Returning to Caracas from Merida involved more Spanish than I was prepared for. When I left for Merida a few days earlier, it was from "the good bus station" which is conveniently close by my apartment. But when the bus pulled into an unfamiliar station in an unfamiliar part of town, I grew concerned. Exiting the bus I was immediately set upon by a small gaggle of taxi drivers, each more eager than the next to welcome me into their cabs. The problem was that any time I mentioned the address of the apartment, I received confused, yet hopeful expressions; as if I might give up on this foolish address and pick a more familiar destination. Finally, one enterprising driver decided to put on a confidant face at hearing the address, and gestured me to his cab. Ten minutes into the drive, and it turned out that this show of confidence was nothing more than a clever ruse. It seems my driver was relying on my mastery of the layout of Caracas - explained to him in my fluent Spanish - in order to bring me to my desired location.
Navigating through Caracas.
Things went better than I would have expected, and through a haphazard stream of "left", "right"s, I somehow managed to navigate my way through the city, and arrive at the apartment. Having achieved such unexpected success (as fifteen minutes into the ride, I had all but resigned myself to kidnap and torture) I was quite content to take inventory of my remaining possessions and crash for the rest of the day. That night I met up with Ricky's friend Ignacio, and we swung by his apartment for a relaxed house party populated largely by Ignacio's relations (it took me a while to appreciate how many people Ignacio is related to, but I can now safely assume that his relatives account for roughly two-thirds of the population of Venezuela).
The next morning, I swung by the Brazilian Consulate to pick up my passport, which contained a shiny new Brazilian visa, before joining Ricky's aunt for a day at the beach. It was a relaxed afternoon of sun, sand, and suspiciously warm ocean water, and it gave me a chance to think through my plans for South America. One of the things left on my Venezuelan itinerary was a hike up Mount Avila, the moderately-sized peak that separates Caracas from the sea, which stared down at me every morning through the sliding glass windows of the apartment.
Gratuitous greenery.
And so, early the next morning, I found myself at one of the more unusual trail heads I've ever set off on. You see, the city of Caracas, strained by its desire for growth amidst challenging topography, has built itself right up to the very slopes of its surrounding mountain ranges. Which means that this particular trail head began a vertical assent under a main highway artery. Yet climbing higher, I was surprised at how quickly the tell-tail signs of the urban metropolis vanished into a sea of green. While still on the main trail, I passed a number of joggers taking advantage of the cool forest for a morning run, but as the trail branched out, I began to see fewer people until it would seem I had the mountain to myself.
Following a stream as it trickles off the mountain.
The day grew hotter as I climbed higher, and at some point I came upon a little side trail. Offering a more adventurous route up the mountain, I was soon grasping onto tree branches and vines as I followed the twisting "path" higher. Assisted by a newly-carved bamboo walking stick, eventually I reached a high plain, not quite the top of the mountain, but evidently the end of the trail. I tried to find a way to continue my ascent, but quickly realized that I was getting myself lost, and abandoned the summit in pursuit of good sense.
Crawling through the thicket on my way up the mountain.
Tracing my path back down, I was left with some rather spectacular views of the city, which welcomed me back from my all-too-brief escape from its clutches. I spent my afternoon finalizing air arrangements that would take me down to Brazil early the next day, before meeting up with Ricky's cousin Caro for a tour of her university. Exploring the campus, I was then invited into her public speaking class, which I found rather fascinating. There is, of course, so much more to public speaking than the words that you use, and this becomes very evident when you cannot understand the language that a speaker is using. So I watched as various students gave their speeches, focusing my attention on their cadence, inflection, and facial expressions in order to interpret what they were trying to convey. It was a very education experience that was capped by the professor requesting that I give a two minute speech (mercifully in English) about myself.
Gazing down on Caracas
I met Ricky's parents for dinner, and went through the easiest packing experience of my travels in preparation for the morning's flight, but it would seem that my last day in Caracas was not quite over. Ignacio stopped by, wanted to make sure I had a proper send off, and so we retired to a nearby bar for some late night revelry before I finally returned to the apartment and collapsed into bed around 2:30 in the morning. What seemed like minutes later, my 5:00 alarm went off, and I showered, dressed, and said my goodbyes to Ricky's parents before meeting my cab at the front door. I tried to get some sleep during the 45 minute drive to the airport, but I was largely unsuccessful, and so I was still in a bit of a daze when I arrived... which might have explained my suspicious activity. Unsure of where to check in (in my defense, they literally hid the TAM booth behind the area most airports employ for checking in) I began wandering up and down the International Departures area, until a security official literally asked me to come with them for questioning. They rifled through my bag, checked my papers, and thumb printed me before finally revealing to me the location of the TAM booth. And thus, I finally was able to leave Venezuela, bound for more wacky airport adventures in Brazil, but that's a story for another time.
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