One country left on my list, but one that I approached with a degree of caution. I have heard many tales of crime and danger in Venezuela, carried out by police, army and civilians alike. Supposedly rife with corruption and theft, I was definitely on my guard when I made the decision to cross the border from Colombia.
Four hours east of Santa Marta is the town of Maicao, the last bus stop on the Colombian side of my journey. I exchanged some cash on the thriving black market and arranged transport to Maracaibo, the equivalent border town in Venezuela. The option available was to take a shared taxi, but how to describe it?
For starters it made my old Pajero (RIP) look like it was in mint condition. I squeezed into an old American sedan (think 1970's Cadillac or equivalent) that was more rust than metal, its ancient power windows were activated by shorting different bundles of wire hanging out of the drivers side door.
Packed into the front and rear bench seats (no seat belts) I set off along with six other people, the driver with his foot to the floor with the deep rumble of the big capacity engine up front (with petrol at at ridiculously cheap prices they aren't too worried about fuel consumption).
The border roads were in disrepair, the soft suspension causing the car to constantly roll from side to side as we dogged potholes, livestock and other equally decrepit cars. Weaving in and out of traffic we would have made great time if it wasn't for the constant police and army checkpoints along the way. We must have been stopped at least eight times in order to show ID cards (them) and passport-visa stamps (me), but no problems in getting through.
The driver tried to get some extra money out of me, for what I think was to be bribes to allow is to skip the checkpoints, but I felt it was a gringo scam and after politely declining a few times he let it rest. I'm not one for creature comforts but working AC would have gone a long way.
Unfortunately about the only thing in good condition was the car stereo, after five hours cramped in a car, baking in the hot sun listening to the same Venezuelan pop music over and over I was very relieved to finally make it Maracaibo.
Luckily I was able to avoid the notorious capital Caracas and was able to take a bus directly to Ciudad Bolivar. I arrived 22 hours and eight checkpoints later, the city being the stepping of point for my last big adventure.
