Venezuela - What is Trigo Negro? - 14 July 2003
9 days and two countries to get to the major mile stone of Guyana
G-8 Greasy start, sleazy finish
G-7 Flat flat flat
G-6 and G-5 Good thing they named the bitters before they changed the name from Angostura to Ciudad Bolivar
G-4 Gold rush
G-3 Rapids and falls
G-2 Turning Guyanese, I think Iím turning Guyanese, I really think so
9 days and two countries to get to the major mile stone of Guyana
Entering Venezuela was a little odd. For reasons only known to the Venezuelan immigration department the immigration office is not at the border point, but instead completely un-signposted in the middle of town. So we spent the next half an hour working our way round town till someone pointed us in the right direction. There wasnít much of a queue but hundreds of vehicles were going through the border, so it looks like we were 2 of the few troubling ourselves with the bureaucracy.
The road on our map is marked as motorway all the way to Merida, but somehow we ended up twisting through the Andes on a single carriage way road. Here, we were back in the land of the big America cars, only these had none of the style of those in Cuba and were just big and ugly gas-guzzlers.
(70ís and onwards ubiquitous American boxes with no style at all) Presumably people can afford to keep these beasts going because the petrol is ludicrously cheap here. But whatever the reason, they are hardly the cars of choice for winding through narrow roads in the Andes. Seemingly, their drivers are unaware that trying to get these lardy beasts to overtake up hill on twisty roads is unadvisable. Time after time we came across a beast crawling up hill trying to overtake on a blind corner. Bright move ñ not!We struggled to find somewhere to grab some lunch, but eventually we were pointed in the direction of a basic eatery. Hanging around the place was a number of bimbettes, in clingy little outfits, who had clearly put a lot of effort into their appearance. It is at points like these I become acutely aware of my own un-femininity.
Hips is confusing the concept of applying makeup and clothes with effective appearance control. In fact they all looked like a bunch of tarts, far as I could see. Helmet use and bike gear, tends to make me resemble the Michelin man, and the armoury in my bike pants emphasizes my hips, which are already rather challenged. I can feel the disdainful looks of the bimbettes burning into me and just wanted to eat up and get out.
The table was already cluttered with helmets, scarves, gloves and maps, leaving little room for our food. I squeezed it one to the table not noticing that it was partially over hanging. The meat was a little tough so I put a little pressure on.
The plate tippedÖ
The contents were now in my lapÖ
I could feel the bimbettes holding back the guffaws. Paranoid, moi?
I scooped up the contents of my lap and placed it into my side plate.
I finished the little food that had remained on its intended plate and left muttering apologies to the owner. It was not one of my better moments.
In the end we rejoined the motorway and life was easy till Merida. It was clearly rush hour and the traffic moved at snails pace. It was not helped by the fact that the police had shut off half the roads. Our attempt to nip down side roads to bypass the traffic jam only resulted in us being redirected to the back of the jam ñ further back than weíd started. The town was at least vaguely familiar as we had passed through in í97. We had heard that Venezuela was expensive so headed for the cheapest place in town. It was cheap, it was also pretty grot, and if it hadnít been for the wonderful friendly proprietress weíd have instantly bolted for something more up market.
Merida has long been one of the major backpackersí destinations in Venezuela as it is up in the Andes and can offer all of those exciting activities. That gives it a great advantage as the first town to stop in a country as it has loads of cheapy restaurants and places to change cash. Just as in Zimbabwe and Argentina and there is a bit of a currency crisis and judicial changing of cash on the street yields a bonus of 30%. It was really weird but even though weíd only been here once 6 years ago, I had a feeling and proved to be right about where all the cambios were. Spooky.
Rain picked up in intensity through the evening to the point where we had to take a cab for five blocks to avoid a complete soaking. This is the sort of rain we were expecting when we were to arrive in the Amazon basin tomorrow ñ looked like it had come to meet us. The drainage system overwhelmed, the rainwater made the streets into fast flowing rivers two inches deep. This was real tropical rain!
G-8 Greasy start, sleazy finish
The morning proved a tad better; just a misty kind of rain. A chap on deliveries outside our place for the night warned us that the trucks had left a lot of diesel on the road over the Andes. Oh joy, wet and dieselly roads. Climbing over our last bit of Andes for a while was a chilly experience and the windy descent on the other side was slow going ñ Iíve never enjoyed riding in the rain and always feel like the bike is going to lose grip at every corner. I rode without leaning into corners and steered round every corner. Somewhat overcautious, maybe. In fact, the rain forest rain did not appear and riding along the bottom of the east side of the Andes was a warm and pleasant experience.
As we rose the vegetation changed from lush greenery, to eucalyptus to windswept bonsai-ed trees. And then back through the plant kingdom on the way back down. I love the smell as we travel through the eucalyptus trees. Since Ethiopia, where we first encountered these trees on mass, it always conjures up images of that complex and unique country.
