The End of the Journey

Last time we had the pleasure of blogging, Marisa and I were lazing among the many sun drenched beaches of Trinidad and Tobago, sneaking in a little rest and relaxation before diving head first into the final two countries remaining on our South American exploration... Venezuela and Colombia!

In an attempt to save a few bucks, we opted to take a ferry rather than a flight from T&T to Venezuela. The ferry only left on Wednesdays, and purchasing tickets over the phone or online proved impossible. As such, we found ourselves standing outside of a guard hut at 630am with all our worldly belongings in tow waiting in line to buy a ferry ticket. By 8am we were on our way back to the mainland! By 9am, the boat sputtered and stopped and we heard the captain of the ship make a brief announcement, "This is the captain speaking... We have complete engine failure." That's it. That's all the dude said. So as the boat floated aimlessly for about an hour we all sat there wondering what was going on, what they were doing about it, and how long we would be sitting there wondering. Thankfully, there was free soda and coffee on the boat.

At around 10am, the engine suddenly roared back to life and we were back on our way to the mainland. By noon, the boat was docked in Guiria, Venezuela! However, at 3pm, we were still sitting on the boat... They never opened the doors. Eventually a rumor circulated among the passengers that the magistrate in charge of customs and immigration hadn't arrived, thus we were unable to arrive either. Eventually, we saw a couple people sneak into a room at the back of the boat with passports in hand. We followed suit. And there she was, the magistrate herself, grumpy, slow and generally unpleasant. When I handed her our passports, she looked at me, scanned the passport, looked at Marisa, scanned the passport, checked off our names on the passenger manifesto and asked one security question, "Todo bien?" I said, "Yup, all good." Apparently that was the right answer, because she handed us our passports and we ran for the door.

Immediately outside the boat, there were a couple guys with really big guns sitting behind a plastic table on the dock... next stop customs. So we handed them our passports and were about to open up our bags when the guy stops me and asks, "How did you get off the boat without a stamp in your passport?" Sure enough, I looked in the passport and the magistrate, in a stroke of brilliance, never stamped it. Apparently, the correct answer to the question, "Todo bien?" is, "No, not all good... please stamp my F-ing passport, por favor." So, we climbed back on the boat to wait in line to see the magistrate. Stamp. then climbed back off the boat to wait in line to see the customs officials with the big guns. When I saw how the guy manhandled the bag of the woman in front of me, pulling every item out of the bag, searching every crevice, then roughly stuffing all the woman's belongings back in the bag, I started to get a little nervous. Not because I was smuggling drugs or anything, but because I'm pretty obsessive compulsive the way I pack my bag. In truth, you must be both meticulous, as well as a master of physical dimensions to make everything fit in my bag. The man with the big gun looked like neither.

It was my turn. I handed the man our passports and slammed my bag on the plastic table. The customs official unzipped the bag, peered inside, saw the meticulous nature with which it was packed, then glanced up at me and totally sized me up. Then he asked, "Where are you from?" I was like, "Dude, your holding our passports... Where do you think I'm from?" Ok, that's a lie. I said, "Estados Unidos." Then he looked at Marisa, "Is she with you?" Again, he was holding both of our passports. He should have been able to figure this out on his own. "Yes." He didn't even bother to search my bag, just zipped it up, slammed the passports on the table and indicated with his machine gun that I should enter a little trailer a couple meters away. Inside the trailer, another guy (with a much smaller gun) inspected my passport, told me to empty me pockets, patted me down, asked me a couple asinine questions then just stared at me. After about a minute of this, I finally asked "Can I go now?" He nodded. Then, as I was about to leave the trailer, another dude standing in the corner shouts, "Stop! Did you check his cargo pockets?!" At this point I was about to slap one of these customs officials. The guy outside didn't even bother to look inside my bag because he knew he didn't have the mental capacity to repack it, and the guy inside the trailer is up in arms because I might be carrying something in my cargo pockets. Thus, after an obligatory secondary pat down, I was allowed to leave the trailer. The best part is, once we got off the boat Marisa just followed me from station to station and not one person talked to her, checked her passport, or either of her bags... That's security.

At this point, it was almost 430pm and we were starving. We had been sitting on the dock for almost 4 and a half hours trying to enter Venezuela. Furthermore, we were afraid that we missed the last bus to Caracas that evening and would have to spend the night in this dumpy little border town. As luck would have it, we were able to buy a seat on the last bus to Caracas leaving at 530pm. Just enough time to eat an extremely late lunch and hop on a bus for 14 hours.

