Venezuela

September 3, 2005
Venezuela

Excerpt from Heather’s Journal:

This morning we arrived in Venezuela to the sights of a commercial shipping port in La Guaira. After being cleared by the customs officials around eight thirty we attended a diplomatic briefing, reminding us one last time of the dangers and safety tips before we disembarked the ship. It was a nice sunny day and I remember seeing the lights of La Guaira this morning when I awoke at six, the land looming ever closer.

Megan writes, “This was our first stop, La Guaira, Venezuela. It is as foreign to this computer’s spell check as it is to me. La Guaira.”

At nine thirty Megan and I took our first step into our first port of call, heading from the port terminal to the three tour buses outside awaiting students on the Grand Introduction to Caracas. The terminal was small, dirty, and not much to see, but the buses were air conditioned and comfortable enough in terms of cleanliness. It was a forty-five minute drive from La Guaira to Caracas, winding along the highway, under overpasses and through tunnels, past the airport, up, up, and up to the city three thousand feet above sea level. The weather in Caracas was pleasant; a nice breeze making my blue jeans a welcome in what I thought might be stifling heat. Caracas was dirty, depressing, and the only way I can describe it is worse than any other city I have ever been to. I have never seen so many buildings in disrepair, sure to topple at the first breeze. It made me think of Grenada after hurricane Ivan, and I would have to say that Caracas is much worse. The windows, even on the top floors of apartment complexes are barred with curved metal, hung with laundry. Most are not air-conditioned and many have satellite dishes attached to the sides of buildings, though these do not work; they are only for show.

Before we stepped on the buses this morning Megan and I noticed a familiar face from January at the terminal awaiting the students – our tour guide from Margarita Island. We asked him if he remembered us. He said it was impossible that we had him as a tour guide, but we knew that there was no way it could not have been him. Later when he arrived with another of the student tours to lunch he came over to chat. We told him we had come to Margarita Island on a cruise, and that he had taken us to the Dunes Resort and that we were not sure when we were suppose to be back to the Empress of the Seas because the captain had extended port time. He smiled and said, “Then, it is just possible that you are right,” and of course we were.

Excerpt from Megan’s Journal:

Wearing long pants and a t-shirt, I was relieved it did not seem overly hot and sticky. At the Pantheon I was reassured in my choice of apparel. They do not permit visitors in shorts to enter. The Pantheon had a very open feel, flags bowing upon the floor in their mounts like courtesans. A statue of Bolivar announced itself at the opposite end. It felt like a palace and I was making a request from the king. An appeal for what though? Perhaps to understand the way of life in Venezuela, the reduced conditions, the lack of reserve medical supplies, the barrios on the hill. Simon Bolivar was buried at the Pantheon, a monument for his people. Other notables were there including three women, a writer, a musician, and a heroine.

Heather writes, “In a way you could compare the Pantheon to Westminster Abbey in London.”

Excerpt from Heather’s Journal:

The ranchitos line the hills around the city like popcorn, and are perhaps what we would call slums. Many do not have roofs, electricity, and water, but the land is free and so they build their homes near the city. It is amazing that these people live in one room in such poor conditions. They are of such abundance and so high in the mountains that I wonder how they got there.

The city surprised me. It is a maze of filth, peeling paint, poor roads, and lack of sanitation. I don’t know what I expected, but not this. Granted, the city does have some nicer parts, Las Mercedes and such, but the majority of the city lives in deplorable conditions.

Perhaps the highlight of the tour was Mount Avila. Standing at the bottom as I waited for a cable car I remember looking at the utmost visible point thinking that that was where I would be standing after the twelve-minute ascent. I was wrong. The cable car fit eight people and gave us an incredible view of the city; a view improved much by distance. As we reached the point visible from the ground, I looked up and as far as the eye could see, cable cars, ascending even higher, seven thousand feet. Indeed only pictures can do this justice. It was cooler at the top with a spectacular view of the ocean and the city, the buildings a wash of terracotta, blue, green, and yellow, but surprisingly touristy with shops, vendors, and stands selling traditional Venezuelan food, but nothing of interest. Megan and I did not have the chance to change any money over to Bolivares because the tour left immediately after being cleared, though fortunately we did not need any of the foreign currency. I was very glad of my backpack, today being the first time I have used it, and it provides so much security. I guess I owe dad on this one since he found them for us.

