Annet, Eline and Jeannette (photo from Annet and Eline)
What preceded
You're not going to understand much of the following story, and will wonder what I was doing on Curaçao anyway, if I don't give a proper explanation. So apologies in advance for the tedious introduction, but it is just necessary.
During the same time two female friends of mine, Annet and Eline, who are travelling together through South-America for a couple of months, will happen to be in the neighbourhood (Venezuela). So the plan is quickly made that they also will visit there for a couple of days.
Temperature shock
Hank, Gerald and I take on Wednesday February 16 a flight of the Portuguese airline TAP with an overnight stop in Lisbon. That evening in Lisbon we go into town, looking for good fado music.
A tropical paradise
Curaçao is a coral island right off the coast of Venezuela. The capital Willemstad was built on the mouth of a large bay, the Schottegat. A moving floating bridge over the bay mouth connects the two parts of the city: 'Punda' (the rich area) and Otrobanda ("the other side", speaks for itself). This separation between rich and poor was undoubtedly of more importance during the colonial occupation, but hasn't disappeared completely. The centre of the city contains a lot of typical Dutch 'staircase' fronts. Dutch nostalgia in a tropical setting. There are even Dutch-style 'brown pubs', but contrary to home, where these offer warmth as a refuge from the rain and wind, they are air-conditioned, as refuge from the blazing heat outside. In my opinion, this harms the atmosphere a bit, but after all, they can't help it that it doesn't rain.
Whoever knows me, knows that for a long time, I have had a soft spot for Latin-American culture. This started with my internship in 1987 in Mexico. Since this time I have always kept myself active in the various kinds of Latin-American music (because well, that I am a music-freak know even people who don't know me). In 1991 I made a journey through Venezuela. I didn't know much of the specific country, only the music, which I liked. I booked a flight and left everything else to chance. This became a lovely three-week trip, in which I also learnt to play the cuatro, and bought such an instrument.
In the first half of the nineties I am active in al kinds of Latin-American music groups, o.a. a Mexican mariachi, a salsa-like band and a guitar trio. It is the start of my professional career as radio communication scientist, and I am trying furiously to combine this with the life of a professional musician. It's tiring, but not unsuccessful.
As you might expect, the various groups consist of partly the same members. All of the mentioned groups were even founded by the same person: Hank. This guy from the Netherlands Antilles is even more driven than me by enthusiasm over Latin-American music, and naturally he has found in me an eager companion and we have spent together many a night making music or just drinking. He only never managed to convince me to give up my future as a radio scientist and commit myself full-time to music.
But he does manage to persuade me to the idea of going to Curaçao for two weeks in February 1994 with the three of us: him, the bass player Gerald of the guitar trio, and me. We would stay with Hank's parents, and apart from relaxing would entertain ourselves with musical activities.
I had seen Curaçao already too, and to be honest I wasn't much impressed by it. But it is a Caribbean island, with this typical atmosphere of 'don't worry and enjoy life', which after all creates a perfect holiday setting.
And as if that isn't enough, they have even convinced another friend of theirs to also drop by: Jeannette, who happens to be my ex, and is living in Canada now. Because her little house in Montreal is freezing to cracks in this extreme winter and is only held together by the ice, she gladly responds to the call to come for a little while to a tropical island.
A great reunion in the Caribbean Sea. The ultimate party.
On directions from the hotel receptionist we find a wonderful concert in a small restaurant. The guitarists are all but sitting at our table. The lady singer is standing between them, and sings full of soul the Portuguese blues. We don't understand much of it -except for a word here and there, because of course we do speak Spanish-, but the feeling goes right through you. Lovely.
The following morning we drag through the chaotic city, of which I get the impression that they are over-reconstructing it in its entirety, back to the bus and to the airport, and take the flight to Curaçao.
When we arrive on February 17 in the afternoon local time, Annet, Eline and Jeannette are already waiting for us at the airport. A passionate reencounter with Annet and Eline, but of Jeannette I never know whether she wants to see me at all. After all, she is not there to see me in the first place. And besides, she dumped me five years ago by moving to Mexico, from which I have still not entirely recovered.
"Don't I get a hug?" she asks me.
Allright, so that is on the program. Excuse me for not knowing this, because even when we did have a relationship, I wasn't allowed to hug you when I felt like it. So a friendly reencounter appears to be possible after all.
We all go to the capital Willemstad, where on a terrace we catch up on stories. Hank, Gerald and I have to get used to the temperature. It was -10° in the Netherlands, +10° in Portugal and 30° here. A stepwise change, but not a small one. Besides that, we are a bit wobbly due to the jetlag. Jeannette on the other hand, who also just arrived, tells me she doesn't have a jetlag, but does have a temperature shock: from -20° at once to +30°; that takes some adaptation from your body. Annet and Eline on their side have been here for a while and have great stories to tell about their experiences in Venezuela: in the mountain range of the Andes near Merida, and in the Orinoco delta.
After this, Hank, Gerald and I go and climatise at Hank's parents' place. The three ladies are staying somewhere else, but we will see more of them
The charm however stops outside of the city centre. The entire rest of the island is covered in American-style suburban residential areas. While in the centre you can walk along the market stalls and cafés, and stroll along the beach and the boulevard, outside of this, everybody drives around in cars, because the distances to shops and whatever else you want or have to do are too large to walk, entirely according to the American model.
Now, everybody who knows me, also knows about my aversion to cars. But right now I don't want to talk about the pollution and the danger they cause, that they are status symbols and make people fat and lazy. My point is now only that driving around in cars takes away all spontaneity from the traffic. In a car you drive from A to B, and in between you don't have any contact with the world around you. Walking or cycling you see other people, you can stop anywhere, have a chat, and if you meet a friend you can decide together to go somewhere else for a moment. In the car: none of this. The other road users are not people anymore, but only still more of these tin cans, which you will have to tolerate, but actually they are in your way. Human contact is reduced to, if you meet a friend, a waving hand from behind the hardened glass. A momentary rudimentary human gesture, which makes those who can remember it, think back with sadness of the time when there was still human contact.
A question that rises immediately if you see all this Dutchness having been imported with staircase house fronts and brown pubs, is: 'What happened to the bicycle?' In the Netherlands the bicycle is an integral part of the way of life, though everybody agrees on this subject that it would be nice if it would rain a little less. Now we have a piece of Netherlands on a Caribbean island where the sun always shines, so you would say: ideal for cycling! No. Apart from the very poorest individual, nobody cycles here. He who has money, buys a car, and who has less, buys a dodgy old can of rust.
Now we may consider that the Dutch especially hop on the bicycle when it is nice weather, but that is to enjoy every minute of sunshine that we can get. Here, where nice weather is not a rare commodity, people may feel more inclined to hop into an air-conditioned car to get away from that eternal heat. But for me bicycle fanatic, it's a disappointment anyway.
Hank and Gerald feel fine in the American lifestyle. They drive merrily around from shop to shop, as their main pastime on this holiday. Because I don't have anything better to do, and because the plan was that we would undertake things together, I go with them. But as a passenger, when you can't decide very much for yourself where you're going, the spontaneity is, if possible, even harder to find.
I was assuming that I am having a good enough relationship with them that I can tell my opinion about certain things (maybe also something typically Dutch). So at one time I bring it up, that I find it a pity that there is no cycling here, and that all this car driving feels very American, and takes away spontaneity, because of the above reasons. Hank has however little understanding for my opinion. This is his island, his culture, and this is the way they live here. And I shouldn't think I know better.
One evening we go to a party, where according to Hank and Gerald it is the opportunity to hit on women. A band plays non-stop meringues, and a large number of people is dancing on the improvised dance floor on the open terrain, in the light of the lamps in the pitch-black tropical evening. Antillean men, their hair smoothly greased and themselves smoothly dressed according to the latest fashion, are busy asking women, sexily dressed and all personality hidden behind their make-up, to dance, to get a chance to touch them. Because the meringue is danced closely against each other.
