Colombia: "Dangerous? The only danger is wanting to stay...."

If there's one country that continually falls victim to rash stereotypes that were valid 20 years ago, it's Colombia. Whilst those who have never traveled there warn of the dangers of getting kidnapped, robbed or murdered, those who have been rave about the stunning beaches, the lush jungle, the clean and safe cities and the friendliness of the people. Perhaps it once was one of the most dangerous countries in the world but, newsflash, Pablo Escobar is dead, the guerrillas and paramilitaries all but non- existent, and the tourist industry is growing with a vengeance.

Colombian advertising campaign "the only risk is wanting to stay"

Lost City Trek

A big reason for wanting to come to Colombia was to tick off number 9 of Lonely Planet's top 10 things to do in South America- the Lost City Trek. My first ever couchsurfing host, way back in September in Malmo, Sweden, said it was the best thing she had done during her travels in South America. So, after mentioning it to my brother, he packed a bag and some walking boots and met me for a Colombian adventure to take in Caribbean beaches, jungle, mountains and cities.

Taganaga beach at sunset

The best place to base yourself for the Lost City Trek is in Sarta Marta, or better still, the small town just over the hills called Taganga which is like Gringo Mecca. After the novelty of being one of very few white people in Venezuela it was kind of a shock to arrive in Taganaga and see so many Europeans, Americans, Australians. Although I did feel a little bit like a rock star when people asked me where I'd been before and I said Venezuela ("wow that's SO COOL") : I didn't meet a single person who had been from or was going to Venezuela while I was in Colombia (apart from a woman who actually was Venezuelan, but even she wasn't going back- her family had all fled to Colombia to escape the regime.)

After a couple of days of sunning ourselves we set off for the stiff 5 day hike to the Lost City- and this was no casual stroll in the Lake District. Scrambling up almost vertical muddy jungle trails, wading through rivers, slapping at mosquitoes, we had sweat pouring off us in the muggy heat.
But it was absolutely stunning:

  One of the natural swimming pools

Our view when we woke up in the morning

Jungle paths

Sleeping in hammocks

Each night we slept in hammocks, and awoke with our guide offering us a coco or coffee, and then it was off again and onwards and upwards and downwards and upwards again. Some people really struggled- one Australian woman in our group who had hiked in the Himalayas some years ago almost gave up at one point. Another guy made the rooky error of wearing walking boots he hadn't used before- the bloody and sore combination of mosquito bites and blisters on his foot was enough to turn the stomach (he struggled on through the rest of the hike in flip flops!). We struck lucky with a really fun and interesting group though, and it made everything a lot easier.

Hilariously, the British Foreign Office warns British nationals not to do the Lost City Trek. Why? Because 10 years ago a group of tourists were kidnapped and held for a few months. Never mind the fact that Colombia have now brought the military in to guard the trail, and that the guerrillas have been wiped from the region. I have a feeling the British Foreign Office will only be happy if everyone in Britian stays tucked up in bed in their houses. (It also warns people not to go to Japan..... because of Fukushima and because China are a little bit unhappy with them at the moment. Oh ok. Because Japan is such a notoriously dangerous country....)

Colombian military looking out for us!

Anyway, we had been warned that the actual Lost City ruins weren't so impressive, and people were often disappointed when they got there, so we should really enjoy the journey rather than the destination.
I couldn't disagree more.
Hiking through the jungle for 3 days, then climbing 2000 moss covered steps and finally emerging above the trees in a mystically beautiful city that is only accessible by the trail you've just taken.... was incredible. Built by the Indigenous people 100s of years ago it was only discovered by gold hunters in the 1970s, and I felt incredibly privileged to walk past descendants of the same tribe going about their daily life, on my way to visit a city that people didn't know existed until a few decades ago.

Local Indiginous Children

Finally reaching the Lost City!