Excerpt from Megan’s Journal:

We left the Pantheon for higher ground. Taking the Avila lift I was transported up 7,000 feet or more to the top of Mt. Avila. The wind was descent, the clouds so low or I so high I could nearly touch them. If they were any closer they would be physical entities, real, corporeal and concrete. A part of me wishes they were. They hovered about the peak as I traversed the path. Twenty minutes later the lift conveyed me back safely to the ground. The cables were thick and secure, and I saw dense foliage underneath me, verdant and dynamic. The plant life mimics the people I have met thus far. With so little rain, the plants manage to thrive.
Excerpt from Heather’s Journal:

Lunch was at a local restaurant in Caracas, and I seriously wondered whether I would be eating the granola bars and cracker packs I brought along, but surprising we ended up at a very nice restaurant called Rucio Moro. We had barely sat down to the table, large banquet tables were set for the massive influx of students on the tour, before an army of waiters brought plates of cheese, salad, arepas, yucca, fried yucca, and baked plantains to the table. Of course, we all sat there asking each other if the water was safe, and whether we could drink it, but the restaurant served the water right before the table from bottles. Everything was delicious, especially the cheese and white corn cakes. I tried the yucca, which tasted like a potato, and enjoyed the fried yucca the most as it reminded everyone of French fries. They served us very tender, juicy beef, and kept putting more slices on our plates when we finished a slice. I think Semester at Sea went all out on this one.

Excerpt from Megan’s Journal:

Lastly we went to Quinto Anauco, a colonial manor house frequented by Simon Bolivar. The doors were high and it felt open, one with the outdoors. Each room was dark as the chandeliers were not on. The guide illuminated the rooms as we entered and dispelled the lights as we departed. It was like a brief glimpse into the houses previous glory. The guide did not want flash photography and several students did not observe such an easy request. It was frustrating.

Heather writes, “It was so frustrating when other students used the flash on their cameras after repeatedly being asked not too. It showed little respect for their history and I was embarrassed to be apart of the group. We saw a cacao tree with the pods attached and it is hard to believe that these small little beans produce chocolate.”

Excerpt from Heather’s Journal:

It was back to the ship at around six for dinner, and we packed for our five thirty flight to Margarita the following morning. I am so excited about returning to the beach and Margarita Island. We are going to bed at eight so that we are rested for the next three days.

September 4, 2005
Margarita Island

Excerpt from Heather’s Journal:

It has been a very long day full of tour buses, airports, the hot sun beating down on me, and cold showers. With a five thirty flight from La Guaira to Margarita Island I awoke at four o’clock this morning and reported to the Union for check-in, passport distribution, and boxed breakfasts. The airport was about fifteen minutes from the port and needless to say, with so many students there is usually a bump or two in the road. It took almost an hour and a half to check baggage, pick-up tickets, check passports, go through security, and board the flight, which was delayed because of ticketing issues from our group. It was a thirty-five minute flight to the island, and a very uncomfortable one at that. I do not like airplanes in the least and this one was very noisy, very smelly, and very dirty. We exited the plan through what I will call the butt right out onto the pavement outside and it was an interesting experience to say the least; one that I was glad to put behind me.

Megan writes, “We had to wait in the airport for what seemed like an eternity, they even delayed the flight for us because of several problems with tickets. I did not care for the plane, it was small, and the air was stale. It was only a thirty-five minute flight to paradise, but I had not really eaten so the vacant hollowness in my stomach was filled with nausea. I could not wait for it to end. The Margarita sunshine welcomed me as I exited what our group has termed the “butt” of the plane. It was noisy and the sound of the engines and equipment as we walked from outside on the runway to the terminal rendered it difficult to communicate.”

Excerpt from Megan’s Journal:

George took us to the bus and we were off to the Minor Basilica of Our Lady of the Valley.

Heather writes, “It was a very hot day and I was very uncomfortable. Our first stop was at a colonial town and the local church. Ironically, September first through eighth is the Festival of Our Lady of the Valley as hundreds of Venezuelans flock to the church to pay homage to this religious figure. The cobbled streets were packed with locals carrying flowers and idols, chanting and singing to the lady. The architecture was beautiful, very western colonial inspired and painted in the beautiful colors of the islands.”