Venezuela, in general, is a hot and humid place. But when we arrived in Caracas, we were ice cubes. No joke, I think Marisa's lips were blue. For some reason, the bus companies crank the air conditioning to the point where the bus becomes a refrigerator. So, in essence, we sat in a refrigerator for 14 hours. I had my rain jacket with me just in case we hit a tropical downpour, and thankfully I did, because Marisa wore it all night while I froze by ass off. So when we arrived in Caracas at 7am, we were very tired, very cold, and very excited to get off the bus.

Initially, we had planned to spend a night or two in Caracas and explore the city. However, everyone we had talked to said that Caracas was a particularly difficult city (dangerous, dirty, absurdly expensive accommodations) and there was no need to stay there as a tourist. But we thought we would give it the benefit of the doubt... Until we realized that during the Holy Week leading up to Easter all the bus companies shut down and we would be stuck in Caracas for at least 5 nights. So, we caught the last bus out of Caracas before EVERYTHING shut down. Sadly, the bus left at 730am. So we sat in the sun and thawed out for 30 minutes, mustered up all the willpower we had left, and hopped on a 15 hour bus to the town of Merida.

For the most part, the ride to Merida was completely uneventful. The bus cruised through no name town after no name town, pausing occasionally to drop a passenger on the side of the road. Then, about six hours into the journey, something eventful happened. The bus had paused to drop a passenger in a no name town on the side of the road when all of the sudden we heard a lady a few rows behind us scream something in French, blow past us down the aisle, down the steps, out the door of the bus and start chasing someone down the street. Now, I don't pretend to speak French. Marisa does, but I'm the one telling this story. And I'm pretty sure the exact translation of what the French lady yelled would be a string of four letter words in English. The ones that rhyme with 'sit', 'duck' and 'itch'. Because she had just experienced every travelers worst nightmare... watching your bag get off the bus without you. To make matters worse, she chased the guy who stole the bag a few meters down the street only to have him hop on his buddy's motorcycle, turn around, give her the finger and yell, "Bienvenidos a Venezuela!" Translation, welcome to Venezuela.

We arrived in Merida at about 11pm, with no hotel reservation and no clue what we had gotten ourselves into. As always, the bus station was on the shady edge of town, so we hopped in a cab, flipped through the trusty lonely planet, and told the cabby to drop us downtown at the cleanest and cheapest hotel we could find. When we arrived downtown, the streets were incredibly crowded for 11pm on a Thursday night. As our luck would have it, the first hotel we had the cabby drop us off at was completely booked. So he drove us to a second hotel. Booked. Well, at this point it was nearing midnight and we didn't want to pay the cab driver to drive us around all night without the slightest clue where he was taking us. In addition, we had deduced from the suits and prom dresses that the throngs of people flooding the streets were heading home from churches, not bars, so we decided it was safe to set off on foot at midnight looking for accommodations. We dragged our bags a few blocks and ultimately realized that we were on a fools errand... every hotel near the town center was fully booked for holy week. Thus, I walked Marisa into the nicest hotel in town (which consequently had the most security guards with the biggest guns) and informed her to stay put with our bags while I hit the streets in hopes of locating a roof and a bed. After searching for another hour, it became apparent that not only the hotels near the town center, but every hotel within a 5 mile radius was fully booked. As I walked back to the hotel where Marisa was stashed, I mentally prepared myself to break the news that we would be homeless on the streets of Venezuela. Then, in a last ditch effort, I walked into a hotel where I had previously been denied residence, and asked the owner if he would let us sit in the lobby until the sun came up. We would pay him to sit in the lobby behind a the security gate. At this point, safety was my only concern. He told me to wait while he made a few phone calls. After a handful of phone calls he looks at me and says, "Did you know that every hotel in town is fully booked?" Uh huh. Then he made one last phone call, to his sister who ran a student dormitory a couple blocks away. Even the dormitory had no vacancies. However, it turned out that the maid was out of town and she had a "room" with a single bed. I put room in quotes because it was actually a closet with a single bed and 3 and a half walls built into the entry way of the building. We'll take it.

By this time it was about 2am and I knew Marisa must be flipping out, sitting all alone with our bags behind a wall of armed guards. I couldn't wait to tell her the news! "Hey Marisa, after traveling non-stop for 48 hours we're gunna crash on a single bed in the maids quarters of a student dorm..." To my surprise, her response was, "Yes! I was trying to get myself mentally prepared to be homeless tonight." And let me tell you, once our heads hit the shared pillow, we got the best night sleep in days.

Marisa here to take over, Mikey got a bit tired explaining our first 2 days in Venezuela...