Annet, Eline and Jeannette have also come. The Antilleans are immediately impressed by all this blonde beauty, something they normally don't see here very much. But they are not very successful in asking these Dutch girls to dance, who don't find this the ideal method to get to know a nice guy. The Antilleans label this as 'stiffness of these cold-blooded dutch' and creep off again.
Persuaded by all of our company I challenge a dance with Jeannette. This was especially recommended by Annet, who has seen us get together almost ten years ago, and who has always been saying for the last couple of years: "I just can't imagine that you guys can't be together!" Although there isn't much hope that I'll get Jeannette back this way, I ask her for a dance, and surprisingly she agrees.
But what a boring dance is this meringue! Allright, I only know the basic steps and a simple turn, but either way, this endless hip-wiggling, even though it is against your loved one, very rapidly becomes boring. Hardly ever has a less imaginative protocol been invented to get men and women in contact with each other. Undoubtedly comfortable for those who can't think of anything themselves. Not for me.
I keep up the meringue for no more than five minutes, and for the rest of the time we are drinking and enjoying ourselves with our little group, watching how things go around here. Gerald, who understands a decent word of Papiamento, has amusedly eavesdropped some conversations of the Antilleans; things like "Damned, it won't work with these Dutch women!"
After this I go with Jeannette on to a bar in downtown Willemstad. She'll be flying back again to Canada already tomorrow, and we both find it necessary to catch up some more. She explains me for the umpteenth time that I am the love of her life and that she would like to continue seeing me, but that she never again wants to be with me. And for the umpteenth time I don't understand anything of this. I hear some more stories about her relationships after me, the first one of which had already started long before I even got to hear that it was over between us. In exchange she gets to hear some about my depressions and suicide aspirations of the last couple of years. Fair deal, isn't it? And with this ends what will prove to be one of the last times I'll ever see her.
'Sorry' seems to be the hardest word
The next day a few some discussions arise between Hank and me. It was apparently a misunderstanding that I thought that we would we would go and make a lot of music; he hadn't planned it like that. He just wanted to go and relax on his home island, ad he thought that I would also be up for this.
The next morning I get up and leave the house while all other residents are still in deep slumber, and go to the coach station in Willemstad, where I agreed to meet Annet and Eline at 9:00. A breakfast from a street stall vendor gets me going allright. We take the coach to the Christopher's mountain.
This evening we're going to a pub where a musician is performing; an old friend of Hank and Gerald. Annet and Eline also drop by. They will be leaving back to mainland South-America the day after tomorrow, but for tomorrow we agree that I'll go with them, to climb the Christopher's mountain. This way I'll at least get something interesting to do on this trip.
At the end of the evening, all other audience has left in the meantime, we play a bit along with the musician, on our accidentally with premeditation brought instruments. This way we do get to play some music after all. A spontaneous jam session, that is to say, as spontaneous as is possible on this island. It stays a dead atmosphere, where everybody is just busy looking beautiful conform the fashion ideal.
Afterwards, in the car on our way home, Hank is still our travel guide. We pass through a neighbourhood about which he remarks from behind the wheel: "We are now going through Santa Rosa". It is a name I've heard before.
"Look Max," says Gerald, "now this is the neighbourhood where Tipiko Santa Rosa comes from." Tipiko Santa Rosa is, this much I know, one of the leading ensembles of traditional Antillean music.
I look out of the car window at the nightly world. I see just another American-style suburban residential area. Undoubtedly sometime, there has been some social life here and the neighbourhood has had an atmosphere, but now, or anyway as far as I can see, there isn't and it doesn't.
What should I do to respond to this? I am looking for words. I'd like to be positive about this island, but I find so little to be positive about. I'll just have to stick to meaningless superficial words. But maybe Hank prefers those anyway.
What I say, results from a misunderstanding on my part. I use an English expression, of which I thought that it could have a reasonably positive meaning, something like "that's great!" By the way, I also sincerely believe that that has one time been the case. But nowadays, as I now experience, the expression is only evermore used sarcastically.
"Big deal," I say.
Hank chokes on this remark. "Now I know, Max! You're just an asshole! You're not at all the nice guy I always thought you were! It is all clear to me now!" He stops the car. "Get out of my car!"
"Easy Hank; I'm sorry; I didn't mean it like that," I say, completely conform the truth.
"No, I don't want to hear it anymore! Out of my car, now!!"
Why is it that so many people, especially Dutch (including apparently Antilleans), do not value an apology? It happens to me very often, that somebody does something small to me, let's say steps on my toes, at which I say something like "hey, watch out what you're doing!", but the other says something like "shut up!" If he would say "sorry", I would know that he is sorry, he would be immediately forgiven, and there would be no further problem. But this way I stay angry, and this small incident gets blown up to a heavy argument. On the other hand it also happens often, like now, that I accidentally do something to somebody, for which I then immediately apologise, but my apology is ignored and not accepted. In both cases feelings of hate arise, which could have been prevented by that simple little word 'sorry', that one doesn't want to say or hear. And of course it's always my fault.
Hank seems to be serious. He doesn't drive on before I get out. Gerald says nothing.
I don't know what to do anymore. "Well, then I'll just go," I say, and get out. The car drives off immediately.
Nice going Hank! Throw me out of the car, in the middle of the night, on an island where I don't know the way! And only because I've said a couple of critical things about your island?!
Fortunately I have a map with me, so I quickly find out where I actually am, and the buses are still going. I find a bus stop, and take a bus back to Hank's home. But my thoughts on this ride don't contribute much to making me eager to apologise any more. After what Hank has done now, it is his turn to apologise. And that will have to consist of more than a 'sorry'.
When I get home, Hank and Gerald aren't there yet. Probably went to another bar, to celebrate that they finally got rid of that annoying guy, or something. I go to sleep.
Half an hour later they come home, and Gerald, who sleeps in the same room with me, comes into the room. He is relieved to see that I managed to find the way back. He tries to calm the situation with: "Don't let it get to you, Max; Hank doesn't mean it all like that. He got annoyed because you said certain things about his island."
(Doesn't mean it 'like that'? He throws me out of the car in the middle of the night!) "What do you mean 'he doesn't mean it like that'?"
"You don't have to take it personally."
"Not personally?! What I said, that wasn't personal!"
"Well, it did come across that way."
Right. When I say things about his island, that's personal to Hank, but if he says 'you're an asshole', that's not personal.
"Well, whatever," I continue, "I don't feel anymore like staying here much longer. I'll ask Annet and Eline tomorrow if I can join them to Venezuela."
"Yeah well, we thought as much."
That's nice, then.
The ladies think it'll be fun if I hang out with them the rest of my time in the Caribbean. And my flight back, in 10 days, goes via Caracas (capital of Venezuela), so I would then be able to get in there. Then I won't even have to get back here anymore.
The Christopher's mountain is 'only' a hill, the highest point on Curaçao. This is the first relaxing day of the whole trip, even though it contains a little more physical strain (or partly because or that). From the road we walk over a narrow path through the thick cactus bushes. The path starts going up and winds, without a change in the landscape, to the top.
Annet gives up the climb just before the finish, and waits while Eline and I work ourselves to the top. The mountain has a typical pointy tip, on which we sit down with the wind blazing around us, and have triumphantly our photograph taken.
After this we go to the beach, in one of the little bays on the south west side of the island. At the end of the afternoon we hitchhike in the back of a pick-up truck back to Willemstad.
Flight
When I get back at Hank's parents' place, Hank has calmed down. He accepts (is happy with?) my decision to leave. "And I am happy for you, that you managed to do today something you like on Curaçao, before you leave."
After an hour we reach Venezuela, and fly over the sandy plains of Punto Fijo. I fool myself into thinking that on such an area, at least you can't crash all too badly, to suppress every now and then upcoming nervousness. But we arrive without any problems on the airport of Coro.