We entered the church, appearing like the tourists that we were, and saw the Lady in a glass vitrine wearing a gown embroidered with small pearls and golden thread. Venezuelans sat in the pews intrigued by our presence. We toured another colonial house and the museum where all of the gifts to the Lady are kept. College students asking for the Lady’s help to graduate had given their class rings and there were bowls upon bowls of them and other jewelry.

We then departed for La Asuncion, one of the oldest churches in Latin America. It contrasted against the plaza dedicated to Bolivar and several shops, one of which we purchased postcards for two dollars.

Heather writes, “After a welcome return to the air-conditioned bus we made our way to La Asuncion where we stopped at a familiar sight from my previous travels to Margarita – Bolivar Square where the oldest church stands. We bought several postcards, an interesting endeavor in converting Bolivares for the first time since we paid in US dollars.”

We then continued to the fort where the heroine of Venezuela was held captive. The vista of carpeted green mountains bordered the fortification and the blustery wind seemed to whorl, coil and snake, making every picture of us resemble a Medusa-like hairstyle. In my blue jeans I was quite relieved for the change in temperature.

Excerpt from Heather’s Journal:

Finally we stopped at the botanical gardens where we explored the various flora and fauna of Margarita, mango trees drooping with fresh fruits, the largest anthills I have ever seen, and giant cactus plants used to make tequila. Throughout our walk through the gardens we navigated two labyrinths and drank some local beverages, one made from sugarcane which was very bitter, and the other made from sugarcane and lime juice which was significantly better than the first, but still very sweet. At the conclusion we ate cachapas, which were enormous, and baby bananas. Most of the students had never seen baby bananas before, but Megan and I were so hungry that we ate two, and enjoyed every bite.

Megan writes, “It was unbelievably hot and I rolled my pants up as I sat at the end eating some of the cachapas provided for lunch.”

Before we arrived at the hotel we made a quick stop at Samlin, the mall in Porlamar, where we were able to exchange our money for Bolivares. I worried that perhaps we did not change enough, or maybe we changed too much, but if worse comes to worse we can change it over in Brazil to the local currency. The mall was exactly what you would find in the United States, plus some designer stores.

Megan writes, “Inside the mall, where we spent an hour, Heather and I changed 20 dollars for Bolivares. Knowing we now had some local currency for the next three days made us feel more secure.”

It was a packed day and we were glad to arrive at the Hesperia, which is an all-inclusive hotel. It seemed nice at first, but perhaps I am too picky and find fault where others do not.

Megan writes, “We were placed in the third tower, room 1310. The building was hot and the sounds of voices and dripping water echoed through the concrete corridors.”

Most of the students were placed in bungalows and we were stuck out in a tower that was not too comfortable or favorable in terms of peace of mind. One thing we were able to do for the first time since we began this journey was watch CNN and find out what was going on at home. Rumors circulate like wildfire on the ship and we had heard some pretty interesting rumors regarding Katrina. It was devastating to watch from so far away, and we found out that one of the students flew home today to be with her family and will return before we depart Venezuela.

We went to lie by the pool around four and enjoy some sun time before dinner. Most of the group had already meandered out to the irregular shaped pool and tiki hut pool bar for food and of course drinks, namely because the Hesperia is all-inclusive which means as many free drinks as you want as long as you want. When we returned to our room we showered, which was cold and disappointing. I felt lonely and slightly depressed and will be glad to return to the ship. We went to bed at eight and tomorrow is the long awaited catamaran.

September 5, 2005
Coche

Excerpt from Heather’s Journal:

I woke up this morning excited and anxiously awaiting the catamaran to Coche, or as the Venezuelans say it, ka-ta-maran. I know I had a lot of expectations going into today, especially because I have had many catamaran experiences.

I had a horrible night sleep, partially because I was uncomfortable with our accommodations and partially because I bit my lip and it hurts very badly. Either I moisten my lips and it stings or I don’t and they are dry and chapped and it stings. Apparently the only thing I forgot was something suited to this scenario. The air conditioning in our room is very powerful, which is nice considering it is sweltering outside and I could probably cook a cachapa on the pavement. Hence, it is freezing and I woke up to turn it off only to wake up another two hours later to turn it back on and repeat this process through the course of the night.