After an epic few days of traveling and finally getting a night to sleep horizontally...albeit smashed together...we awoke the following morning with a much brighter outlook on life. We never quite figured out why, but interestingly enough, that Thursday night was the busy one and many hotels had openings for Friday. With several options to choose from, we picked the cheapest least sketchy one, moved into a real posada and finally got to check out the town.

Merida is known to be one of the most tourist rich towns in all of Venezuela. It's a great jumping off point for many adventure activities and has a few claim to fames. One of these is the Heladeria Coromoto, an ice cream shop that made it's way into the Guinness Book of World Records for their amazing 900 flavors.

We decided if we were going to taste ice cream from a place with 900 flavors, you have to be bold. Well, Mikey was smart and went with a liquor theme, champagne, Frangelica and Irish cream ... I was a bit too bold and tried Salmon and Cheese. I don't think I'll ever eat salmon again.

Our next stop was Merida's second biggest claim to fame...the longest teleferico in the world. Well, being the clever people they are, supposedly Venezuela has kept the big secret hush hush to keep tourists coming to town...it's been broken for 2 years...

So that's us standing next to the base and me in a fake cart bolted to the ground. Cool.

As it turned out, Merida was not as exceptional as we had hoped. Many of the adventure activities were WAY overpriced, not to mention questionably safe. Regardless, we thought we would take a day trip up to one of the small mountain towns to take advantage of our location.

An hour or so later, way up the hill we arrived in Jaji, a tiny village known for its classic Venezuelan mountain feeling and a beautiful view. Unfortunately, I missed my first glimpse at the view when I was avoiding a crazy man with a stick trying to jab anyone who got off the minibus. He grabbed Mike's calf and barked like a dog. Turned out he was harmless, but he certainly made a scene, trying to scare anyone around him by faking throwing a rock or jabbing you with sticks. Not the best introduction to a "peaceful" town.

Upon shaking off the crazy, we took a loop through the town square...
...which took all of 4 seconds. Then we checked out the view...
...and sadly that was all there was to see. This tiny "touristy" village kinda got it all wrong. Somehow it ended up as a day trip destination for tourists in Merida. So everyone in the town stopped whatever they used to do and they ALL opened crappy souvenir shops where they sold random things, none of which we were interested in buying. There was only one restaurant open, in a hotel lobby. With nothing to do until our minibus decided it wanted to leave, we grabbed some lunch and waited.

Needless to say, we were underwhelmed by this part of the adventure. We were also stuck. As it turned out the first night with all the hotels booked, the entire country seems to flock to this city for holy week and leaves on or around Easter. Starting the day we arrived, we went to the bus station every morning in search of a bus ticket out of this god forsaken city...and alas, people just laughed at as. We were told that 2 bus companies do not sell advanced tickets (which we later learned was true, unless you had family that worked there, which everyone seemed to, so that system kind of backfired). Essentially, we spent the next few days waiting in line at the bus station until noon, then heading back to the posada to watch bootleg dvds until it was time to wake up and go back to the bus station.

After a few days of this, the whole process became a bore, so we decided to get more aggressive, wake up at 4am and be the first ones in line before the bus station even opened at 7am. Well, turns out that was the norm, no wonder we couldn't buy tickets before... and we found ourselves waiting in a line of at least a hundred people doing the same thing. Good thing we got there early. In true S. American fashion, 7am opening time was really only a guideline. Sometime around 7:30ish with a line of angry patrons, a booth full of employees sat and watched one woman begin to service the line. Still not sure what the other people were getting paid for, as this trend continued for hours. Around 11:30, we were still in line. Rumors were circulating that all tickets were sold out. Some genius Venezuelan entrepreneur realized that there were all these people who wanted to leave and low and behold he had a bus! So he started circulating rumors through the line that he could take people to our exact destination...today...and we wouldn't have to wait in line any longer! Sounds too good to be true right? Well, we thought so too. Over the subsequent hour or so, he listened to 30 people who wanted to be on this bus argue over what time they wanted to leave and whether it was safe. He was also unable to find a bus with air conditioning, which wouldn't alone have stopped us, but certainly made us question the shape of this vehicle. To this day, I have no idea if that huge group of people ever got on a bus, but we erred on the side of caution, waited for a real bus company and when we finally reached the front of the line, the lady sold us a ticket for a bus leaving the next day (yes, this was completely against the policy, leading to the long line in the first place...but whatever, we just wanted OUT).
And so we began our crazy journey crossing into Colombia. The overnight bus to a town a few hours from the border went smoothly and we arrived early in the morning, trying to book a bus into Colombia. When we learned it was cheaper to take a taxi and we didn't have to wait, we found a guy and hopped in our ride...
THAT was our taxi. Vintage American gas guzzling machine. But in that oil rich country, where filling your tank costs less than buying a bottle of water, those cars were very prevalent. We also learned traveling by daylight that every 200 meters (I'm not exaggerating), there was a military check point. We'd stop every 60 seconds, flash our US passports and get shuffled along. Too many hours later, we finally left Venezuela and entered into Colombia. The taxi dropped us off just across the border at another bus station, where we took another 4 hour bus to our next destination...

