meridan missapropriations

Good afternoon, for those of you who had been following my blog, you will have noticed that for the past few weeks I have not posted. The reason for this will be revealed in this, the first of a series of posts that will hopefully get the story of my South American adventures back on track.

After a good deal of research and planning, I recently found myself on a bus leaving Caracas for Merida - a small mountain city in western Venezuela. Merida is Venezuela's jumping off point to the Andes, and I looked forward to some trekking through the area. So with well-practiced lines of Spanish, I negotiated my way to the bus station, bought a ticket, and found my bus. The 14 hour journey began at 20:00 with a pointless American B action movie: (terrorists take over an area, everyone - including recently introduced disproportionately attractive female character - is taken hostage... except one lone guy, lone guy systematically takes out a series of individual terrorists sent to "check for survivors" while simultaneously trying to convince impatient authorities to "give him more time", lone guy saves disproportionately attractive female character, kills head terrorist in an especially protracted and grizzly sequence, and gives a big pointing thumbs up to the camera. Roll credits). The movie's only redeeming virtue was that it was in English, and so I stayed up to watch it before settling into my fully reclined chair and falling asleep.

Driving through the Andes.

While my sleep suffered through occasional pit stops, twisting roads, and a preference for air conditioning settings that would make penguins uncomfortably cold, I reminded myself that I had been spoiled for sleep over the last weeks. The sun had been up for several hours when we finally arrived in Merida, and I disembarked, collected my luggage, and hailed a cab. Ten minutes and twenty Bolivars later I was standing outside the Posada Guamanchi, which my Lonely Planet guidebook had recommended as a good place to coordinate expeditions into the Andes. I checked into a small, lackluster room, called home on my netbook, and took a short nap before checking out the town. I left my room at 13:00 intent on sampling the cuisine, though the first recommended restaurant I came to was a Venezuelan interpretation of McDonalds. Reviews suggested that the burgers were well worth a stop, and so I did my best to wolf down their famous "Double Quarter Kilo Burger with Cheese" (more than a pound of meat). Having conquered the mountain of meat, I was curious to check out the country's most famous ice cream, located just a few blocks away.

Merida: city of steel and stucco.

The Heladeria Coromoto sits in an unassuming building near the center of town, and has been selling ice cream every Tuesday to Sunday for three generations. And while "chocolate" and "vanilla" are available, more eccentric flavors such as "black bean" and "trout" have helped to make the ice cream shop famous. In fact, for the last seven years, the Heladeria Coromoto has held a page in The Guiness Book of Records for having the largest number of ice cream flavors available. With somewhere between 850 and 950 flavors to choose from (depending on the season and availability of some of the more exotic ingredients) Herladeria has something for everyone. I split my selection between the exotic and the bizarre, getting one scoop of Blue Curaco and one scoop of Polar Beer. The curaco was sweet and delicious, the beer was, well... surprisingly true to flavor. And so I happily finished my frosty treat and made my way back back to my hotel.

A small section of the west-facing wall of the Heladeria Coromoto, also known as the flavor list.

Stepping into my room at 15:00, I did not allow myself to become immediately concerned by the sight that met me. There, on my bed, was something that had not been there when I left: and ID card. But more curious than this addition was the absence of both of my bags. Walking down to reception, ID card in hand, I esquired as to the location of my luggage, and it wasn't until I read the look of panic on the receptionist's face that I knew for certain that I had been robbed.

I spent the next few hours in a bit of a daze, trying to come to grips with the implications of what had happened. Aside from the clothes on my back, I had been left with only my netbook, which after calling home with, I hid (for reasons unknown but fortuitous) in the top shelf of a bureau, and must have been overlooked in the break-in. My camera, passport, wallet, and Tilley Hat were also on my person at the time of the break-in, and for this I was grateful, but as I complied a list for the police of what had been taken, the items kept adding up. The UV water filter I had first used in Iceland, the Camelpack that shadowed me up mountains on three continents, the leather-bound journal I crafted to chronicle my adventure, my iPod, my trusty waterproof jacket, a whole trove of adventure-wear, and my backpack itself, which had been with me though not only my world travels but my European wanderings as well. It was a lot to take in, and most of my regret came from losing the items that had such happy memories attached to them. The cable to my netbook was also amongst the requisitioned items; and after draining the battery to call home and alert my parents as to what had happened, I had been unable to boot it up to blog until just recently.

A mural, showing the liberation of Venezuela from the corrupting influence of the west... the bombs that form the crown of the Statue of Liberty are but some of the many interesting little tidbits you'll notice if you look closely.

Once I got over the shock however, I knew I would have to plan my next moves to make the most of what had just happened. In addition to all the aforementioned material possessions, I had also lost around $900 in cash, part of which I had planned to use to finance my time in Merida and the surrounding region. The hotel was doing everything they could to be accommodating, so I accepted their offer to stay the night (free of charge of course) while I planned my next move. I wanted to get back to Caracas to regroup as soon as possible, but I also didn't want my trip to Merida to be a total wash, so I headed out the next day to take a look around town.

The church in the center of town: one of the few attractive pieces of architecture.

Merida is a small city, benefiting from a large student population and an gorgeous placement high in the Andes. The town itself in not all that nice to look at, as I soon discovered, but after taking the advise of the hotel's receptionist, I found my way to a local bus stop (well-marked, not by signs or a waiting area, but rather the curious collection of impatient locals gathered around a random intersection) and was soon speeding off higher into the mountains. My destination was a a nearby National Park, and the end of the line for the overcrowded minibus. I spend a relaxed afternoon climbing through the foothills of the Andes in a part of the country that could almost be confused as being Alpine. The fresh air and beautiful vistas were a welcome relief from the congestion of Caracas and (to a lesser extent) Merida, and it was with regrets that I eventually found my way back to the minibus stop.

Passing by a ranch house on my way into the mountains.

I spent one more night in Merida after an unsuccessful attempt to buy a ticket back to Carcass at the bus station, and spent my third and final day shopping for essentials, having grown more than a little tired of wearing the same clothes for the last three days. While I could just manage to carry the entirety of my belongings in my hands, I happily accepted the hotel's offer of a small backpack. The WUB (World's Ugliest Bag), as I have come to call it, is almost certainly a product (read: catastrophe) of the 1980's, though I can only imagine it must have seen better days. What started its life as a regrettably purple and teal camping bag has not devolved into a mass of tattered straps, and claps missing sockets. By tying a series of straps together, it is possible to secure the bag around one shoulder, while still conserving the one remaining clasp to close the main flap. Either food, fungus, or feces has become a permanent addition to one part of the "bag" which really helps to bring together the whole theme of the bag. It is a piece of luggage I elected to carry out of Merida with me for only two reasons: It was all that I had; and even the criminally desperate would not steal this bag.

Up in the foothills, wearing the clothes I left Caracas in.

Thus ended my trip to Merida, I will be doing my best to get out daily updates of the next series of my travels until I am back up to date, but for now I have to run.