We had a forty-five minute bus ride to Porlamar and the marina before boarding the Yemaya, our catamaran with bright rainbow swirls, dots, and petroglyphs painted on the sides. Yemaya, as Megan pointed out before the crew told us, is the Yoruba goddess of the sea. It was a very interesting walk to the Yemaya from the marina, crossing a small beach and walking across a dozen or so floating docks with loose, weathered gray boards swaying back and forth.

Megan writes, “Yemaya, I believe, and would be absolutely embarrassed to be remembering incorrectly, is the Yoruba goddess of water, or Loas. Anyway, she functions in some African based religion, vodun or Candomble or some other I am remiss in recalling. Regardless, the name seems entirely appropriate if correct as Yemaya watches those at sea.”

Soon after boarding we found ourselves seated near the nets drinking a deliciously sweet fruit juice and eating breakfast sandwiches with the same cheese they used for the cachapas yesterday. It was a relaxing, very hot sail to Coche lasting about two hours with a twenty-minute stop three quarters of the way there for a dip in the Caribbean Sea. The water was a beautiful shade of blue and the crystalline waters very welcoming from the sundeck aboard the catamaran.

Megan writes, “We sailed an hour in the smooth surf, Coche’s coastline visible in the distance and Venezuela’s mainland behind that. As promised we dropped anchor for a brief swim in the middle of nowhere. The water was cool and pleasant, the sun intense and stifling. Without goggles or other snorkel gear it was far more relaxing to just bobble up and down in the undulating surf.”

I could not even tell you how many times I reapplied sunscreen today, but the sun was very intense and between the two of us we used almost an entire bottle of SPF 30 and still have little pink noses and shoulders.

Excerpt from Megan’s Journal:

I probably reapplied lotion, SPF 30, every half an hour. The bottle we packed is almost empty and we will have to purchase more. We arrived in Coche and were transported around the island in four trucks.

We went through the town where inhabitants sat on chairs and leaned on the frames of open doors, waving or at least gazing curiously at us as we passed and headed into the arid hills where cactus and desert plants grew in abundance. Near the abandoned salt mines and oyster ponds we went, bumping and shuddering over the baked earth, dry dust, warm and granular, dispersed into the air by the spinning of tires.

Heather writes, “Upon arriving at Coche the group climbed into the back of four covered trucks for a drive around the island. We were in the first truck with about seven other people and I was very thankful that Vera, one of the adult passengers was in our group. Vera is a fellow Terp and I enjoy talking with her. She speaks a fair amount of Spanish and translated what the young boy who was our tour guide told us about the island.”

Excerpt from Heather’s Journal:

We drove through the capitol city of Coche, a single road with colorful houses lining the street, though very similar to the architecture of Margarita. All were one room with open porches and many with fences made from the cactus that grows throughout the island. It is very dry and arid on Coche, sand, cactus, and very little else. We saw the oyster farms where they harvest the pearls from large manmade saltwater lakes. Along the way we stopped at Elephant Rock, which looks like an elephant standing in the ocean, and it made me think of Nana, and continued on to the conch mounds. For as far as the eye could see white shells, mostly oyster, piled high like hills of crunchy white snow sprawled out over the land. We climbed to the top of one mound, overlooking the Caribbean Sea and had the most breathtaking view. I wish that mom and dad could have been there, it was so amazing, and definitely the highlight of the trip. I felt very much like a tourist though and forced myself not to take a shell. Many of the other participants loaded their pockets with the discarded remains, and I could only imagine what would happen if everybody took a handful as a memento. Luckily I was rewarded, upon boarding the truck our guide gave each of us a shiny oyster shell with a pearl still attached to the inside. The conch mounds are were they dump the shells from the oyster farm, as they cannot put them back in the ocean or it will ruin the ecosystem. I will never forget seeing the tiny pearl inside the shell and its significance to this island. Consequently, our tour guide picked these shells up at the conch mounds, as sometimes birds get to the oysters first and of course the pearl is still left inside.

