Traveling in a Bucket.

This is overdue, but before it becomes OVER-overdue, let me comment and update a bit about my last couple of weeks of travel. (That's so sad to say- even looking at the sentence makes me melancholy).

Taganga was to Colombia as El Tunco was to El Salvador. Diving was to 26-year old Sam as Surfing was to 24-year old Sam. So then, all-night parties at Sensations is to _____ as totally off-her-face Sam is to 1,600 COP beers at Casa Felipe. Ya dig? If you do, you must have scored a lot higher on the SATs than I did.

I expected Taganga to be a hole. And it was. A hole-lotta-fun. (Har. Being at home has made me an idiot). There were too many tourists, there were no cheap places to eat, and I was there just, ... way... WAY too long. My friend Rob once commented, after I boldly claimed that I'd be leaving that night, "Yeah, yeah, Sam... I'll see you tomorrow morning". -sighs- To be fair, I didn't see him until the following NIGHT. I probably could have stayed longer if I hadn't gotten into a massive fight with the Bayview Hostel manager. I'm not sure what makes me such a pugnacious person after 21 months on the road. Maybe it's just my inherent spunk, or maybe it's that 270,000 COP went missing out of Ishrat's money belt WHILE it was locked in the hostel safe. I'm not sure what happened, but I was with her all day, so I know she wasn't making shit up. Perhaps leaving the keys to the hostel safe laying about all day seems to be a perfectly responsible way to ensure the security of the patron's belongings, but somehow, it didn't work. Anyway, a couple mornings afterwards, I served as a translator for Ish and the local police. A few hours later, I became the translator between Ish, the local police, and the hostel manager.

I won't go into too much detail about what happened next, but I WILL mention that the hostel manager threatened to have me deported for helping to translate her side of the story to the police. FOOSBALL TABLE BE DAMNED!! I'm never recommending that hostel again! HEED MY WARNINGS: BAYVIEW HOSTEL IN TAGANGA IS A PIT.

OK, anyway. What else? Oh, yes... DIVING! I'm not sure why I signed up for my PADI. Maybe it's because I desired to learn something new before the termination of my trip, maybe it's because my friend Melissa once commented that you could "travel every city in every country in every part of the world... but you'd still only have seen one THIRD of it!", and maybe it's just because I was tired of being left out of conversations. Whatever the case, I fell absolutely in love. Diving isn't extreme, per se. I wouldn't even call it a sport. It's... something else. Something awesome. Anyway, I finished my PADI open water with this guy- Stephane, my happy French instructor. Then, I went for my very first night dive with Deanna and Jayme--- very "S.A.S", as Jayme would say. I felt like I should have been walking in slow motion to the boat. We all looked very cool in our wetsuits and gear, zipping off into the night- "Dive! Dive! Dive!"

Shit, this is going to be a long post.

Anyway, I FINALLY managed to peel myself away after just, way... WAY too long. It's a shame that Taganga sucked up so much of my time- I would have liked to have saved more for Guajira, my next (last) Colombian adventure. I'm not sure what to say about it except that it is the first place in a long time that I felt was one of the LAST places that was truly unspoilt. Of course, with tourism exploding in Colombia the way that it has been, it won't stay that way for long. I met a funny Irishman named Sean on my way from Uribia to Cabo de la Vela, then met up with Michel, a Spaniard who greased the wheels into Punta Gallinas for us. While I adored Sean, I think I might just make a note about Michel here. There aren't many people that bring their zeal for life into everything that they do, and treat everyone they meet with the kind of enthusiasm and curiosity that befits a "true" (if it's not lame to use that word) world traveler. Michel was one of those people. To be fair, he'd only been on the road for 3 weeks or something, so he wasn't burnt out yet, but I admired the passion with which he did everything-- something that I lost around the time that I left the monkey farm in Ecuador. He also gave very nice foot rubs and seemed to have a nose for tienditas that sold chocolate on the near uninhabited northern tip of Punta Gallinas. The man was a god-send.

