Wisner, a former Irvine Co. spokesman, is traveling around the world with his brother Kurt. This is the third installment about their journeys.
Our hosts in Venezuela were Pedro and Betty, parents of the sister-in-law of a California friend. (How’s that for networking?) They had a comfortable apartment at the base of the mountains that ring Caracas, and they gave us a warm welcome and fascinating education about Venezuelan culture.
We learned the taste of fresh Venezuelan coffee with arrepas and queso de mano for breakfast, corn crumpets with delicious soft cheese. We learned that most middle-class neighborhoods are studded with bars, barbed wires and electric fences for protection. We learned the importance of family, where best friends are often cousins. We learned about the beautiful, Indian-influenced native arts; 35% home loans; and local obsessions with baseball and beauty pageants. (Related note: Venezuela is the per-capita plastic surgery capital of the world.)
At the big family gatherings and meals, the most popular topic of conversation was the country’s left-wing president, Hugo Chavez. Family members swore he was crazy. Mothers talked angrily about his plans to take over the private schools and abolish English instruction. Cousins pointed to his friendship with Fidel Castro and the recent surge in immigration and money to Miami.
“Put it this way,” Martin, a cousin, told me. “He likes to go to press conferences in army fatigues and a red beret.” We talked to many people from all income levels about Chavez over the next 10 days, and the only supporter we could find was a liberal professor/translator from England on a working holiday.
Another consensus opinion was, “Get out of Caracas.” After walking around town for a couple of days, I agreed. It’s dirty, dangerous and devoid.
However, people had high praise for two island groups off the coast, Margarita Island and Los Roques National Park, an archipelago. We jumped on a plane.
Sand roads. One-story, pastel-colored colonial buildings. Dive-bombing pelicans. Family-run posadas or guest houses. Lobster cages resting in the water in front of open-air restaurants. Stray dogs wandering through the small town square. No cars, electric signs, sidewalks or kitsch. The cluster of beach and palm tree islands that comprise Los Roques is a special gem. Its National Park status prohibits building and will hopefully preserve the old-fashioned fishing village atmosphere.
Apparently, we aren’t the only Americans in on the secret. George Bush,the dad not the chad,arrived the day we left to sample some of the world’s premiere bone fishing.
We had a hard time leaving, literally and luckily. Late one afternoon an apologetic young woman approached us to explain our flight had been canceled. We tried unsuccessfully to suppress our grins. The airline, she said, would put us up in their guest house and pay for our dinner. They even baked a tasty carrot cake for my birthday and gathered the staff to sing “Feliz Cumplianos.” Next day, same thing. She again apologized and offered more meals and a catamaran trip.
People:
Fly LTA. It might take a few extra days, but it’s well worth the wait.
Next stop:
Trinidad, to celebrate Carnival with 100,000 of our closest friends.
***
Carnivals, like bachelor parties and New Year’s celebrations, are hugely overrated. Forget colorful floats and steel drum bands. Here are some images that greeted us in Trinidad:
++An enraged man overturning a table at a local bar to expose his crack-smoking friend.
++A 250-pound woman who performed an impromptu striptease while standing on a rail and waiting to enter a large, outdoor concert or fete.
++An upbeat song about incest accentuated with a dramatic re-enactment at a local singing contest.
++Our friend Alex being pick-pocketed, despite his high-tech, travel-safe shorts with zippered and velcro pockets.
Couple the aforementioned incidents with inflated prices, dirty beaches and bad teeny-bopper songs heard ad nauseum.
Port of Spain (which would be more appropriately named by switching the S with the P) is also the home of Douglas, The World’s Worst Cab Driver. He’s late, expensive, barely understandable and constantly lost, despite knowing a person on every street. His car’s a wreck, beers and cigarettes are a staple between stops and trips are a split between your destinations and his. He was so awful, we actually began to enjoy the experience for laughs and used him several times.
He chuckled when I told him of his title.
“No, Douglas, you don’t understand. It’s not hyperbole. We’ve been in 32 countries so far, and you are the World’s Worst Cab Driver.” He laughed harder.
But I can’t entirely pan Trinidad, thanks largely to Elwin, a guide at a cave park outside Sort of Pain. He gave us a backstage pass tour around the magnificent caves with 100-foot vaulted ceilings, pipe organ stalactites and a perfect circle opening above that pinpointed sun like a Broadway spotlight.
He also bent the rules to allow us to swim in the water-cooler clear lagoon, bigger than an Olympic pool. We floated on our backs through the sun rays and watched leaves pirouette down from an overhanging tree.
After the caves, Elwin invited us to watch the island’s premiere steel drum band, Desperadoes, practice in his neighborhood the night before the grand Carnival competition. It’s an overwhelming experience to stand in the middle of 100 steel drums working in unison, some accentuating, some pulsating, some hammering home a groove, some reaching for a height.
But after a week here, “I’m not sorry to say, I’m on my way. Won’t be back for many a day ”
While Europe bickers about a single currency, it’s already happening here. The Latin Euro is called the U.S. dollar.
Did I say things were cheap in Ecuador? A clarification, please. The dollars you save in the remote mountain villages will be blown several hundred miles out to sea on the Galapagos.
I haven’t seen this many rich people shuttled through a sacred place since the Clintons ran the Lincoln bedroom,$300 for the hour flight from the mainland; $100 park entrance fee, tour groups charging up to $250 per person, per day.
A tip:
Skip the tours, buy the flight, then negotiate directly with the boat operators in the port. If you’re worried about availability, book through an agent in Quito. Either way, you’ll save plenty for the same services.
The animals don’t seem to mind the throngs. They still run the place. Land and water iguanas with Darth Vader faces, giant land tortoises and sea turtles. Blue-footed Boobies. Red-footed Boobies. Silicon Boobies. No, wait, that was Venezuela.
The Galapagos are a magical place, well worth every penny. Sunsets over flamingo lagoons, underwater tunnels connecting turquoise waters, afternoon swims with torpedoing sea lions. Just a few of the moments I’ll log.
I’ll also remember Lonesome George, the 100-plus-year-old tortoise residing in a Galapagos animal rest home, the last of a sub-species. We were lucky enough to see George on the day when he decided not to be so lonesome, thanks to the acquiescence of a female tortoise of a similar species.
“They say you want an evolution …”