Oasis in the mountains
And you wake up when that air clearly has become somewhat fresher. In the meantime it has gotten light and we are driving on winding roads through the mountains. The last couple of hours of the ride show a continuously changing landscape, with a climate which changes from tropical cooler and cooler, and a vegetation that also keeps changing.
Apologising, I say goodbye to Hank's parents, promise his sister Carrie that I will keep in touch (which I indeed will do afterwards for a while!) and the next morning, Monday 21 February, I make my way to the centre. Annet and Eline are going back to Venezuela today with an airline flight, but I can't get a ticket on that. But on the small planes which fly to and fro to Coro on request, I can book a flight. I agreed to meet the ladies in Merida.
Annet and Eline have made a camping trip with donkeys from Merida, in the extension of the Andes. But one of the donkeys got a flat tyre (no, that's not right, but I don't know exactly what was wrong), and because of that, not all their luggage has at that time come back with them before they left Merida. That's why they have to go back there, to pick up Eline's things from the tour organiser. We agreed to meet tomorrow in the hotel where they had stayed at that time.
I make my way to the airport. In the hall I suddenly hear in Spanish: "Hey hi, do you remember me?" It's the pilot who has flown me three years ago in a three-seater plane from Coro to here. I recognise him, but especially because he recognises me. Am I that memorable?
"How are you doing? And what about the other gentleman?" He means the other passenger of the time, a businessman.
"I'm sure he's allright; I don't know because afterwards I've seen him just as much as you have. I don't know him either."
This time I have a flight in a significantly larger plane: this one has five seats. The pilot is a different one than my old friend.
We (three other tourists and I) have to climb in over the wing. I'm sitting next to the pilot. He tells me to hold the door open while we are making speed on the runway. I'm waiting for a command 'now close it!' when I hear, just when we take off: "Let go!" Confused, I keep holding the door open and look at the pilot in a puzzled way.
"Let go!!" he repeats.
I let go of the door, which immediately slams closed. Of course, I could have known that. Forgive me my lack of experience as a co-pilot.
I keep a close watch on all the dials around me (you understand that I mean: deeply impressed, I look at the few dials that I understand), and for the rest gaze at the view: we leave the coral island and fly low over the ever bubbly Caribbean Sea.
Venezuela! What a joy to be back! Getting out of the airport onto the street, people, buses and cars are buzzing around me in the early evening. Everybody is on their way to somewhere. Businesspeople, workmen and children on their way home, youth looking for fun this evening, street vendors and taxi drives hunting for customers. This is alive, what a relief after the lifeless imagery of Curaçao!
For completeness, maybe I should add: there's no cycling here either, but I don't even expect that. But there is walking, and public-transport-ing. The possession and continuous use of a motorised piece of tin on wheels isn't proof of personal value here, and nobody sees it as a shame to make their way on foot through the centre and to proceed by bus, when that happens to be more convenient, which is not unlikely, for there are nevertheless a lot of cars as well, and the traffic is not easy to get through.
Via a cash machine, to stock up a good amount of Bolívares, I make my way through the boiling pot of life to the coach station of Coro. There is a night coach going to Merida; a trip of about 10 hours. Annet and Eline should be arriving in Maracaibo more or less now as well; this way maybe we'll arrive at the same time in Merida.
Having gotten into the coach I chat with the girl sitting next to me. My Spanish is a bit rusty, I notice.
"Sorry for my poor Spanish, it's been a while. I have to get back into it," I explain myself.
"Why; does it cost you effort to speak Spanish?"
The coach gets out of the city and into the tropical night. The shaking and the warm air work perfectly, if you give in to it, to lull you to sleep.
We arrive in Merida, high in the mountains sparkling in the fresh clear morning sun. A entirely different world that down on the coast. Merida lies at 1600 m altitude, and is the most important city in the Andes part of Venezuela.
I have also been here already three years ago, so I know the city a little. Quickly I have found out where the meant hotel is, and amble to it.
Checking in, it turns out that Annet and Eline aren't there yet. Yes, I have won the race!! (for what that may be worth). So do I want a single or a triple room? Hmm, well, then I don't know yet. Allright, I still have the whole day.
I'm going to have lunch on a terrace in the centre. A gorgeous Venezuelan woman asks if she can come and sit at my table, because there isn't another table free. The answer I will leave out here to save space because you can guess it. At first, we don't exchange a lot of words. But after a while she asks, having seen what I'm reading: "Are you Dutch?"
"Er yes; how can you tell?"
"I live in Amsterdam," she replies in Dutch.
There are those moments when you suddenly have to revise your whole orientation in your surroundings. Such as when, in a fairground machine, you think you are hanging upside down and turn out to be upright after all, or when you have been guided blindfolded into a room, take off the blindfold, and turn out to be standing on the five meter high diving board. A similar feeling overcomes you, when deep in South America, far from the touristic areas, you are talking with the locals, and a gorgeous Venezuelan woman then turns out to live in Amsterdam and speak perfectly Dutch.
Her name is Maria, she is studying in Amsterdam, and is now back home visiting her parents in Merida. We go on chatting in Dutch. She nicely combines a light Amsterdam accent with a light Venezuelan. Life in the Netherlands suits her fine, though of course there are crazy things. "What I find strangest, is how Amsterdam people talk. When I am telling a story, they often say in between: 'Say!' Then I always ask: 'Say what?'. Then they say 'no, just: say!' That's apparently an expression of amazement."
A little later a small boy comes to us, begging for money. This is a well known phenomenon in these countries. You can safely assume that he is part of a 'gang', and that he has been hired to do the begging because that excites feelings of mercy in people. It is very unlikely that he himself will get much better from the money you give him.
Maria says: "I won't give you money, but I will give you something to eat. Do you want that?"
The boy nods shyly but enthusiastically 'yes'. Maria orders him a sandwich, and lets him have a seat at our table. When the sandwich arrives, the boy eats it, still shy and not much speaking, but his shining little eyes say that he can hardly believe his luck of today. I am convinced: this is the way to really help beggars a little.
When the sandwich is gone, the boy gets on his way again, after Maria has pressed him not to tell this to anybody. Now he has not only a nicely filled stomach, but also an exciting secret. If only now his commandeers don't start wondering why he is being so happy today.
I tell Maria about my plans, which actually only come down to waiting for Annet and Eline. Maria asks me:
"Do you like dancing?"
"Er... yes?"
"Then you should come tonight to the bar *****; there they have good music and good dancing. I'm going there tonight as well."
That sounds like a good plan. So when Maria leaves, we promise to meet in that bar.
A little later I go and check the hotel again, but still no Annet and Eline. The rest of the day I still wander around town, and towards the beginning of the evening I am back in the hotel, where there is still no sign of life of the ladies. Now I am starting to get worried.
I book a single room for tonight. A moment later, Annet and Eline enter.
Whether it wasn't possible anymore to change the room booking, and why not, I don't recall at the writing of this story. Anyway, we have separate rooms for tonight; from tomorrow we will have room with the three of us together.
We go and celebrate that we have found each other, and that I got out of Curaçao, in a restaurant, and after that in the bar which has been recommended to me by Maria. Annet and Eline are deeply impressed when a little later a beautiful Venezuelan woman comes in and spontaneously starts kissing me. With Maria and her friends we have a very nice continuation of the evening.
On the plains
We stay for three more whole days in Merida. Annet and Eline get their stuff back from the tour operator. And we go to the market halls where three years ago I bought my cuatro. Somebody in the Netherlands is interested in buying my cuatro, and that's why I'm buying here for myself a new one. That first one has cost at the time about €10 and was of reasonable quality; now I decide to go a class up and buy a really good one for €30. Big spender!