As it came on to drizzle, we took a rest at an eatery called El Mirador = view (which today was absent). Pat took a time out to do a little evacuation, and left me to negotiate brunch. I asked what they had and two school aged girls nipped to their parents to find out. They returned to burble out a list of words I had never heard, nothing was familiar. I asked them to repeat a little slower, which only served to clarify the fact that these were definitely unknown foods. I tried to asked what ëblahí was, and got ëItís blahí
Whatís ëblahí made of?
ëTrigo negroí black wheat. We have progress. Well kind of. Is the black wheat made into pancakes, porridge, cake or what?
ëComo cocinalo?í how do you cook it?
ëTrigo negroí louder this time, and pointing to my black jumper. This is getting nowhere fast. Clearly to them everyone knows trigo negro and what you do with it, so it has no other explanation. I felt some sympathy with the two young girls. I doubt that the explanation a foreigner would get in the UK for what Bakewell tart is would be anything more useful, something on the lines of ëWell itís Bakewell tart, lassí.
I admitted defeat and asked if they had eggs and arepas (pancakey things).
Trigo negro, as any self respecting world gourmet knows, are in fact "pancakey things" made with dark flour. [websmartarse]
When the bill came we were none too chuffed. The strain of trying to order had meant that I had broken my golden rule of always asking the price first. We were not in a position to argue. But made comments of ëmuy caroí (very expensive) and ëladronesí (thieves) as we left.
Time was going OK and we decided to push on to San Carlos, a probable hotel sized town in the middle of a straight looking 700km stretch of road.
The Motel San Carlos, had all the necessities for a businessman on the road, a bar, restaurant, air con, en-suite and 49 channels on the TV to choose from, including a particularly graphic porn channel.
The bar and restaurant looked uninspiring and we headed for the supermarket. We played safe and chose the ingredients for tuna sandwiches. Mistake! Flicking through the channels to find something that was not drivel, we made our sandwiches, which were possibly the worst we have ever eaten. The bread was sweet, the tuna mushy shavings off the factory floor, the pepper bitter and the tomato bland. We would have been better off in the restaurant. The point was that the restaurant was as overpriced as at our brunch stop. This rather begs the question as to whether brunch was a rip off or not or whether East of the Andes the price goes up.
If you look at the map the road from San Carlos to El Tigre goes in a straight line West to East about 100km South of Caracas. There was absolutely nothing of note in the whole 550km of travel that day as regards scenery.
There were a couple of police checkpoints on the way. At the first we slowed up but were waved on. There was a nasty grating sound coming from the front brake. We took the opportunity to take a look. A bolt had fallen out somewhere and the brakes were now rotating on the remaining bolt and, not particularly ideal. I tried not to think about what could have happened if this had occurred going down hill on a bend through the Andes, on wet road, the day before. This is a special bolt, for which we of course did not have a spare, Pat rummaged in his box of bits and found a bolt that was of smaller diameter but pinned the thing enough to go to ëSculleyí it ëtill the next village. The police assured us that there was a mechanic about 15 minutes down the road.
The town of ëDos Caminosí (2 roads) was at a crossroads unremarkably. There was a garage and restaurant, a farm vehicle workshop and that was about it. Despite the fact that we were a little undersized for their usual vehicles the workshop manager found a bolt of the right width and length to do the job. (Hmm I was not too pleased about having to replace my nice shiny stainless metric allen bolt with an old 9/16 inch item with a slightly different pitch ñ at least he had a matching nut so it is secure. Another side effect of having so much Yankee metal about the place. The nice man would accept no money for his time and effort and just wished us, luck with our journey.
We were also that day privileged to see some 100 km of the neatest verges on the whole trip. The tree-dappled verges were about 10m deep on either side, were under constant manicure by teams of men with machetes. As they bent themselves double in little rows as their machetes swung rhythmically back and forth and then they would inch forward. On a few sections the teams of men and been replaced by one oppo with a strimmer. The shrill noise of the strimmer cutting through the air. I could not decide which method was better, the first employed more people, was quieter and used no fuel, but the workers probably ended up with permanent back problems. The second wasÖ. WellÖ. the opposite. It was something to ponder in the hours on the back of the bike.
The motel in El Tigre, was this time without TV but with carpet everywhere but the floor ñ the walls, the ceiling, inside the cupboards - a little odd.
We were made up when the meal of the day in the restaurant across the road was ëlabbaí. It brought back fond memories of Guyana (and indeed we were technically back in Guyana, well the Venezuelan province of the same name). There had been a long running dispute between Patrick and I about whether a ëlabbaí was just the Guyanese name for a capybara or another smaller rodent altogether. My vote had always been with the latter, the size of the bones on our plates, supported my claim. I tried not to gloat too much. I enjoyed my meal so much, even being defeated on the naming of a South American rodent failed to dent my satisfaction.
Next to our motel was a Karaoke bar. It was necessary to check the place out. It was a barn, with the tables and seats laid out in an arrangement reminiscent of bingo halls. In the barn we were not alone. There was another couple intent on their own intimacy. They stood to dance on the empty dance floor and began to grind in a fashion that made us feel that maybe we were intruding on some sexual rite. We left them to their intimacy.