After the trek we collapsed, exhausted, back into Taganga where we stayed for far too long on the beach having massages and drinking cocktails and going out salsa dancing with all the crazy Colombians who had flocked to the coast for Semana Santa, the Easter weekend. Eventually though we thought we should probably move on, so we headed to....

Cartagena

Cartagena: the beautiful colonial town where the heat is blistering and the cold showers warm.
Cartagena has one of the most beautiful old towns I have ever seen, it's like you've stepped back into a European city, you could be in Spain or Italy and even then it would be beautiful. Horse drawn carriages weave round the narrow cobbled streets, and masses of flowers overhang the balconies. Set as it is by the Caribbean, though, it was ridiculously hot. A mere hour or two exploring the old town left me and my brother collapsing into a cafe to get a CocoLimonade (the most refreshingly beautiful drink I've ever had!) We quickly made the classic European error of trying to insist on sitting outside “Really? You want to sit outside?” “Well of course, it's a beautiful warm summer day! Why isn't there anybody else out here on this beautiful balcony?” After sitting for 5 minutes, sweat running down our faces, locals sniggering, we admitted defeat and retreated into the air conditioning. The waiters had probably had a bet on on how long we'd last outside.

Asides from the old town, there's not an awful lot else to do in the Cartagena. The real attractions lie just outside. We took a day trip to a Mud Volcano, which is exactly as it sounds, a volcano made of mud. It's more of a mound than a volcano, but what is really cool is that you can climb up the stairs they've made up the side of it and go into the crater- and then float on a column of mud that stretches a mile and a half down into the Earth. It was certainly one of the most unusual experiences of my life, with a local woman massaging mud into my scalp and the denseness of the mud making it feel like I was bopping around on a mound of giant melted marshamallows.....

Me and Nick celebrating have mud.... everywhere..!

The second highlight of Cartagena, which is actually outisde of Cartagena, is Playa Blanca. This is quite possibly the most beautiful beach I have ever been to in my life. It has the classically Caribbean warm, clear and ridiculously turquoise waters, endless white sand, and even a few palm trees to complete the look. It's a beach that's so damn beautiful that you end up taking identical pictures of the same scene, because you can't quite believe how beautiful it is.....

There are lots of tourists boats that take people there for the day, but these cost about $35, so we decided to elect for the cheapie backpacker option of taking public transport. The advantage of this was that we could also stay the night there, and get the beach almost entirely to ourselves once the droves of tourists went home on the boats at about 4pm and didn't come again until 10am.

So we packed our bags and headed to the the centre of the town where we could catch a bus, looking like complete gringos with our sunglasses and beach bags and towels over our shoulders trying to figure out which bus was the correct one. A Colombian lady took us under her wing and ended up running after our bus until it stopped to let us on. We clambered aboard and travelled for about an hour until we were dumped in the middle of some little village which couldn't be more different to the centre of the Cartagena. This was real poverty, this was where the people who could barely scrape a roof to cover the homes lived. We walked for a couple of blocks through the village until we reached a canal, where we were told we could get a boat across. This was all fairly painless, and I arranged with the guy who was in the canoe with us that he and his friend would drive us on their motorbikes at the other end to the beach. I tried not to think what my mother would say if she could see me clambering up on a motorbike behind a strange Colombian guy and speeding down country roads without a helmet..... but we got there not only in one piece, but only 5 minutes behind the Irish girls at our hostel who had taken the tourist boat (and they left the hostel before us), and of course we were about $30 better off than them. Score.

Motorbikes, step 3 of Playa Blanca
by public transport!

Our first step (after gaping at the beauty of the beach) was to find somewhere to sleep. Wandering down we stumbled across a local family who have a small restaurant and some hammocks for rent for about $2. Sorted.

Our day was spent in a continuous cycle of swimming, snorkelling, sunbathing and reading. And then, eventually, the tourist boats left and we got the beautiful sunset all to ourselves:

And THEN the true highlight. Night swimming. With phosphorescent plankton. After sunset, but before the moon rises, it's dark enough that if you enter the water and swish around a bit, the water will glow green where you've swished! This had me giggling like a little girl for at least half an hour....

