| Giuria, Backpacking South America By Bus Eight Months On the Road By David Rice |
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| Giuria, Venezuela Page Nine |
Fraternity
After the Venezuelan military inspector ended his search we got
back on the bus and we headed for a peninsula that is not far
from Trinidad. There we would get a ferry from the port of Giuria
for the three-hour trip to Trinidad’s Port of Spain.
Along the way we had a breakdown and after several people
looked at the motor and a few more climbed underneath, they
determined, after two hours of discussion, that we had to change
buses.
On the next bus, I took a seat beside a young woman and had a
pleasant conversation as we rode through the tropical
countryside. She had booked a room at a hostel near where she
would get the boat to Trinidad and she invited me to spend the
night at her place. She was from a small town in Venezuelan, she
spoke broken English, and like me, was heading for Trinidad.
She offered me space for the night in her room and I took the
offer.
Backpackers
There is a fraternity out there among backpackers. People get
out on the road for a long time and they meet other backpackers
who provide company. People just don’t want to be alone all the
time. There is a camaraderie among the fraternity and shared
pleasure and, at times, shared pain.
In some areas, security is at the top of the list so to hook up
provides security and safety in numbers. Joining others also can
be a money saver: rides in taxis, tours of ruins, rides on boats, all
can be shared and result in savings.
Most backpackers you meet are going along the same route that
you are and you know that somewhere down the road you will
meet again. The backpacker grapevine is helpful too, providing
conversation and good information. All people have to do is trust
you; you gain their trust and you trust them; once trust is
established, there is no telling what will happen.
Because of the search by the military and the bus breakdown, we
arrived at her place at two in the morning and the manager said
we had arrived too late, there were no rooms left. With no option,
we headed back to town via the taxi, paying twice the price. We
flopped in a posada located in a private home and woke early
the next day to rain. We headed for the dock to book a boat for
Trinidad.
Chaos surged around us as we fought the rabble in the ticket
office trying to get a seat on the boat but we never got one.
Soaked by the tropical rain we headed back to the hostel, we
hoped for better luck in the morning.
The next morning the young woman and I arrived at the boat dock
early but we were confronted again with a huge line. We took our
place and settled in for a long wait.
When I saw the price schedule I realized that I needed more
money so she held my place while I headed for the ATM. I left my
pack at a house of the family where we had stayed and they said
the would watch it.
I found the ATM but it would not dispense money so I went in the
bank and presented ID and filled out papers. I paid a fee and did
get money after a long wait and then headed to the house to get
my pack. When I picked up the backpack, a ton roaches jumped
out and scurried in all directions. Zillions of Palmetto bugs leaped
from every compartment it seemed. I had to empty everything out
to get rid of them.
By the time I got back to the dock the young woman was already
aboard the boat and I had lost my space in line.
The other passengers and I complained and begged and
demanded until they finally brought up a second boat, a local
fishing boat. Twelve of us went aboard after the official checked
us through immigration. As it turned out, with fewer passengers to
check, we actually left for Trinidad before the first boat had left the
dock.
After a three-hour trip across the bay, we arrived at Trinidad and
entered a harbor full of luxury yachts. They shunted us to a dock
further down the harbor away from the luxury marina and then they
held us on the boat while we waited for Trinidad immigration
inspectors.
It was ten hours before the official arrived and then he searched
every suitcase so thoroughly that it took fourteen hours before I
left the boat, a total of 17 hours on that miserable deck.
After the Venezuelan military inspector ended his search we got
back on the bus and we headed for a peninsula that is not far
from Trinidad. There we would get a ferry from the port of Giuria
for the three-hour trip to Trinidad’s Port of Spain.
Along the way we had a breakdown and after several people
looked at the motor and a few more climbed underneath, they
determined, after two hours of discussion, that we had to change
buses.
On the next bus, I took a seat beside a young woman and had a
pleasant conversation as we rode through the tropical
countryside. She had booked a room at a hostel near where she
would get the boat to Trinidad and she invited me to spend the
night at her place. She was from a small town in Venezuelan, she
spoke broken English, and like me, was heading for Trinidad.
She offered me space for the night in her room and I took the
offer.
Backpackers
There is a fraternity out there among backpackers. People get
out on the road for a long time and they meet other backpackers
who provide company. People just don’t want to be alone all the
time. There is a camaraderie among the fraternity and shared
pleasure and, at times, shared pain.
In some areas, security is at the top of the list so to hook up
provides security and safety in numbers. Joining others also can
be a money saver: rides in taxis, tours of ruins, rides on boats, all
can be shared and result in savings.
Most backpackers you meet are going along the same route that
you are and you know that somewhere down the road you will
meet again. The backpacker grapevine is helpful too, providing
conversation and good information. All people have to do is trust
you; you gain their trust and you trust them; once trust is
established, there is no telling what will happen.
Because of the search by the military and the bus breakdown, we
arrived at her place at two in the morning and the manager said
we had arrived too late, there were no rooms left. With no option,
we headed back to town via the taxi, paying twice the price. We
flopped in a posada located in a private home and woke early
the next day to rain. We headed for the dock to book a boat for
Trinidad.
Chaos surged around us as we fought the rabble in the ticket
office trying to get a seat on the boat but we never got one.
Soaked by the tropical rain we headed back to the hostel, we
hoped for better luck in the morning.
The next morning the young woman and I arrived at the boat dock
early but we were confronted again with a huge line. We took our
place and settled in for a long wait.
When I saw the price schedule I realized that I needed more
money so she held my place while I headed for the ATM. I left my
pack at a house of the family where we had stayed and they said
the would watch it.
I found the ATM but it would not dispense money so I went in the
bank and presented ID and filled out papers. I paid a fee and did
get money after a long wait and then headed to the house to get
my pack. When I picked up the backpack, a ton roaches jumped
out and scurried in all directions. Zillions of Palmetto bugs leaped
from every compartment it seemed. I had to empty everything out
to get rid of them.
By the time I got back to the dock the young woman was already
aboard the boat and I had lost my space in line.
The other passengers and I complained and begged and
demanded until they finally brought up a second boat, a local
fishing boat. Twelve of us went aboard after the official checked
us through immigration. As it turned out, with fewer passengers to
check, we actually left for Trinidad before the first boat had left the
dock.
After a three-hour trip across the bay, we arrived at Trinidad and
entered a harbor full of luxury yachts. They shunted us to a dock
further down the harbor away from the luxury marina and then they
held us on the boat while we waited for Trinidad immigration
inspectors.
It was ten hours before the official arrived and then he searched
every suitcase so thoroughly that it took fourteen hours before I
left the boat, a total of 17 hours on that miserable deck.
| Giuria, Bus Backpacking In South America Eight Months On the Road By David Rice |
 | |  | |  | |  | |  | |  | |  |