That cuatros are so easily and cheaply available, is not such a surprise if you look further around you. The cuatro is just such an essential part of life here as the bicycle is in the Netherlands. Everybody has a cuatro, and can also play it decently well. They are brought up with cuatro music culture from very early age. This shows also when we pass a school building where a door is left open, and we see a school class of children who are, with devotion and pleasure, practising the traditional three-four beats.
I go to a doctor to ask about vaccinations. For the Curaçao trip no vaccinations were necessary, but in Venezuela actually they are. So what is now advisable to do? The doctor advises me to take malaria tablets, but for the rest, if I don't venture out into the jungle, the risk of yellow fever and such are non-existent and I don't need to take any jabs. So I stick to that - also because I suspect that the jab itself in this country may contain just as much risk as the disease...
Which way we now want to travel on is an issue of discussion. In Merida we eat in a funny Colombian restaurant, and I don't know whether that made Eline get the urge, but she asks Annet and me several times, full of childish enthusiasm: "Are you coming along to Colombia? Yes? Yes?"
Annet and I however are not crazy about the idea. Undoubtedly there are places where you can walk around safely, but then you'll have to know those. Just traveling around by chance, like we are doing now, is pretty risky in that country which is in a constant battle between drug barons and the police. I don't now whether Eline is already regretting now that they have taken me along, but she confines to the majority's decision.
On Saturday 26 February we take the coach down the mountain towards Barinas, on the south east side of this branch of the Andes. This is where the Llanos start, the savannah-like plains which cover a large part of Venezuela. And here we get back into the tropical heat.
On the way we notice that we aren't so far away from Colombia. The coach is stopped by the police. Armed guardians tell us quietly but pressingly that everybody has to get out.
The coach is being searched, and all passengers have to open their luggage under their watchful eyes. The agents rake through all the bags in search of, we assume, smuggled goods. Apart from us all travellers are Latin-Americans and don't have much special with them. But we three strangers with large backpacks of course deserve extra attention. (Probably the information 'Dutch' makes them even more alert!) With us, really everything has to be opened and taken apart.
In Eline's toiletry bag, a copper finds a strip with suspicious looking pills. He waves these in her face, looking at her questioningly. Eline wonders how to explain with her limited Spanish that these are anti-conception pills. "No niños" ('no children'), she says eventually.
Although you could interpret this description in many ways ('not for children'?), these two magical words are enough tot pacify the guardian. They don't ask any further questions, let us pack our bags and get in, and we continue our journey.
We arrive in Barinas, a small town with a village atmosphere. In the centre is a square with a large concert hall on it. In this hall, there is something going on this evening: a popular Venezuelan singer is performing here tonight.
We huddle into the large crowd of people making their way to the entrance. It seems like the whole town's population will be together in one hall tonight.
Inside it seems, in its setup, to be more of a party than a concert. The stage is at the end of the hall, which for the rest, apart from a dance floor is full of tables with chairs around them. Drinks can be ordered throughout the evening from the bars at the sides. The band consists of the traditional line-up: harp, cuatro, maracas and bass. When the fast three-four beats blast off, many immediately make their way to the dance floor to dance the joropo.
I can play a joropo on the cuatro, but I haven't the faintest idea how it is danced. Three years ago I admittedly have had a lesson in it in the slums of Ciudad Bolívar, but even then I hadn't the faintest idea what I actually was supposed to do. The locals did say I was doing well, but that will be more the typical 'applause for the dancing bear' (see Will Ferguson, 'Hokkaido Highway Blues'). So here, we stay quietly put at our table with a beer, and enjoy the atmosphere.
I have a chat with a barman, who of course immediately wants to know where we are from. Probably he, just like everybody else present, has been wondering what those three strangers are doing here, where they are from, and what interests them in 'our' music. Hearing that we are from the Netherlands, he is overwhelmed with enthusiasm. The news is talked round with the rest of the staff, and soon arrives at the stage, all the way at the other end of the hall. A few minutes after I've made my confession to the barman, we hear the national celebrity call into the hall, after finishing one of his songs:
"Dear people, do you know that we are having three special guests among us tonight? They came all the way from the Netherlands to be among us here today!" And there is no escaping: we have to appear on the stage. Annet and especially Eline actually don't feel at all up to this, but let's now just give in to the people's enthusiasm.
On the stage we, together with the pop star, are photographed by the press photographer, and are thus undoubtedly the next morning on the front page of the local newspaper (although we won't get to see that ourselves). Annet and Eline find this funny for once, but feel very uncomfortable, and make me promise that I won't play these tricks again. Sorry... but I suppose that a photo in a newspaper could still come in useful, were we to get missing, and a rescue team came to look for our traces, couldn't it?
On Sunday morning we take the coach further into the Llanos, to Bruzual, an even smaller town.
In the afternoon we take a safari from here: we drive with a guide in his open landrover on the small country roads of the savannah area, and see caimans, red ibises, capybaras and more of such nice stuff. I try to take photos, but alas: we are at a safe distance from the crocodile-relatives, and although I can see them clearly, my camera's resolution cannot handle the distance.
Apart from the guide and us, the group contains a German couple, middle aged and lightly crazy. Don't get me wrong; we are ourselves probably just as crazy, and so you have to be, to make a trip like this.
In the evening, over a beer on the terrace of our little hotel, Annet and Eline have me open my heart about my depressions, and afterwards we go all three of us into town, because there is a dance this evening. The same setup as on Curaçao: on a fenced off parking lot is a dance floor, marked by lamps and loudspeakers, full of people who are enjoying themselves to the loud swinging salsa music under the warm dark tropical night. The big difference with the island is the people: here they still look like people, not overly made-up or sharply dressed, and not behaving according to standard patterns. Besides, all aged are represented here. Of course, also this is a place for the sexes to meet, but this can also be done in a spontaneous way.
Eline tells about her frustrations on this kind of parties: "It happens often that I have been chatting nicely with some guy for a while, and at some point we decide to have a dance. But when we get up from our chairs, such a South American then turns out not to be taller than my breasts. Then I say: 'Uh-oh; I don't want to dance with you!' Because he would then, simply because of the height of his face, be staring at my breasts all the time, and I don't want that. And that's a pity, because for the rest it can very well be a nice guy, with whom in itself I really would like to dance." Dutch women in South-America also have their own problems.
On Monday a coach takes us again further over the vast plains, to San Fernando de Apure, a large city on a river. In the afternoon, the German couple of the safari yesterday, who were also in the coach, check in at the same time with us into the same hotel.
The receptionist writes all our data in his register. He asks the German woman for her occupation.
"Teacher," she answers, and "... of love", she adds, tentatively joking. German humour.
The receptionist, not impressed, asks the man: "and you?"
"Teacher ... of love."
"As well?" the receptionist plays amazement.
To which Eline comments, in Dutch: "As long as you guys don't make too much noise, because I do want to sleep tonight!"
The next day the three of us wander around town, and see that in the evening in a restaurant on the river there is a concert by a traditional band. Annet and especially Eline quickly make it clear to me that they don't feel much like going to something like that again, because they've had enough of traditional Venezuelan three-four beats. Probably they also don't want to run the risk to be again called onto the stage and look like fools. But they are warning me unnecessarily, because also I don't feel immediately like going there again. Believe it or not, even I sometimes have had enough of folk music!
The ladies are convinced that my depressed feelings of the last couple of years are, at least partly, caused by my longing for Jeannette. Although Annet always keeps stating: "I just can't imagine that you guys don't belong together!", there doesn't seem to be much hope that that will still lead to much, and anyway my soul is not helped by all this longing. It comes down to this: they convince me that I should be looking round for other women.
I take their advice, and when at a market stall I am talking with a gorgeous woman named Sol, of whom I find out one way or the other that she is a single mother, I get her address and agree to meet her in the evening, at a certain time, on a certain spot. Annet and Eline fully support this. Play it again, Sam.
I eat with my travel companions in a restaurant near the specific street corner, and at the specific time I get out to wait for my date. I wait for half an hour, but nothing. I go back into the restaurant, and every now and then come back out and ask a street salesman whether he has seen a woman here who matches my description. No, haven't seen anything.
