe are gathered there. In all about 10 people. Its very easy to meet people here.

Later in the evening I meet another black market currency trader (helpfully introduced by Lynne), who gives me a good rate for the last of our travellers cheques. Hopefully that will be the last of our money troubles, we think to ourselves.

The next day, we go on a boat trip around Mochima National Park with the intention of visiting a few of the less accessible beaches. As its low season, most of the boat operators just spend the day fishing, and one of them is monopolistically allocated the job of tourist guide. We pay 25,000 Bolivares (about GBP6.00) each for our boat trip with a cocky and over-confident Columbian called Tony.

On board, there is an English family from London. The dad, called Shaun, grew up in Scotland and his mother is from Glenluce, a stones throw from where I grew up. We have an opportunity to lapse into reminiscing about the old country. His daughters rib him mercilessly as soon as his accent starts to drift off correct London pronunciation, or if he says too many good things about Scotland

04 Iguana

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We cruise around the bay and soon spot a pod of dolphins out on a fishing expedition. They circle around us and we get a tantalising glimpse of their smooth blue flanks. They seem much smaller that dolphins I've seen before. One of the mothers has a small baby close beside her.

On a soft sandy beach, we try a little snorkelling in the clear blue water. Unfortunately Tony's equipment is a little worse for wear and there's only really two working sets amongst the clapped out gear. We work it out in shifts and have a fun time looking at life below the waves. There's quite a few fish and plenty of colourful coral to explore. Tiny multicoloured Christmas trees retract into their pods as soon as I touch them. They must be animals although they look like plants.

The island is also home to several large black iguanas which hang around hoping for scraps of food. Banana skins seem to be a favourite and we have some good live entertainment feeding them.

We stop at a tiny islet partially connected by a sandbar to another larger island

05 Mango beach

. The island is dominated by a Bond-style mansion which has now gone to ruin. Tony has brought several black bin bags with him to clear up the rubbish which, typical of Venezuela, is strewn everywhere. He tries to tell us that as a provider of eco-tourist services he wants to tidy it up out of the goodness of his heart. We later find out that someone has paid him USD$100 for the job, and it's a task that can easily be combined with being a tour guide.

We arrive at a secluded bay where there are several enormous trees laden with ripe red mangoes. The sand under the trees is littered with fruit in various states of decomposition. Tony finds a long pole with a wire on the end and uses it to shake the mangoes out of the branches. They land on the sand with a soft thud and are soon gathered up by us day trippers. Rachel and I both eat nine whilst relaxing on the beach, and I squeeze a further 11 into my rucksack to take back to the posada.

Although Tony is a crap guide, he takes us to locations that more than compensate for his lack of ability.

Back in Santa Fe we enjoy another evening relaxing on the beach and chatting to other travellers

06 Sante Fe Beach

. We meet a German man living in Columbia who tells us that life there is pretty good. I find it hard to believe, but he assures us that things have changed there for the better, and my notions hark back to the early 1990's when things were decidedly dangerous.

The next day, Rachel and I agree to stay rather than moving on as originally planned. Lynne has deckchairs, parasols, and a book exchange, so we have everything we need for a relaxing day on the beach.

In the heat of the afternoon, the locals come down to the water to cool off. Many of the men bring their dogs too. In Venezuela the most important characteristic of a dog is that it has to be large. A man with a rottweiler the size of a small cow enjoys frightening a group of teenage girls with it. Soon they are all playing nervously with the dog in the shallows as it chases a young boy's green football. The boy looks on in resigned depression as the rottweiler finally gets an opportunity to sink its teeth into the ball and burst it. No one bats an eyelid (except Rachel and I) when the dog rushes on to the beach, shits, and then dives back into the water to continue the game.

Late in the afternoon, Rachel and I are wandering back along the beach after an unsuccessful foray into town to find an internet café

07 Another sunset

. (Unsuccessful because every machine in town is commandeered by 13 year olds playing video games).

Suddenly we hear a friendly 'hello' - and who should it be but Roland and Chantal our fellow Swiss travellers whom we first bumped into in Chaiten in Southern Chile three months ago. We last saw them when we went out for a meal together in La Paz.

We eat fish together at another restaurant on the beach front (Cafe del Mar), which is open for the first time since we arrived. It turns out that Roland and Chantal have only a few days of their trip left as well and we mull over what could be the nicest way to spend the last few days in Venezuela. Finally we agree that it has to be Los Roques, a chain of coral islands 150km north of the Venezuelan coastline in the Caribbean sea. We agree to start the trip together at 6am the next morning.

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