After a yummy dinner, a few bears, and a CocoLoco (a coconut filled with various types of spirit) we retreated to our hammocks, with nothing but the sound of the soft Carribean waves and the sigh of the palm trees to lull us to sleep....

And then we had the sunrise, and at least 4 hours to enjoy the beach to ourselves before the tourists came again:

At which point we made our way back, and got ready to get on our flight for the final section of our adventure, MEDELLIN!

Medellin

So, I've been pretty lucky with couchsurfing so far. Rooftop pools in Miami. Personal saunas in Finland. A string of incredibly generous hosts. But the place we landed in Medellin..... it was unbelievable. After sending off a fair few couch requests in Cartagena and Medellin and receiving nothing back (not even an "I'm sorry, no room") I was feeling pretty pessimistic about couchsurfing in South America. Which was really annoying as I was so eager to show my brother how great it was. But then out of the blue I got a message from a guy saying that he ran the International House in Medellin, and as a group of students had just left, he could let us surf in the apartment. We were kind of waiting for the catch, was it actually couchsurfing or did he want us to pay something? What kind of apartment was this? Where was it?

There was no catch. He was purely and simply a really generous guy, and we had an entire apartment almost entirely to ourselves, including leather sofas, cable tv, a kitchen, 4 bedrooms, 4 bathrooms and access to the rooftop spa and terrace. My two Colombian friends (who I worked with in Finland) lived in the same area, which was near to the university and full of students. We spent evenings hanging out on the rooftop with our host's friends, getting to know people, cooking dinners and having beers. It was perfect.

Medellin at dusk, from our rooftop terrace

Former home and haunt of drug lord Pablo Escobar, Medellin was once the most murderous capital of the world. At Escobar's pinnacle, he was the 7th most richest man in the world, and apparently he couldn't actually deal with all the money so they'd hide millions of dollars in his desk and give it to the poor. He also got rid of his money by paying anyone $1000 to kill a cop....  He's still actually considered a hero by many of the residents in Medellin due to his generosity to the poor. Anywho, ever since he got gunned down in 1994, Medellin has slowly opened up again, and it is now an incredible city. You would never think you were in South America, let alone Colombia. Clean, high- tech, it boasts a metro system and the 'Most Innovative City in the World' title. It was the first city to build a cable car to connect the poorer areas on the hillside with the richer areas in the centre. What is interesting about cities such as Medellin that are built in the mountains is that the further up the mountain you go, the poorer the people are. If you compare that to places like Beverly Hills, the higher up the mountain you are, the richer you are as you have the best views!

Metro system in Medellin

With my Colombian friendd!

One of many of the city's initatives to built public spaces. areas where
children (and adults!) can splash around in public parks!

Metrcar system to Medellin

I was incredibly lucky to have my friends live there to act as local guides, and we spent some awesome days exploring the city and I learnt from them what it was like to live and grow up in a city that had changed so incredibly during the last 20 years, well within their lifetime.We also visited a little town called Guatape nearby which is full of beautiful little coloured houses, and we climbed a huge rock to look over the landscape. I also joined the Spanish Conversation classes at the local university, which were free, so I could practice my Spanish and meet up with some of the local students, really good fun. But my Spanish is still pretty crap.

Climbing the huge rock near Medellin

Reached the top!

But like all good things, they eventually come to an end. My brother had to fly back to England, and I was off to Quito the following day. And what to do with my spare day? I'd been on the go pretty much non- stop for about 4 months so I gave myself a day to chill out in my beautiful apartment and take advantage of the super fast internet to catch up on such important things as 'Greys Anatomy' and 'Glee'...... Because travelling really can be exhausting sometimes!