After a couple of times I get out again, and now, more than an hour after the agreed time, the street vendor says: "Yes, now she has been here! A woman with long black hair! She went that way!"
I run a few blocks into the pointed direction, but find nothing. A little disillusioned, but hardly surprised, after all this is Venezuela, I drag back again to the restaurant. Yes I have her address, and can go after her, but what is the point of it all?
The jungle gate
There isn't such a great deal more to do in San Fernando de Apure, so in the morning of Wednesday 2 March we grab again the coach to another place. This time we are heading south, for a ride of a whole day with destination Puerto Ayacucho, in the southern state of Amazonas. As we elongate us from the city of San Fernando, the landscape around us gets more barren and dryer all the time.
We come to a river bank, where the road takes a turn and disappears lengthwise into the water. A ferry comes puffing toward us, which is also hanging lengthwise in the water. It is clear that the ferry would be washed away by the strong current in no time, if it weren't hanging on the chain, along which it is cautiously climbing its way to the mooring spot.
When the ferry has reached the riverbank, we drive onto the car platform, and let ourselves be transported to the other side on top op the ferry, lying somewhat tilted in the water and hanging lengthwise in the current, hoping that the chain will hold.
At an angle, but safely, we reach the other side, and drive on through the desertlike landscape, which is veined with many of these rivers. We will cross a river still three times more in the same way today.
A man in the back of the coach sees that I'm having a cuatro with me, and asks if I know how to play it. Yes; I unpack it and hit a few chords in the typical three-four beat.
But I try not to boast about it; after all, in this country everybody gets brought up with a cuatro. So it shows, when he asks whether he can have a go himself. With pleasure I hand over the instrument, and the man plays and sings several energetic and cheerful joropos. Live music in the coach. Nothing can spoil the atmosphere now.
In the middle of a long piece of desert between two rivers, we get suddenly a bit of change in the endlessly straight and empty road. A coach is standing still, clearly having problems. Puncture, or something. Several people are hanging round beside it, unclear whether they are busy solving the problem, or enjoying their break in the middle of the desert.
Our coach stops alongside, as you do with good manners in such a situation. The driver and some others get out and go and talk to the others. We decide to stay inside for a moment, until we know a bit more of what's going on. After a few minutes they get in again, the people of the other coach stay outside, and we drive on again. Apparently it wasn't so serious.
"Was that the previous coach, of an hour ago or something, that has stranded here?" I ask, when I get to speak to one of our explorers.
"What? No, that was the coach of yesterday."
I don't dare ask any further.
Fortunately, nothing special happens to our coach. After a whole day of driving through a lot of desert, and crossing several rivers, toward the end of the afternoon the landscape suddenly changes again. This is where suddenly, as if cut off with a knife, the Amazon forest starts. Everywhere tropical vegetation around us. And to contribute to the modified ambiance, the road also immediately starts winding.
After a short while, houses appear between the trees, and lots of people are walking on the streets. This is Puerto Ayacucho, a small city on the northern edge of the Amazone forest. The 'puerto' ('port') in the name possibly indicates the river port which undoubtedly is there, but in my view just as much the fact that this little city is a 'gate' between the jungle and the desert. This the final stop of the coach, and our next place to stay.
We take a triple room in hotel 'Internacional', a simple little building with rooms grouped around a patio full of abundant tropical green.
Also on the streets you can't avoid the greenery. The jungle pushes through everywhere between the buildings. The houses are fighting for their place in the jungle. If you let nature take its course, it's clear that in no time the green will prevail, and you won't be able to find the houses back.
My time in this continent is running by now to its end. Tomorrow evening, Thursday 3 March, my flight is going from Curaçao via Caracas back to Lisbon. As I said before, I will be able to get on in Caracas. Caracas is however in the north, near the coast, and I am now on the other side of the country, all the way in the south. But I have already figured out that I can make it with a domestic flight from the airport of this provincial town to Caracas.
Still, Annet and Eline won't have any peace before I have also really organised this. So this afternoon I go immediately up to the local travel agent. From the two lovely girls behind the counter I buy a flight ticket for tomorrow to Caracas from the national airline 'Aeropostal', with which I should easily be able to make it to my TAP-flight to Lisbon. Good; that's done. Walking satisfied back out of the travel agency, a man, sitting on a bench in the shop, says to me in Dutch: "Beautiful women, aren't they?"
Now what again? More Dutch people, or Venezuelans who live in Amsterdam? Not entirely. The man works at the travel agency, is Venezuelan, and speaks English too, and also knows a couple of words in plenty of other languages. In Dutch his knowledge doesn't reach much further than "beautiful women aren't they". But I can imagine worse lines to know as only knowledge of a language.
The two girls turn out to be interns in this travel agency. They are studying in Merida, and feel a bit strange here in this small town in the middle of nowhere, at the edge of the jungle. We nicely chat on for a while (of course normally in Spanish), before I leave.
I meet Annet and Eline again in the hotel, and with an airline ticket in my pocket, they are also satisfied about me. We go to a restaurant for a celebratory goodbye dinner, and after that to a bar for a similar goodbye-after-dinner-drink. Evaluations of the experienced, and toasting on the good ending of the conflict on Curaçao! The evening ends in a perfect atmosphere.
News
In the morning the hour has come to say goodbye. Annet and Eline are taking the coach to Ciudad Bolívar, a city quite a way to the east, on the bank of the mighty river Orinoco. I have seen that place already in 1991, so I don't have to be all too envious; that's nice of them.
Déjà vu
Ha! I have money again. It is remarkable, and maybe a shame, how good that still always feels. In a good mood I amble back to the restaurant where I got this direction, and order some food.
A day in the jungle
The whole Friday I'm taking it easy. I have a whole day to get through, and nothing special planned. Although I do have money again, I don't have a terrible lot. Hence, of interesting things like a tour into nature there can be no question. So I just wander a little around town, where there isn't much special to see. I also walk a little along the exit road across the bridge and into the jungle, as far as, on my own, still seems sensible to me. I gaze at the abundant unspoilt vegetation. But I don't venture in it; I stay on the tarmac road, because it seems to me a good idea not to run any more risks.
With these thoughts and an agreeable walk, most of the day passes by. Late in the afternoon I walk back into the city, and for a little liveliness, to avoid being consumed too much by my own thoughts, I wander -you guessed it- back into my local place: the travel agency.
I walk back into the city. At the start of the evening, when the sun has just set and darkness has fallen like a log, I come to a square where something seems to be happening, or to have happened. Everywhere around the edges are people, especially youngsters, and in the middle is the police, beside several police cars, doing something with some civilians. There seems to be a somewhat tense atmosphere hanging here. A protest demonstration that has been beaten apart? An arrest of a public enemy, which everybody is coming to watch? It doesn't become completely clear to me, because one thing I do know: I better stay well out of this. Whatever is going on, being somebody who clearly is a European and 'therefore' has a lot of money, you get all too soon get involved in something against your will. We certainly don't want that now. So I am walking in a wide circle around the happenings, when I hear one of the policemen call:
A moment later, back in the hotel I tell the friendly old lady who is the manager, that I am expecting a phone call. A girl should be calling around eight o'clock. Can she give me shout then? (The hotel rooms don't have telephone.) Yes, no problem, she'll do that.
I have great time, the rest of this evening. I have dinner in a restaurant, and then go looking for a pub for after-dinner drinks.
Finally, departure?
Full of expectations I get up on the morning of Saturday 5 March. Now I should really be able to get away from here. Not that I absolutely want to leave here, but I just have to, and I don't have any money left.
In a middle-sized plane (about 100 passengers) I fly without any further problems, and via a stop in San Fernando de Apure, to Caracas.