It was a mere skip and a jump to Ciudad Bolivar, the only town in the area where other travellers may be. We had the luxury of arriving before midday, and being able to take a stroll around the town. This had also been a stop in í97, but, again, this time it seemed so much nicer. The main plaza is wonderful the buildings painted all manner of bright colours, pink, green, royal blue and mauve. To a British eye this may seem garish, but in the bright light of the tropics it was perfectly appropriate. We were lucky enough to have accommodation on the main plaza and through the open shuttered windows enjoy the view, with the luxury of a little breeze. This was one of the more eclectic backpacker places on our trip. It would have been easy to take root here.
The colonnaded buildings along the waterfront of the Orinocco looked like they were as the estate agents would say ëripe for renovationí. There was a bump in the river bank with a bar in the middle of it which reminded us of a waterside bar in Guyana called the Cool Breeze. There was a guy who seemed to be working there, although in what capacity we could not be sure, who hailed every passing female with a sleazy comment. Yes, very Guyanese.
The manager and owner of the hostel were very rude about the Guyanese who apparently dodge over the border in these parts and generally make themselves unpopular. Thereís a lot of gold about and porkknockers who pan for it are not completely law abiding and are pretty hard to regulate. The better news was that the road was indeed pretty good from Lethem to the coast as one of them had been up there last Christmas.
We spent a day of rest in our hoon across Venezuela. Lying in the hammock, reading books and generally achieving very little. It was wonderful. There was a British chap called Vish, staying at the hostel, who was in the midst of his University career. On hearing about our travels he rather seemed in awe of us. I tried to point out that at his equivalent age we had done nothing more adventurous than Interrail and in fact his lone travel through South America was distinctly more promising. We were rather relieve when a chap working at the hostel returned from his hols and pointed out that he had effectively been travelling for over 10 years. We could now go back to our humble position as everyday travellers.
That evening we were in the company of Bolivar chess champion, Rainny. Pat offered himself up for humiliation. Before the game began he pointed out that he had played, Nigel Short, but it failed to intimidate him. He, too, had also played Nigel Short. And indeed Pat had been one of 30 others that Nigel had played at the age of eleven on a Bolton school open day simultaneously and had been beaten in about 5 moves. Hardly a threat. It did not take long for Rainny to have Pat in an untenable position, and before complete humiliation Pat offered his king. Generously, the guy clearly realised that we needed a little tutoring and offered a few basic tips to prevent such early defeat.
It was a lovely evening in good company, but the next day we would have to move on.
South-east from Ciudad Bolivar, the rain forest proper begins. Beyond that one reaches the Gran Savana where there are the famous tepuis that started Conan Doyle off with the Lost World concept. We planned a bit of a hoon followed by a gentle day sightseeing on our way into Brazil. Indeed we got a good old distance, way past the town of El Dorado, in fact, before having to look out accom. Regrettably all there was to be found where the ubiquitous gold miners weekend hotels in rather ramshackle drinking towns. We kept going and going hoping that some other kind of place would spring up. Luck was not with us and we had to simply settle for the best of the limited options. It werenít that bad.
The Gran Savana did not really present itís best to us as there was a good bit of cloud around. It is rainy season, after all. The series of little water falls and rapids were nice, though and we stopped and snapped our way down the road. My favourite was a river flowing over a smooth flat bed of what is apparently jasper. There are many signs requesting one not to steal the jasper, anyway. Other folk found it attractive, too, and I had to wait to get pretty pictures as a party of about 8 in front of me insisted on taking photies of Manuel with Maria, Manuel with his mum, Maria with aunt Evangelina and every other possible combination of two or more in front of the falls. Then they did the individual portraits. I was far enough away to not be invited to take the full group photo. It was perhaps best that I was not encouraged into their midst. Iíve never quite understood the ëmust have someone in the photoí mentality. I know Iím very old fashioned, but surely natures wonders are best seen naturally. Bah, humbug.
Part of this stretch of road is renowned for itís diversity of bird life. Indeed, the guide book describes it as the best piece of road in Venezuela for watching birds. Oh for the peace and quiet, eh? In fact, the birds did not seem so obliging and but for a couple of largish raptors there was nothing to see. On the small mammal front, things were quite different. Regrettably most of it was roadkill, but we did get to see an armadillo of some size trot out into the road before showing worrying confusion about how to escape the white blur heading towards it. At one of the falls there was an extremely large ferrety type thing with a white head and darker body fur, which I believe is a honey badger. I will happily be corrected. As usual, the critters disappeared off before photo evidence could be collected.
The border town had been given quite promising reports. It did not live up to its reputation. It was a fine functional town that obviously owed it existence to cross border trade but was nowt to write home about. So why am I writing home about it, then? I donít know so Iíll stop.
G-2 Turning Guyanese, I think Iím turning Guyanese, I really think so
The next morning we crossed to Brazil and suddenly everything started going very Guyanese.