Venezuela - Mountains to the Plains

The 5C morning had my numb fingers tightening the straps for my gear as I packed. I pushed the start button and Ziggy’s engine turned over but refused to fire. After some troubleshooting I decided that fuel was the problem and the pump was not getting fuel to the cylinders. I waited and tried again. Nothing. I rolled her back into the little bit of emerging sunlight and shook her sideways several times to slosh the petrol around the pump. Reluctantly she fired into life and relieved, I let her run and warm up. It’s obvious. Ziggy doesn’t like the cold either!

The ride out of the mountains was again impressive with the word massive the only way to describe the gorges with their mountainous walls, the road tracing a thin line along the mountainside and the river far below. 

My camera was incapable of getting the full dimensions of this place so I just rode and enjoyed the curves as I descended onto the plains and warmed up. By the time I reached Barios it was 32C and I shed a layer and opened all my vented zips.

 It was the beginning of the long haul to get past Caracas via the more remote and smaller roads to the south of the capital. I had no intention of visiting the bigger cities so I headed along the autopista at a cracking 140km/h for most of the way. With petrol costing 10c a tank there was no concern for fuel economy, normally a big consideration for me. The roads were two-lanes each way, fast and in good condition.

 The landscape flattened out and became monotonous.

 There were few small towns and the brown savannah with sparse trees reflected the dryness of the season. Fire-farming is common along the roadsides so riding through smoke, watching grass burn and seeing charred roadside vegetation punctuated with the small green tussocks of new growth, became the scenery for most of the next three days. San Carlos is an administrative town with mostly government employees, I was told as I listened to Carlos, a 25 year old university student with reasonable English. He gave me a half hour monologue of the woes of Venezuela and the failure of the government to address the problems.

'The government has to go. We need to fix this and we need to change that. Our people are lining up for basics and the situation is getting worse.'

‘What are the alternatives if this president goes?’

‘There are no alternatives, that’s a problem. First we need to get rid of the President.’

‘What then? You have another President with no plan? You need an alternative plan, a strategy.’

He agreed and told me all the things that would have to be done initially – from a student idealistic viewpoint. Nothing much practical in there and education was his priority above food security. Interesting.

 Still, he reflected a view that I was hearing from every Venezelano I had the opportunity to speak with for more than a couple of minutes. The ‘situation’ in Venezuela is all pervading in people’s thoughts as normal life becomes more difficult, crime becomes rampant due to, as Carlos put it, 'no impunity for the crimes.' 

I was told to be very careful. There are people who will point a gun at my head and demand my money, my bike, my valuables. This message I heard over and over so I knew that the fear and reality were equal. Once again I was told to only ride in the day, never ride at night, don’t go out at night alone and be careful.

 The large hotel was once again the equivalent to $9 for the night with $2 meals, a very comfortable bed, breakfast and a pool. Parking for Ziggy was behind the hotel in view of the night staff with a guard at the locked gate at the front of the hotel, conveniently located a couple of kilometres out of town away form any trouble.

 Heeding advice I rode out at 8am and headed east along Ruta 13 and turned towards San Juan des los Morros. Ruta 13 was narrow and remote with a couple of very small pueblos along the way.

 I stopped for a drink at a spot with a shop and a tyre changer and chatted with the friendly locals. 

The road was a sign of things to come, a long narrow strip of black asphalt without a proper base. It had undulations, ruts with a central hump from heavy trucks with potholes, cracks and subsidence. The traffic was light though and it reminded me of Honduras where the traffic played a game of swerving past the potholes, making overtaking interesting. The horn was no longer sufficient because people had their windows up, listening to music and talking on their mobile phones, sometimes all three. The norm was a flash of high beam so I used this in combination with the horn and thankfully, the rapid acceleration of the big 1200.

 A 300km day culminated in my arrival to an interesting small town called San Sebastian where a friendly moto-taxi operator directed me to a restaurant and parking spot adjacent to the central square. I had a delicious chicken parmigana with a ham salad, fresh juice, coffee and cake for $2. I asked about a hotel and was told there is a posada that is difficult to find. One of the staff, a young guy named Gregory, offered to guide me out there. He took me about 4kms out of town to a one hectare farm owned by 73 year old Chelo and his wife. They were friendly and welcoming with Chelo offering me beer and wanting to chat. He told me that San Sebastian was a dangerous town with armed gangs that prowl the streets at night and it was a good thing to be out of town. I was safe here.

We talked for a couple of hours, Chelo telling me about his life and the problems in Venezuela. A flow of people came and went, all getting his welcoming smile and handshake, and a group of teachers from Maracay stayed the night also. Once again I was given details of the woes of the country and the failure of the government. This was eventually trumped by a couple of female teachers wanting a photo with Ziggy and started a fun flirty time with these friendly Venezolanas with lots of laughs.

 I had an early start to a long haul on the bike, another 300kms on these tough roads to get to Puerto Piritu on the Caribbean coast. 

I stopped at a petrol station at the crossroad outside of Altigracia de Orituco where I took an opportune photo under the watchful eye of several national guards who were checking vehicles. 

A random guy who pulled up in a newish Toyota Hilux told me that there are dangerous towns along the way and only to stop and eat at the petrol stations, and to be careful. True or not, I did just that, bypassing all the small pueblitos 

and riding for a couple of hours until I reached Puerto Pitritu.

Almost every day I was given a warning by someone who indicated a gun to the head with their two fingers.