Santa Marta, Colombia! The final resting place of the great Simon Bolivar...and also the jumping off point for our last trek...
We planned to meet up with our old travel companion, Natalie, soak up some of the Caribbean beach before heading on a new kind of trek together. The city is much smaller than nearby and more popular Cartegena, and quite a bit more peaceful.
Especially peaceful was a little town named Taganga a few miles from Santa Marta. Many travelers get stuck in the little small beach community and learn to scuba dive. We checked it out for a day. Very quaint.

And the perfect amount of relaxation before our last big trek. We'd heard that the hike out to the Ciudad Perdida, or the Lost City, was an incredibly worthwhile excursion. Unlike the ruins of a Machu Picchu, the Ciudad Perdida has only one method of entry...3 days on foot through the jungle. So we embarked on the 5 day journey, with a guide that spoke no english (good thing our Spanish was decent for once), 7 dudes with too much testosterone, 2 girls (Natalie and myself) and all got to know each other REAL well.

It was hot as hell, we only brought the clothes we wore and a change for the night, when the mosquitoes came out to eat you before you cozied up in your hammock for the night.
Our first night at camp, our guide asked the group if we wanted a little extra adventure. Now might be a good time to give you a little background on this trek.

The Ciudad Perdida is a huge lost city in the middle of the jungle, thought to have been founded about 650 years before Machu Picchu. It was abandoned back in the 1500s when the Spaniards attacked and brought diseases to the city. The native people believed that the city had been cursed and they fled from their town. The site was not discovered until 1972, when a group of grave robbers stumbled upon a rock that led them up 1200 hand made steps. As a relatively new discovery, treks to see the ruins are only a couple of decades old.

Then in 2003, a guerrilla group brought even more attention to the area, when they captured and held 8 tourists attempting our same trek hostage for several months. Our guide shared this story with us on our last night and explained that it was one of the reasons they only allow visitors with guides. He had been at the site that morning when the group was captured and only half a day's walk away when it happened. Fortunately, no one was harmed, but the trek was closed for a couple of years and many are still weary of attempting the journey. We did know some of this before we agreed to go on the trek, but it was creepy getting a more personal account from someone who had been there at the time.

Our guide assured us on that last night that the trek was perfectly safe, as the government had infiltrated the national park and placed military guards all throughout, some hiding in the bushes, others in plain view. As a result, all of the cocaine production in the area had ceased...or so we thought.

Back to our guide's question...our interests were peaked. He mentioned that he had a friend who used to produce cocaine paste out there in the jungle back when it was "safer" without the military. The guy still lived out in the jungle, along with the plethora of indigenous people and now offered small "tours" of cocaine paste production. Figuring we were embracing a part of the once culture, we couldn't pass up the opportunity. The guy met our group first thing in the morning and we hiked through the bushes, over a little mountain, very much not on a path and popped out here...
Under his tarp hut, he had all the tools he once used to make cocaine paste and next to it along the hillside, he still grew a good hundred or so coca plants (which was definitely illegal). He told us that while he didn't produce paste any longer (other than the minute amount he was about to produce to show us), even having that many plants, much less all the materials to produce it, he'd be locked up for at least 20 years. Hence, you will not find our friend in any photos. But he did go through a lengthy explanation of the 7 steps to produce cocaine paste. The last to turn it to powder requires the addition of acetone, which he said the sellers took care of, while mixing in all sorts of other stuff to dilute the product and sell more.
That's Mikey playing with the toys.
And me pretending to taste the purified cocaine liquid being filtered from all the nasty stuff added to it.
And THAT was the final product.

Needless to say, it was a fascinating experience and we learned a lot. Not that I had had a desire anyhow, but through our lesson, it made me that much less interested in ever putting the nasty chemicals added to create cocaine...like gasoline...into my body. Maybe the tour should be used as an anti-drug campaign.