Hasta luego amigos :)

Border Cross- Mérida, Venezuela to Santa Marta, Colombia by bus

The death of Chavez, for many Venezuelans, was not just the death of their political leader. It was the death of a saviour, a saint, a goddamn God unto himself. Every square in every city was made into a shrine in his honour. Every shop, bar or club that served alcohol was instructed to close for a mourning period of 12 days as a sign of a respect. Loud music was not permitted. Parties were not permitted. The Police were watching. 

Chavez polarised the country; those who worshipped him, and those who hated him. The lists of those who voted for which party became open information. If you voted for the opposition, suddenly you found that nobody was willing to offer you work. Your child's scholarship was mysteriously revoked. Opportunities dissolved. And now suddenly that man was dead (or at the least, was now declared as dead. There are many who claim that he was brain-dead since December, and it was only now that they unhooked the machines and announced it, giving the party enough time to prepare for the resulting elections.) 
Whilst there were no reports of turmoil or disruptions, the country was strained. It was probably not the best time for a young, blonde, white girl to head off by herself on the 24 hour journey across the border to Colombia. Especially as the Vice President (now leader of the party) claimed that the Americans were the cause of Chavez's cancer:  a merciless, intentional and planned enemy attack. No, I'm not quite sure how that works either.

But hey, there you had me, after 11 weeks of a relatively sheltered existence of Spanish lessons and travelling, I was by myself again. And more than slightly nervous. But as other blogs on the internet helped me in planning my journey here it is for you: how to get from Venezuela to the Caribbean coast of Colombia by bus.

Merida to Maracaibo

The first leg of the journey is the 10 hour overnight bus journey from Merida to Maracaibo. Tickets need to be bought on the day of travel, in the morning. I headed to the bus terminal at about 8.30am to get my ticket, and went to kiosk for Techira Merida, which I was told had the best buses. 115bfs (about $5) got me a ticket for the bus which left at 9.30pm. I succeeded in speaking to the man behind the desk in Spanish and not only did he understand me, but I understood him. It was a magic moment.

12 hours later I was waiting in the bus terminal, after wandering around in slight confusion and having to go back to pay the 4bf departure tax. I was Miss Paranoid, clutching onto my various bags, and very aware of the fact that I was the only white person in the entire place. The bus driver came over whilst I was waiting and began to chat to me, sympathetic to my broken spanish. It became time to load the bags into the bus and he said something I didn't understand, shook his head and took my bag from me. Panicked, I rushed after him, remembering guide books warning me not to let go of my bag, that if you got help from anyone at the bus terminal they would expect to be tipped..... And then he smiled and handed me my bus ticket and the label for my bag, gesturing again in Spanish. It wasn't until I boarded the bus that it clicked. He had been trying to say that he would take my bag and do my ticket first to ensure that I would have the best seat on the double decker bus- top and front- with a stunning view out the windows. I felt acutely embarrassed for my rudeness towards him.

Feeling slightly mollified I settled into my seat and got out my sleeping bag- the bus was luxury with wide comfortable seats that fully reclined- but like all South American buses they were overzealous with the air conditioning. Getting cosy, an elderly man came to sit in the seat next to me, and we had a pleasant conversation in Span-glish about what I was doing here and where he was from. He explained he was ill and was going to see his doctor in Maracaibo, and apologised for the fact that he was coughing. The coughing would have been fine, but unfortunately he also smelt. And snored. Loudly. It was a long long journey, especially considering the death of my iPod on the slopes of Roraima.

However, I felt completely and utterly safe. The bus stopped a couple of times so we could go and buy things, and several people came up to me and asked what on earth I was doing here. I had a drink bought, some snacks offered, and the people seemed genuinely delighted when I told them the places I had been in Venezuela, and how beautiful I thought it was.

Maracaibo- Maicao

Several sleepless hours later I arrived into the bus station at Maracaibo. There is a bus that goes directly from there to Santa Marta, but the Merida bus arrives after that one leaves. And in any case, it departs from a part of the town that you really don't want to be in at 5am.