Lost
Three days earlier, on Thursday 3 March, Hank and Gerald get into the plane in Curaçao, and fly to Caracas. There they hope to see me get in, but I'm not there. The message which I asked the staff to pass on to them doesn't reach them. How could I even have thought that that would happen? But on the other hand, what else could I do?
As I said, my parents are reassured before they could start worrying, as my house mates in Eindhoven. Arrived back home, I also call up Hank to tell him how it went. But the news that I have come back two days after the planned date, spreads less rapidly than the news that I have been missing for weeks.
I wave them goodbye at the coach station, and amble around town for a little longer. I still have a few hours before I have to go to the airport. For some sociability I walk back into the place where they know me now: the little travel agency. There I am cheerfully greeted by the girls, and the man, who next says:
"Hey, it's good you're dropping by. Because listen: it may be that today's flight will be cancelled."
"Now what?! You're kidding, right? I have to go to Caracas today!"
"Just wait here. I'll make a call."
He disappears to a back room, while I stay nervously behind in the shop. The girl behind the counter wants to put me at ease: "Just wait. Probably that flight will be going after all."
After a minute the man comes back, and tells me with a big smile and apologising enthusiasm: "Neither today, nor tomorrow there are any flights."
"What - really? What's going on then?!"
"They are being kept on the ground for maintenance."
"Oh, that's nice! And they couldn't know that in advance?"
"Apparently not..."
"And what am I supposed to do now? I have to catch that flight to Lisbon!"
With never failing friendliness he tells me that the ticket can be transferred to a flight of the day after tomorrow, 5 March. And under these circumstances it should also be possible to modify the flight home from Caracas. I don't like the idea of all of this, but I don't know another solution either.
Because I am in such bad luck (and, besides, suddenly don't have anything to do), he invites me to a lunch in a small local restaurant. The changing of the tickets we'll still be able to do this afternoon. While I'm enjoying the stewed meat and the other local delicacies, I still can't help keeping thinking how I could still get to Caracas today. But, my host assures me, that's really not going to happen. Well, then I'll have to get used to the idea: two more days here in Puerto Ayacucho. Oh well, it's a nice little town; there are worse places to be stranded in.
After the lunch I go back to Hotel Internacional and book a room for the two coming nights, and then head back to my local pub: the travel agency.
To change the tickets we have to go to another office -I don't understand anything of this; it'll be allright-, and for this I am conducted, together with my host, into a car of a colleague of his, in which we drive through the city to another building. Having arrived there -it looks more like somebody's living room- I am being explained: "This is the case: the day after tomorrow there still aren't any flights of Aeropostal, but there are of Avensa, the other national airline."
"Oh, but are you sure then my booking can be valid for that?"
"Oh yes, no problem, just give your ticket, then we'll exchange it for that flight."
I hand over my ticket and my passport, both gentlemen are very busy with it for a moment, and a little later I get it back again: the same ticket, with some writing on it. "Done; here you are."
"Huh? But this is still the same ticket! Can I get really into that other airplane with this?"
"Oh yes. You have been put on the passenger list. Just don't worry that it is still a ticket from Aeropostal; this ticket is now valid for that flight of Avensa."
What concerns my TAP-flight home from Caracas: the day after tomorrow there will be another flight like that, at about the same time. I also hand over my ticket of this flight. While the man is busy with this, he quotes the popular acronym-interpretation:
"TAP. Take Another Plane."
Rarely are these funny meant phrases so applicable (although of course it's not due to TAP themselves that I have to take another plane). Also this ticket I get back with writing on it, and I'll just have to trust that it's now all settled.
Back in the car, the travel agency man tells his friend that Dutch is such a funny language, and for the sake of entertainment asks me to say what 'KLM' (officially) means. When I pronounce 'koninklijke luchtvaartmaatschappij', both men are rolling with laughter about such strange sounds. No jolly alternative description can beat that.
I am dropped off at the travel agency, thank mister, and am walking again on my own through the city. I have more things to arrange. Because now, Hank and Gerald will not see me get into the plane in Caracas tonight. It seems only fair to let them know what's going on. In a phone box I call to the airport of Caracas, and ask for somebody from TAP. I ask the lady concerned whether they will be able, tonight on flight such-and-such, at time such-and-such, to explain to these two people that I can't make it to the flight, but I'll take a flight of two days later. That they shouldn't worry. Do you have it all? This flight number, these names. And this is my name.
"Yes, sure, don't worry, that's fine. We'll pass this on."
Well, what can you do? You just have to trust that.
Another thing I have to arrange: I need some money, because what I have in my wallet won't reach for the coming two days. Fortunately nowadays, in 1994, there are cash machines at banks, even in this outback corner of the world. But alas: the machine of this bank doesn't accept my Dutch bank card. Let's ask from passers-by: are there any other cash machines in town? -No, this is the only one.
This is going to be difficult. Playing guitar on the street, then? Maybe that won't be necessary just yet. I am also carrying a couple of travellers' cheques, left over from my travels in 1987 and 1991, when cash machines didn't exist yet. But to exchange those for usable cash you have to be in a bank, and it's now late afternoon, and the backs are already closed. And I really would like to eat something tonight.
I enter a sympathetic looking little restaurant, and order a beer. I can only just still afford that, and beer brings good advice, they say. Or something. I ask the restaurant manager whether he may be able to accept traveller's cheques, and give cash change. No, he doesn't do that, but he knows somebody who does. He shows me the way to a hotel-restaurant at the edge of the centre, where the manager does exchange travellers' cheques.
On his directions I indeed find the hotel - in itself already something special, if you know my experiences here three years ago. A good sign? The manager is indeed willing to exchange my travellers' cheques. In the vast, mostly darkened dining hall of the apparently closed restaurant the transaction is performed, which this way feels very sinister. Of course I get a little fewer Bolivares for my cheque than the exact converted value would be, but I don't care about that. After all, I am now free from financial troubles for the last days of my trip. Besides, this travellers' cheque was otherwise only getting past its time in my desk drawer anyway.
Already the whole afternoon, from re-checking in in the hotel, I have been carrying my new cuatro on my back. This for my own entertainment, because it doesn't weigh anything anyway, and a little because I thought that I might have to make some money with it. While I am eating, one of the staff members comes to ask whether I can play that cuatro. Happy with the opportunity I unpack it, and play for the staff of the further almost empty restaurant 'Alma Llanera'. This is a standard song, which the Venezuelans are brought up with, and thus of which maybe they should have had already more than enough, but you can always still get them enthusiastic with it. Especially when it is played by a stranger like me.
This gets me lots of applause and a free beer, and encouraged by the success I play on for the staff, grouped round the bar. My whole repertoire of Venezuelan songs is run through.
After this I have a couple of new friends. We nicely chat on round the bar. The manager asks me: "And so your name was ... Max?"
"Yes," I say, "Max o menos." A silly play on words on 'mas o menos'; 'more or less'. This raises a big laugh from the staff.
"Damn; he's making fun of you!" a waiter laughs to the manager. (For the Spanish speakers among you: his literal words were "Coño; te jodió!")
One interesting aspect of this macho-culture is that you can rise in value by making innocent jokes. When you answer somebody's question with a joke, no matter how stupid, then you have 'tricked' the other one a little bit, and are for an instant the 'winner'. This other person then won't let it get him down, and will get back to you the same way a moment later. But the point is that you are, by taking part in this game, 'part of the game'. And that a foreigner is able to do this, they find even better.
Of course, it wasn't my intention at all to prove myself with this extremely stupid joke. I was only in a jolly mood. But it is advantageous that through this I am a 'hero' for a moment, and that it contributes to my acceptance.
More beers arrive, and a little later somebody proposes that I go along with the staff members out to a dancing. I accept eagerly - what else should you do at this hour of the day in a city where you are stuck for two days?
I learn that we are going there by car; we are first waiting a while for a friend of theirs who is coming here with some women. At this point I should have suspected something.