Excerpt from Megan’s Journal:

We arrived at our last stop, the conch mounds. Thousands upon thousands of shells, piled like mountains. White and gray shells piled from the dirt path to the edge of the cliffs yards away. I walked everywhere, to the cliff and back, on the highest piles and into the lowest gully. Vendors were selling creations made from the shells, but no one purchased from them, many of the passengers took handfuls of the intricate treasures. They could have charged me for taking just the shells and I would have been happy. I did not take any even if this only happened to be a dump, a garbage can where the shells were forsaken after their organisms had been eaten by birds. Back on the truck I felt disheartened, everyone else had taken their own small heaps of the shells, mini conch mounds in their hands, why hadn’t I? The boy climbed back onto the end of the truck and handed Heather and I a shell. It was ugly, the outside coarse and potholed from barnacles. It was special though, hiding such beauty. The inside was pearly and lustrous, fleshy abalone that glittered in the rays of the sun. Small irritations projected outward, pearls still attached, not fully grown, underdeveloped and interrupted, never to be complete. At the end of the tour Heather and I gave the boy two thousand Bolivares, about one dollar.

Excerpt from Heather’s Journal:

We returned to the beach for some time in the sun and lay under the cabanas on the white sandy shore. Shortly after returning we waded out to the catamaran and climbed aboard for lunch. It is jellyfish season and the water is teaming with these clear gelatinous creatures. You move slowly, scanning the surface of the water before advancing and move quickly out of the path of these almost invisible creatures. Lunch consisted of chicken and beef kabobs, salad, bread, and cookies. It was very good and there was a running joke that we were not eating chicken but pelican instead. Some of the other students actually believed it. We returned to the beach; I don’t think I have ever had the chance to really enjoy a catamaran ride and beach so much as we spent almost the entire day on the island and not just a few hours. Many of the girls bought necklaces and cheap pearls, and it reminded me of how important the tourism industry is to the people of Margarita. Megan and I decided to take this opportunity to write on our postcards while sitting on the beach, I can’t think of a better place to write messages home.

As we were leaving the island, our tour guide from Coche came up to us and dropped two pink pearls in our hands. We have some really great memories, and instead of sand from Coche we have shells and pearls to remember this fabulous day. The return trip took one hour and I can honestly say I really wanted to be out of the sun. Returning to the hotel, we could have chosen to lie by the pool, but the last thing we wanted to do was increase our sun exposure for the day, and it was seriously time to let the sun soak. We ate dinner, went to the convenience store and bought two bottles of Australian Gold SPF 45 for thirty three thousand Bolivares, which is a little less than fifteen dollars.

Megan writes, “Going below the equator soon, we are sure this was the smartest thing to have spent any money on at all.”

The Internet was free in the lobby so we checked our email and had a very long message from mom and dad about their time in Nassau at the Atlantis. It made us cry and laugh at the same time and I am sure some of the people were wondering what we were reading. It was the best present I could have received and it makes me happy just thinking about it.

Megan writes, “Mom and Dad had sent an enormous email, which I have saved because it was truly the best medicine. Their stay at the Atlantis for the week sounded wonderful and I cannot wait to see all of their pictures.”

We were very tired and so found ourselves showering, again it was very cold because the hot water was not working and we called it a night around nine o’clock. We have received four one and a half liter bottles of water in our room and we are going to try to take at least two back with us to the ship. I don’t want to sleep and cannot wait to return to the MV Explorer. Our room has two king beds, and we took the sheets off one to put on the other so that we would not freeze tonight from the air-conditioning. Tomorrow we have the mangrove lagoons and the flight back to La Guaira. We leave the Hesperia at twelve forty five and have decided not to lie by the pool in the morning.

September 6, 2005
La Restinga

This morning we were given free time to enjoy the pool or beach at the Hesperia, but after yesterday I can’t imagine taking any more rays without serious damage. Any slight sign of red skin has faded to a nice brown and is perhaps one of the only mementos I will take with me from this island. We went in search of breakfast and upon finding nothing to our liking went to check the Internet again before our departure.

We ate lunch at the pool bar, a small pizza split between us and a coca-cola. I put my limited knowledge of Spanish to use this morning, relying more on my Italian language skills, and asked the guy at the pool bar for, “Dos pizza margaritas, and dos coca-colas.” A women tried to have a conversation with us, consisting of the word, “gemela” meaning twin, but our Spanish affirmatives to this only launched her into a full fledged conversation that we had to end abruptly with “No hablo espanol, hablo ingles.”