I'd like to also write some about Laura, Franz, and the funny Uribian family we met on our way back, but there's just no space.

Instead, I'll post a video of myself in a bucket.

That was near Los Filuos, about half an hour away from the Colombian-Venezuelan border.

VENEZUELA

To be honest, I was afraid of Venezuela. It was going to be the last country of my trip, and I could just imagine the gifts and keepsakes I'd amassed getting stolen from my hotel room, or by local police while checking my bag for "drogas", or getting into some argument while exchanging money on the black market and ending up in prison, or getting shot in the face for being American, or getting shot in the face for being loud and pushy, or getting shot in the face just because I'm so afraid of getting shot in the face. I don't know. Generally, when being told not to go somewhere by other people, I roll my eyes, drum my fingers, and mutter "yeah, I know" until they stop talking, then I resume thinking and being happy. Venezuela was the exception. I was told, repeatedly, but a multitude of hardy travelers, locals, Colombians, and even Venezuelans: "DON'T GO THERE". It made an impression.

I don't know if it's because of my fear and low expectations, or if it's because that's just how it is, but Venezuela was, far and away, one of the BEST countries I've ever been to. Yeah, yeah, I know, I was only there for a week. In one week, though, I managed to reawaken to the pleasures of traveling, really connect with the local people (there were no other travelers), and to be truly touched by the grace, generosity, and unlimited kindness offered by the Venezolanos. If they'd been any shorter, I would swear they were Burmese.

This may be the only sentence of its kind in existence, but I'm just going to say, "Venezuela blew Colombia out of the water". I'm going back. Period.

Let me just note one particular experience here. I came to Venezuela straight from Punta Gallinas. This is not an easy trip- it includes a 2 1/2 hour boat ride at 4am, followed by 4 hours in the back of a pickup over a road that looks like this. Then another bus to 4 Vías, then another to Maicao, then the border, then another 4 hour bus down to Maracaibo, where I spent the night in a profusely air-conditioned bus station waiting room, sitting upright with my bag on my lap. This is all in incredibly flooded territory. I might as well have swam to Maracaibo, that's how wet it was. Here's another picture just to prove that I'm not full of shit. I didn't PLAN to do it in one day, it just kind of happened that way. Upon arrival in Maracaibo, on the outskirts of the city, on some darkened street, I was told by a passerby that local transport had stopped. This was devastating. I didn't have many bolívares, didn't have any idea where I was, didn't have any muscles (or even cool rough-'hood sounding slang) with which to defend myself, and DID have all of my possessions and loads of US dollars on me. Not ideal. I started to freak. I hadn't slept a proper night in a long time, and had eaten a lot of low-quality chocolate sloshed back with a Venezuelan "Inca-Kola" equivalent. I lost my head and started muttering and wandering in circles.

The passerby which had delivered the dark information waited around to help me hail a taxi to a part of town close to the bus station where I might find a cheap (prostitude-filled) hotel for the night. He must have felt really bad for me, because, leaning into the cab, he whispered something to the driver, helped me in, and then stuffed a wad of notes into the driver's outstretched palm before walking briskly away. I was well taken care of for the (long) ride into the center of town, and would have been driven from hotel to hotel until I found a suitable room if I hadn't decided to stay in the terminal and catch the first bus out in the morning. I never even got the opportunity to properly thank him.

So, pair that with the natural beauty of Andícora, the laid-back (and yet still very lively) vibe of Coro, and the yummy strawberries and cream in Colonia Tovar, and you've got the week I spent in Venezuela. The last couple days were spent in a mad rush to make it to the airport in time, and the last few hours were spent sleeping in the airport when I made it much too early for my flight. Venezuela~ Oh, Venezuela. I loved you.

Anyway, it was flight after flight after (delayed) flight, and I found myself in Junaid's car, zipping across the 280 to my parents' San Ramonian abode.

I'd like to do a wrap-up blog here about my trip as a whole, but I just don't think it'll fit. Plus, I'm riding tomorrow. God, I'm so stoked to get back to the snow.