The friend arrives, and we all go outside. The restaurant manager is not coming along, but most of his staff is. Outside is an enthusiastic encounter between the restaurant staff and the women. I don't pay much further attention to that, because I am especially flabbergasted when I am being told: "This is your woman for tonight."
Before me stands a small and amazingly beautiful girl - but those two things are in themselves no rarity in Venezuela. She also looks very sexy without being vulgar, and my feeling that this may become a good night is completely overshadowed by my wondering what this is supposed to mean.
I stick out my hand: "Hi, what's your name?"
"Nairobi."
"Nairobi? As in ... I mean ... the capital of Kenya?"
"Yes."
Much more I can't get out of her. Now I am very well used to women who don't speak much to me, simply because they don't like me. But this is different. With her posture she keeps saying 'say something to me', but for the rest doesn't show any sign of initiative.
We get in the car -naturally, Nairobi is sitting next to me- and drive off. During the drive I can't think of much to say to her. Wondering what the idea is, I carefully take her hand, and notice to my surprise that she reacts strongly and positively to this; she squeezes my hand hard as if she wants to express something with it. I find it quite a contrast with her further silence and passive composure. But OK, after all I come from a culture where women are allowed to express themselves on their own initiative.
After a short drive we are at the disco. We get out and go inside. I leave my cuatro behind the bar. The disco is almost empty -we are almost the only visitors-, and plays loud meringues. Several of my company are immediately to be found on the dance floor, dancing plastic meringues. Traumatic déjà-vu feelings from Curaçao are rising in me.
I am sitting with Nairobi at a table and am having a somewhat superficial conversation which seems to go nowhere. When I propose to dance, she willingly agrees. She is much shorter than I am, but that doesn't matter much.
Smoothly but soullessly we move across the dance floor, me with this beautiful and sexy little girl, who may be even very nice too, but of whom I just can't get any notion.
When a little later we are seated again, I'm starting to have had enough of this puppet theatre. I don't know what the idea of this night is, but I have a strong feeling I am being made fun of.
So when Nairobi is away for a moment, I get up, ask at the bar my cuatro back and walk out. I start walking in the direction we came from with the car. That drive was so short that I am sure that I should be able to make it.
On the way I am very satisfied with myself, that I escaped this ridiculous situation. There is nothing like, when somebody wants to play a trick on you -whoever or whatever that is-, to be one step ahead of them. And you can't make me believe that Nairobi really was interested in me, no matter how hard she squeezed my hand, and how close she danced the meringue with me.
After half an hour of walking I indeed arrive back in the centre. I drink one more beer in a 'normal' bar to celebrate my escape, before going back to the hotel.
There I am, in southern Venezuela, while I should have been already on my way home. Don't get me wrong, I'll be allright here for a couple of days more, as long as I have some money. But it is strange that things have to go this way.
Hank and Gerald should be home by now. I hope they have gotten my message through, and have understood that I am still alive. What will they be thinking of me now?
And Annet and Eline, they should be in Ciudad Bolívar now, marvelling over the vastness of the river Orinoco. They still have months to spend in this lovely and agreeable continent. I am quite envious of them; I wouldn't have minded travelling further on with them. But they don't know anything about what has happened to me now, and are thinking that I am already long gone and back in the Netherlands.
If something happens to me now, there will be nobody who knows where I am! Only Annet and Eline, who won't be home for a couple of months, will then have seen me last in Puerto Ayacucho ... Well let's then try not to get bitten by a poisonous spider, or something the like...
I am cheerfully greeted by the man and the girls. Any news about tomorrow's flight? No, that is going, there is nothing happening with that. After another nice chat, I get the idea to give it one more shot. I have one more night here; that gives me still a chance to forget that silly business of last night. Hence I ask the more beautiful of the two girls, Esther, whether she feels like going out with me tonight.
"Yes, of course; nice; should be fun," is the enthusiastic answer, "I know a couple of good places to go to. How shall we do it?"
To agree to meet at a certain time on a certain place seems to me too risky. So I propose: "Shall we phone tonight?" I give her the phone number of my hotel.
"OK, allright," she says, "shall we say: eight o'clock?"
"OK."
"Good, around eight o'clock I'll call you there. I first have to study, but by that time I'll have finished that. See you then!"
That she doesn't give her own phone number, may actually be a risk. But from earlier experiences with Venezuelan women I have learnt that even that doesn't give much guarantee that you will catch hold of them. Probably it doesn't matter much.
"Hey, gringo, come here!"
'Gringo' is the word with which in all of Latin America (though especially in Mexico) the 'whites', the 'northerners' are indicated; these are of course especially USA-Americans. It also has a negative nuance, 'gringo' is the unwanted stranger. (Of course, you do know the word from American western-films. Rest assured that the word in Venezuela isn't much more positive than how the Mexican bandido from the films pronounces it.)
Because I know how untrustworthy even the police in this country is, and because I am sure that they don't have any reason to involve me in whatever is going on, I don't react, and walk steadily on in my direction. Nearby, a group of people, full of suspense and expectations, is watching the situation, and me: how will the gringo react? While passing close before them, I say to them:
"If he thinks I'm a gringo, then why is he speaking Spanish to me?"
Big laughs from my viewers. Touché, apparently. It appears that through a simple but sharp remark I have won this incident. But I am not staying to accept the cheers. I walk on, the standers-by direct their attention again at the happenings in the middle of the square, and I'll never find out what was going on.
I go to my hotel room to wait, and practice a little more cuatro. At eight o'clock there is no phone call. OK, we can expect that; we are here in Venezuela. I do have to give her the chance to be properly late.
At half past eight there still hasn't been a call. Now it is really getting a bit annoying. And if I now had had her number, I could have called myself. Now I am just kind of wasting my time.
With a little more cuatro playing it quickly becomes nine o'clock. But Esther still hasn't called. Darn, if I don't watch out I'm now going to waste the whole evening by waiting for a gril who doesn't call anyway. Where in the world did I get the idea to trust in this so much?
I pack my cuatro, sling it on my back and walk out. I've had enough now. It may well be that she's still going to call, but I'm not going to wait for that all evening. Besides, it may also very well be that she won't call at all. Those damned Venezuelan women; what am I supposed to do with that?
On my way to a bar I pass a block of residential houses, where somewhere a kitchen door is open and I see a family sitting at the table. The family sees me too, and curious for the foreigner the immediately call me in. This is not the police, and they look completely trustworthy, so I accept the invitation and creep through the narrow opening into the small kitchen.
Father, mother and two children are digesting their dinner. They offer me a beer and ask everything about where I am from and what I am doing here. They see the cuatro that I have with me, and ask if I can play something. They especially want to hear some Dutch music. That I haven't counted with: doesn't normally everybody always want to hear 'Alma Llanera'? I play the first thing that comes to mind, which is 'Daan en Marloes' by Brigitte Kaandorp (a Dutch comedian). A cuatro looks after all a bit like a ukulele (Brigitte's instrument). And these people don't understand anything of it anyway; the point is to hear my odd language (maybe I should put "Koninklijke Luchtvaartmaatschappij" to music?).
A hearty applause is my part, and after that I'm on my way again. The travelling musician still has more visits to pay, or: I don't want to abuse too much of their hospitality. And shouldn't those children be going to bed sometime? I heartily thank the family and soon am back on the street.
The bar where I eventually go for drinks is typically Venezuelan. With this I mean that as soon as I come in, one of the girls who are sitting on the side, comes right at me and asks me to offer her a beer. These 'entertainment girls' are in almost every bar in Venezuela. As long as you offer them drinks, you've got a 'date'; you can talk with them, dance with them, etc... How far they are willing to go with their escort arranged on the spot, I don't know; I have never felt the urge to try this out. Mostly I tell them right to begin with 'no'. I have little desire for this kind of paid entertainment.
