The leafy suburb of Stanmore: tidy shops, regimented lawns; an idyll of comfort and the soft, soft suburban life. Certainly not the type of place known for random encounters -- the only journeys you take in Stanmore are in your car to your friends' houses. My old school friend Lucy and I decided we wanted a break from the norm and booked a holiday to Venezuela.
Venezuela is the sixth largest country in South America. And getting around it is more difficult than negotiating the smooth roads of North West London. In short, it is a real introduction to the 'slow' life and guarantees unpredictability.
The first time we encountered the Venezuelan modus operandi was having just landed in the capital city Caracas. We were in a taxi en route to our hotel and struck up conversation with our taxi driver, Paulo. We asked him where we could exchange our US dollars at a good rate: "My friend's house" he replied. Before we knew it, the car had swerved around and we had pulled up to a smart Caracas suburb, where we were told to hand over wads of cash and sit tight in a locked car. Whilst a pistol wasn’t pointed to our heads, Lucy and I looked at each other anxiously, wondering if these Soprano-esque dealings were kosher. Ten minutes later, Paulo returned with our exchanged money and just like that, proceeded to drive us on. We wondered if this was common in Caracas, because it isn’t in Stanmore and we felt we had taken part in something nefarious.
The arbitrary Venezuelan way manifested itself in a different experience when we arrived in Coro, an ancient city and Unesco site founded in 1527. We had made the journey to Coro especially to see the Jewish cemetery, which is the oldest one still in use on the continent. But when we arrived, the gates were locked and no one was around to let us in. We spent the best part of the afternoon exhausting the narrow cobbled streets , making enquiries about the keys whereabouts. Just as we were about to give up, we stopped to get some water at a newsagent on the corner of a shady street. When we asked the shop owner if he knew about the key, he told us that, naturally, he looked after it and we were finally showed around the immaculately preserved cemetery. Although Jews formed an influential community in the early 19th century, today there are perhaps only half a dozen Jews still living there. Unfortunately, none of them has the key to the synagogue.
Merida was the one place where things felt slightly more organised and not just because we stayed at a deluxe guesthouse. At a mere £25 a night it felt more like a regal retreat with chequered floors, a peaceful turtle rock pool cloistered in the lobby and Hotel Du Vin sheets, (by far the softest sheets I have ever slept in). Merida has a civilized, European feel; it’s a thriving university town rich in neoclassical architecture and plazas. Gargantuan mountain views loom over the windy streets in every direction and it is geared up for tourists and keen ramblers. We took an efficient two hour cable car (the highest and longest in the world) and journeyed through verdant hills to snow-capped mountains. The town also hosts the most famous ice cream parlour in South America as it holds the world record for the most number of ice creams. There were over 900 variations to choose from, although some flavours such as Salmon pate and Spaghetti Bolognaise were less tantalising. I stuck to the chocolate chip dream machine and it was ice cream heaven.
Our good fortune in Merida didn’t last. As we were leaving, we asked our hotel to arrange transport to take us to Los Llanos, a remote rural area in the South known for its beautiful wildlife. We were presented with a battered jeep and two fresh faced Venezuelan boys to take us there. Georgio and Francisco were 15 years old. I didn’t know whether they even had a drivers’ license but I didn’t ask. It felt like hitching a lift but paying for the privilege as we were bandied up and down on open roads for four hours to blearing Venezuelan pop music. After what seemed like an eternity, we arrived at our eco lodge with our hair standing up in a tangled mess and dust set in to our face. We were here to do a wildlife safari and despite the basic facilities- no hot water, no electricity after 9pm, no phones, no emails - I began to appreciate the surrounding nature. For four days we were ferried around vast yellow grasslands to spot the local animals. Luckily for me, we managed to miss the anaconda (a Llanos inhabitant), but we spotted hibiscus birds, wild caimans, some cute beaver/bear-like animals called capybaras, as well as wild cattle.
We ended our trip in a beach resort on a collection of idyllic islands called Los Roques, off the coast of Caracas. We thought that there could be nothing unusual about this--- and there wasn’t. The beaches exceeded all expectations with their sheer beauty and we spent five paradisal days sunbathing on ribbons of white sand and swimming in turquoise waters. We also enjoyed the bountiful hospitality of a small Italian-run guesthouse where we dined on delicious three course meals and drank teatime espressos. But it was wishful thinking to believe we would leave Los Roques without some unforeseen and uncommon event. As we waited to catch our plane back to Caracas, we were told the national air carrier was on strike and that we would be stranded with no further notice. The next thing we knew, a plane landed on the runway with a smashed window. Without any information, we were rushed onto the tiny six-seater jet and when one of the passengers queried a safety check, the pilot brushed her off with an irreverent smile. We were told during the flight that this was an illegal charter flight that had been hired especially and that we were not to give any information about the plane when we arrived in Caracas. Those words typified the Venezuela mentality for me- always startling and completely unpredictable.
One delayed flight later we arrived back at Heathrow. I was so pleased to see the taxi driver waiting for me with my name on a piece of cardboard. Relying on the Venezuelan way of life was full of unanticipated surprises and whilst it was a great experience, there was something comforting about knowing that I could get into my car in Stanmore, mistress of my own destiny.