The other option is to take a por puesto from Maraciabo over the border to Maicao, in Colombia. These are big, old fashioned American style taxis that leave whenever they can't squeeze any more people into them. Descending bleary eyed from the bus I was bombarded by people shouting different locations at me, and after locating my bag I wandered to the other side of the terminal until I heard somebody shouting Maicou! Colombia! For 250bfs ($14) I found myself jammed in the back of a taxi between a middle aged Colombian lady, and a mother and baby (who in true South American style promptly began breast feeding). Squeezed into the front seat was a young Venezuelan guy, and another middle aged lady.

Mother and baby next to me

The Colombian lady next to me immediately began to chat to me in Spanish, to offer me snacks, and to make sure I was okay. I told her that I was heading to Santa Marta, and needed to change the rest of my Venezuelan bolivars to Colombian pesos at some point. She told me that she would "be my mother" and not leave me until she saw me safely on the bus, and that she knew somewhere safe to change my money- that you shouldn't trust the numerous guys who offer money changing on the border.

The conversation in the taxi swiftly turned to the troubles in Venezuela, with my new Colombian mother frequently patting my knee and telling me not to worry, you will be in Colombia soon and out of here. She travels over the border frequently to get materials for clothes, as it is cheaper in Venezuela, and she also takes US dollars over to sell. Everybody began to exclaim when I told how in the 3 months since I had been there, inflation had risen by almost 150%. The official rate for the bolivar against the dollar rose from 4 to 6, whilst the black market rate jumped from 10 to 25. Much head shaking and rapid spanish ensued, and the conversation then turned to Chavez, discussions that I probably would have struggled to follow even in English.

Along the road, we were stopped at at least 5 military checkpoints where they checked over our passports, gave a cursory look in the boot of car, and waved us on. I explained to the woman that I needed to make sure I got my exit stamp in my passport to Venezuela, and she told me it was no problem. Which, thanks to her, it wasn't. Without her, it would have been a nightmare.

Rapid Spanish and the lady tells me I need to get out 25bfs ($1.50). Seeing that the other people who need a stamp are doing the same, I do so. The lady then grabs my passport and money and hands it to the driver, who sprints off in the direction of a kiosk at the side of the road. Jammed into the middle seat, I have no option but to watch my passport disappear out of sight, my mind jumping to scenarios where I have to battle my way to the British Embassy in Caracas to get a new one.
Donde estas mi passporte!!!!
It luckily returns within a few minutes, and is handed to me by the lady, who gives me a bemused look. It doesn't have the exit stamp, but a slip which says that I have paid the departure tax. Well ok. That's step one.

Step two, we arrive at a building in the middle of nowhere with a long line of people, stretching back a long way. The queue to get the stamp would take at least 3 hours, and the sun was beating down on us. My Colombian mother sighs, and disappears round the back of the building for a few minutes, returning with a man in a uniform. She tells me and the other lady to get out 50bfs ($3) and to give it, along with my passport to the man. All the time she is looking round furtively to check that nobody is watching. Reluctant to let my passport out of my sight again, I eventually hand it over when I see that she and the other lady are also doing so. Our passports are whisked out of sight, only to return 5 minutes later and handed back to the lady behind the cover of a large tree. The exit stamp is inside, and we make our way back, stepping round the lines of hot, sweaty and impatient people. My Spanish teacher always joked that you could get anything done for 50bfs in Venezuela. I now know that to be true.

We walked for about 3 minutes over the border to Colombia, with the lady grinning and shouting to me exuberantly that I was safe now, that I would see how everything was better even just two meters over the border sign. And to be honest, it was. I strolled into the Colombian immigration building to get my stamp for 90 days in Colombia, and the man behind the desk grinned and clutched his heart in fake surprise at seeing a white face (he told me). He chatted and smiled and gave me the stamp without trouble, and we waited outside for our taxi to meet us. While waiting, the money changers came and stood around me, all wanting to say something in English (unfortunately primarily restricted to "baby!" "beautiful!" "hello!")