But I decide to do this now differently for once. I feel the need for some company, and please note, dear reader: this is really not a nightclub; this is a normal pub where people are drinking beer at the bar. Little decoration; it's a bit of a empty barn. And the girl doesn't look overly dressed up, she is just 'normal'. Besides, she's not asking for one or the other extravagant cocktail, she's asking for a beer.
So I go over to the bar with her and ask, just to be sure, how much is a beer. It is a normal price, meaning next to nothing. I order two, and immediately have her full attention. While she's hanging against me and I'm having my arm around her, we have a nice conversation. She is perfect to make this last evening still a bit nice and relaxed. You would almost think that she really likes me.
She also drinks pretty well. The beer is soon finished, and she asks and gets another one. And we go on like this for a while. The conversation and the atmosphere become more relaxed all the time.
After a while she asks again for a beer, but I think it's been enough. So I say "no", and she's gone immediately. Searching for a next customer.
Satisfied that I haven't made use of this service longer than seems sensible, and haven't done anything which I would regret, I go back to the hotel.
Strange situation, anyway. Would this really be the only way in this nightlife to have any contact with the other sex? Surely there should also be 'normal' women here, who don't sell their time for beer. Like Esther from the travel agency. But such women you can't catch hold of at all, because they don't keep their promises. Except Maria in Merida. Who knows how this is supposed to work here, can explain it to me.
The lady of the hotel tells me to her regrets that last night really nobody called for me. Good that I din't wait for that. After I've paid, she gives me as a goodbye present a nice tile with the logo of the hotel.
I still have a few hours before I have to go to the airport, so after taking my time for a breakfast I go and spend the rest of my time in -you guessed it- the travel agency.
The man and the other girl are behind the desk, but I don't see Esther. As soon as I enter, the girl runs to the backroom, and calls that I am there. After two seconds Esther comes in, throws herself around my neck and begs: "Oh Max, I'm so sorry that I didn't call last night! I had so much to study last night and I didn't know what to do and can you forgive me?"
Whether her story is true, of course, I don't know, but that doesn't matter. That she apologises, I find good enough already. As I said, I value that a lot. (And maybe then I'm not the only one after all who does so. If she would find it useless herself, she wouldn't so it, would she?) I forgive her, but that doesn't make much difference anyway. If I had had another evening here, I could have proposed to try it again, but now I have to leave here anyway.
The three of us nicely chat away for a while longer, until it is time for me to go to the airport. In the door, the man and the interns heartily wish me a good trip. In between the man says to me, in English: "She's crazy, you know."
Esther notices it's about her, and asks immediately: "What, what, what are you talking about?"
"Haha, well, you should learn English!" the man laughs at her. The make-fun-of-with-simple-jokes game is the way to keep standing with women who make a lot of promises but don't keep them.
With this jolly note I then definitely say goodbye.
I take the microbus to the airport, a small bus, jammed with mothers with children and people with market merchandise. After half an hour struggling to keep standing and not squash any people under the backpack on my back, I arrive at the airport. A small building, in the middle of nowhere.
Entering, the airport looks much like a village post office. A bare interior. The whole content of the bus arranges itself in a polite queue before a simple desk above which hangs the logo of Avensa, and behind which is a man.
While I am in the queue, I spot something. Above the desk where the employee of Avensa is checking in the people, is a sign: "Because of reasons outside of our power we don't accept tickets from Aeropostal."
Hm, apparently there are more problems with Aeropostal. But this sign can't concern me; my ticket has been transferred to a flight of Avensa. Probably there are people who, after their Aeropostal flight is cancelled, immediately want to get into an Avensa plane with the same ticket.
It's my turn. I want to hand my ticket to the inchecker, but he doesn't stick out his hand, shakes his head and points at the sign behind him.
I don't let it get to me, and explain: "Yes, but this ticket has been transferred. At the travel agency they assured me that this ticket is now valid for this flight of Avensa."
"But it is a ticket from Aeropostal."
"Yes, I found that strange too, but I have been placed on the passenger list of this flight, so this must now be valid for this flight!", I get already a bit nervous.
"No, I'm sorry, it's not my decision, but we can't accept that."
"Now, but that's absurd!!", I lose my temper. "This ticket was for a flight from Aeropostal of two days ago, that was cancelled, and in the travel agency they then transferred my booking to this flight from Avensa, they put me on the passenger list, so you have to accept me!"
"I'm sorry sir, I can't help it."
"Well, then I want to speak to your boss! This is impossible!"
"OK." The man leaves his post and makes his way along the queue of passengers waiting behind me to an office at the back of the hall. The passengers undoubtedly are wondering what is going on. But long waiting is not uncommon in Venezuela, so nobody (visibly) loses their temper.
Darn, I think, of course there have to be problems again! How could I even think that everything was settled now! But I won't give in; this time I'm bloody well going to get to Caracas and catch that TAP-flight!
The boss of the Avensa staff member has come out of his office, and is now at the other end of the hall conversing heavily with his employee. Other staff members also join the group.
Behind me in the queue is an older English couple. I apologise to them for the consternation and the delay, while I'm thinking about my possibilities. It is ridiculous, but if this is really not going to work, maybe I will have to buy a new ticket. That wouldn't be so very bad; it wouldn't ruin me, but I don't have any money left! And here in Puerto Ayacucho I can't get any money anywhere. How am I supposed to do that?
Another employee of Avensa comes to me and asks me for the ticket. He takes it with him to the back of the hall, where in the meantime the whole airport staff has come and is discussing agitatedly.
I ask the English couple if maybe they can lend me 6000 Bolívares (about €100) for a ticket of this flight. In Caracas are enough cash machines, there I could pay it back to them. Before they have had an opportunity to answer, the last mentioned Avensa employee comes to me, and says:
"It's allright."
A little dazzled by the fact that it was now still arranged faster than I thought, I undergo the further formalities of checking in.
Ha! I did it! So you see, dear fellow passengers, and dear readers, in this kind of countries it is by all means worthwhile to be able to shout and make a big fuss in the local language, to make sure that happens what should happen!
In Caracas, to my great surprise, my ticket transference turns out to be OK. In the evening I get into the megaplane, which takes me through a short night to Lisbon, and with another plane I arrive finally on Sunday 6 March in Amsterdam.
At the airport I immediately call up my mother, because she may have heard that I wasn't back on the planned date, and I want to assure her that I am there now. I learn from her that people have already been asking where I was. But she wasn't worried yet, it was still a bit too early for that. And I am now already back before she could start worrying.
Hank and Gerald wonder what has happened to me. The whole trip to Lisbon and Amsterdam they have plenty of time to think about this. They have heard so much about my depressions, that they can't conclude otherwise than that I am now so depressed that I have gone wandering in the jungle on my own. If only they hadn't been so rude to me! They resolve to ask later, at home, around everywhere whether somebody knows anything about what has happened to me.
And so they do. The next day they call my parents, my house mates, and whoever else they know of my friends. Nobody has heard anything about me. They also call friends of Annet and Eline, but also they have only just found out that I was travelling along with them for a while; whether something has gone wrong they don't know.
The search goes on. The question "does anybody know where Max is?" is passed on further, and arrives with acquaintances of mine who didn't even know that I had gone to Curaçao.
"Have you heard? Max is missing."
"Where did he go then?"
"He went to Curaçao with friends, but is now wandering through the jungle of Venezuela on his own. It seems that he's been missing for weeks."
Still for weeks, months, after this date I am meeting people who are surprised to see me alive in the Netherlands.
Just in case somebody still doesn't know it at this moment:
Annet and Eline continue their wonderful journey through Brazil, Peru and Ecuador. Through mail and telephone, they hear about the confusion at home. But because they also hear that some mail, which I have posted for them in the Netherlands, has arrived, they're not worried. They quite like the plot of this, as shows from the postcard below from Ecuador.
(The names of Hank and Gerald have been changed to protect them. The name of Esther is made up, because I don't remember it while writing this.)