We checked out at noon and shortly after found ourselves back on the tour bus for a thirty-minute ride to La Restinga mangrove lagoon. I have never been to a mangrove lagoon and was entirely unsure of what to expect, water, marsh, plants, etc. Upon arrival we split into groups of five and climbed aboard small wooden boats with thick canvas tops to protect passengers from the intense sun. I wore my swimsuit under by shirt and shorts and I was very glad I did. It was absolutely beautiful with winding canals and passes under the thick foliage and shoots coming out of the water or arching below the surface. Our driver scooped a seahorse from the water into a jar and passed it around, followed shortly by a starfish which we each took turns holding. It was the size of my hand, in the deepest orange red imaginable with small bumps across its surface like Braille. What would it have read I wonder if it could communicate that way? The sky was a clear cornflower blue and provided the best backdrop for the deep greens and grays of the mangrove.

Excerpt from Megan’s Journal:

The mangrove lagoon was amazing. In a small boat with Vera and Brianna, the trip leader, and another adult passenger, Heather and I saw the dense vegetation as well as sea horses and starfish. We got a little wet from the water splashing into the boat, but we had worn our suits underneath our clothes. Each winding waterway was marked with a sign for easy navigation and within what seemed like minutes we were hemmed in the confines of root systems and leaf canopies. After a half hour we were headed back towards the dock and onto the bus for our next stop.

Heather writes, “As we sped back to the docks water lapped over the side of the boat, drenching us in the saltiest water imaginable. This was the exact moment I felt so wonderful for wearing my swimsuit, as I was nearly dry by the time we returned to the bus.”

We arrived minutes later at the Marine Museum for a transitory glimpse at the aquarium and displays of shells. The museum was worthy of note however not entirely attention grabbing, plus it was still extremely hot. Our last sojourn was at a boat builders yard. George was apt to point out that the men working there had probably never seen so many beautiful women at one time. The yard was dirty, boats elevated above the ground for repair. For the few minutes we were there, the magnitude of tourism and industry was obvious. Fishing and tourism are the two industries that keep this small island functioning.

Heather writes, “Our last stop of the trip was to a local boat-building yard that smelled strongly of fish. All around we could hear the plunk of hammers and squawking of birds as the locals rushed out to see us.”

Excerpt from Heather’s Journal:

Finally we returned to the airport, saying goodbye to George, and awaiting our six o’clock flight. Just before boarding we discovered a delay, supposedly a suspicious person had been on the previous flight and thus casing delays to check the plane top to bottom. Needless to say at this point we were calculating whether or not we would make it back for dinner and knew we would not. At long last we boarded an even smaller plane than our trip to Margarita and were on our way.

Megan and I were separated by several rows this time and so I closed my eyes and prayed for the flight to be over. My cushion was not attached to the seat and it made me wonder when the last time it was used as a flotation device might be. The flight was much worse than the first, and I put my Terp towel on the bottom of my chair to cushion my legs from the scratchy burlap feel of the dirty fabric.

We arrived back at the ship with little incident except for a long line of boarding students, bags being checked before boarding, and turned our passports back in to the Purser’s Office. We thought we had missed dinner by about thirty minutes but were greeted with the news that dinner was being held later because of the students with flights having missed the first. I had to weigh in my mind what was more important; shower, or food, and food won out by a very small margin. We did get our shower, warm again, and fell asleep to the swaying of the ship once more after doing some much needed laundry in the sink and some reading.

Excerpt from Megan’s Journal:

Overall, I had a marvelous time returning to Margarita Island. It is truly the first time I have really returned to an island and been able to spend numerous days discovering life in-depth. The scenery was picturesque, the weather, blistering, the people, amusing. As the first stop on Semester at Sea I could not have asked for a better way to begin immersing myself in other cultures. The atmosphere was simple and relaxed and it contributed to my general feeling of contentment and exhilaration. I am filled with anticipation for future ports and experiences.

It will be six days until we reach Brazil, six days of Global Studies, six days of being in my cozy cabin, six days of familiar faces at the dining room welcoming me for meals, six days of reading, six days of class work, and six days at sea, with the blue outside my window, so far tranquil and quiet.