And the days went on. We hiked and hiked, sweat and grumbled and hiked some more. Before leaving on the journey, we were convinced it could have been done in only 3 days roundtrip. Afterall, it was only 20 miles or so. And after day 1 of hiking straight up a muddy hill, in 90 degree, 100% humidity I understood why it took so long.

We passed through some still existing villages, saw their huts and met some locals...



The path was raw and following the afternoon rain, the rivers were pretty high...

3 days later, we made it to the base of the 1200 steps that would lead us up to the lost city.

And when we finally got up there...it was spectacular. The pictures really don't do the place justice. Something about the vast history, which I won't bore you with, mixed with the fact that we were literally the only ones there, other than the 3 military guys guarding it from the top, was pretty cool. In some ways it blew Machu Picchu out of the water, probably because of it's true rustic destination.


It started pouring, per usual in the afternoon, halfway through our visit, which between the nice sensation of cooling off and the mysterious tone the rain created, it actually added something to the experience. We spent a couple hours exploring the vast terraces, learning about life in the once city from our guide and admiring the incredible detail and almost indestructible platforms these people built a thousand years ago.

The hike back was much easier as we had hiked mostly uphill to the city. However, on our last day, the rainforest gave us a gift and started pouring a little earlier than usual, giving us the opportunity to slip and slide and fumble our way down the mountain.
Was it worth it? I'd highly recommend the trip to anyone willing to do a pretty hefty workout.

We returned to civilization and a destination not as off-the-beaten track...Cartegena!


Despite the disgusting heat and humidity, we gave ourselves the classic walking tour. The city is interesting and unusual, with it's huge wall still intact providing a barrier all around. We especially enjoyed how the city turned once historic sights into tourist attractions...case in point the old prison...now 30 or so souvenir shops...
And of course we had to try out the famous coffee of the region...several times...

After a few days seeing the sights around town, we decided to take an excursion to the tiny volcano, El Totumo, where we heard you can take a bath in the volcanic mud.




And a mud bath it was. Certainly worth the experience...where else can you float around in volcanic mud and have random Colombian men massaging you in the mud for tips?
Our excursion was followed by a lovely lunch on the beach and nice, big fried fish! Mmmm!

We spent the next day or so soaking up the rest of the sights and museums in town, including the torture museum...yikes!

From there it was time to say goodbye to Natalie and head down to Bogota for our last adventure before flying back home!

After spending a couple weeks on the coast of Colombia, it was time to check out the culture and history that the capital city of Bogota had to offer. With only 2 full days to soak up the scenery, we had a lot of ground to cover in a relatively short period of time. Our hostel was located in the historic Candelaria district of Bogota, near the university, government buildings, and Plaza Bolivar. Initially, we were surprised to see so many students and business types wearing suits. I don't know why, but we expected Bogota to feel shady. It didn't. All told, the city felt cleaner and safer than parts of San Francisco... not at all what we expected.

Prior to our arrival in Bogota, everyone told us to visit the Museo del Oro, or gold museum, to have our socks knocked off by cultural history and physical beauty of Colombian gold.
Marisa didn't want to leave...
I must admit, it was pretty cool... I would like a gold brick please.
As with most cities, you don't truly get a feel for the city until you venture out on a pub crawl. So that's exactly what we did...
Casa de la Cerveza...
The Beer Station...
The obligatory Irish Pub...
The Bogota Brewing Company... We even hit up one other spot but I can't remember the name and we forgot to take a picture. I guess that's the way it goes when your pub crawling. The next morning we hit the streets for a walking tour of the city center and government buildings.
We even went to the National Police History Museum because the guidebook said that in the basement they had the bullet hole ridden bloody jacket of Pablo Escobar on display. The guidebook lied. And we spent like 2 hours learning about Colombian police history. Boring! We learned two things. 1. The museum sucked... with a capital 'ucked'. 2. The Colombian police were trained by the United States... USA USA!!
We spent our final afternoon in Bogota sipping on Juan Valdez coffee and wandering the streets looking for last minute souvenirs. That night we packed our bags for the last time, simultaneously elated to return to our family, friends, and the creature comforts home, yet reluctant to return to the so called "real world" that we chose to leave behind in the first place. After 10 months and 14 countries, our trip of a lifetime was coming to a close... and our only hope was that we could retain a bit of the global perspective and personal insight that we had gained along the way. If given the opportunity to quit our jobs, pack a bag and hit the road all over again, we would do it in an instant... well, after a hot shower and a cold beverage. Because it always comes down to hot water and ice cubes. If you have them both, you live a privileged life.

To all of our blog followers, thank you for traveling with us.
Next stop... HOME!!!
Besos y Abrazos,
Mikey&Marisa