What was more interesting was the trucks that began to pass us from Colombia, into Venezuela. They were full of cows. A line of cow trucks, almost as far as the eye could see, passing over the border. I wish I could have got a picture but my camera was dead and my iphone hidden. Why these trucks? Chavez's socialistic regime resulted in the successful farms in the centre of the country being repossessed by government officers and given to other people, who knew nothing about farming. They began to fail. But, hey, that doesn't matter, the government said. Who needs to produce stuff when you have oil? Almost everything is now imported, including milk and meat from Colombia. Hence the lines and lines of cow trucks. My Colombian mother again shook her head and muttered something about how happy she was to be back over the border. We climbed back into our taxi and arrived in Maicao.

Maicao- Santa Marta

Maicao bus terminal in a chaos of people trying to sell you things, take your bags, get you in a taxi. The Colombian lady grasped me by the elbow, and told the man who was trying to sell me a ticket to Santa Marta to fuck off when she found out that he worked for another bus company. No, she said, you must get your ticket from Bus Brassilia, they are the best. She first took me a exchange bureau where I changed my money for an excellent rate. She then helped me to buy my bus ticket (27000 pesos, $15. Damn Colombian bus prices!) and told the driver in strict Spanish to let me off at Santa Marta and put me in a safe taxi to my hostel in Taganaga. She then turned to me, kissed me on both cheeks and wished me a safe journey. Completely grateful and completely clueless on how to show my gratitude I offered her some chocolate chip cookies. I think she appreciated the thought.

Settled on the bus, a man came on board which a huge gun, smiled, and took a picture of each and every person seated on the bus. Bizarre.

4 rather uneventful hours later I found myself in Santa Marta, and the driver, good to his word, got me into a taxi to Taganaga. Exhausted, I collapsed into a hammock at my hostel and awaited the arrival of my brother from England.

Total cost of travel: $37.
Alternative option, flight:  $600. (high season, ugh).
Money saved: $563
Experience gained: too much to quantify
Faith in humanity: Strengthened once again. Kindness is still alive in the world!

One adventure was over. The next were to come! Hasta luego.

Sunset at Taganga Beach

The Land of Grace

The Repúlica Bolivariana de Venezuela. Wrapped up in petrol-politics, socialist agendas and shocking inflation, only 1% of travellers to South America come here. Peru is romanticised for Maccu Piccu, Brazil for Carnival; Venezuela's international reputation swirls around oil, the highest murder rate in the world, and the aggressive political style of Chávez (a socialist saint or a brainwashing oil baron, depending on whom you ask).

But behind the political hyperbole is a country of stunning natural beauty; relatively unspoilt and completely uncommercialised. Our base camp is in the north of the country, on the longest stretch of Caribbean coastline in the world. We've camped in Caripe in the North; the 'garden of Venezuela' hiking to stunning waterfalls in the mountains, exploring the longest cave in South America, and visiting cocoa and coffee plantations. After a brief 2 day changeover at the camp, we travelled into the East, to kayak through the Orinoco Delta. This area of Venezuela has only opened to tourists in the last 20 years, and has been home to the Waroe Indians ('water people') for over 30,000 years. There are several tour companies that run boat trips around the delta, but we are the only group to travel as the Waroes do, by kayak and canoe. This meant that they could show us waterways narrow and shallow enough only for us, and we could glide along silently watching for parrots, monkeys and river dolphins.

Orinoco Delta

Susnet as we glide towards our third camp in the Delta

´Our´ beach

A week ago I and a 3 others travelled to the South, where lies the highest waterfall in the world; Salto Angel. You can get there only from Canaima, a vaillage inhabited by the Pemon Indians and accessed only by foot, or small planes. There are no cars in the village, and it is surronded by dense jungle. Apart from when you walk to the beach, which looks like the classic white sand and gentle waves you imagine when you think of the Caribbean. Except we are several thousand miles inland. The white sand borders a lake, which is filled by a vast waterfall. Behind the waterfall is another wonder of the South of Venezeuala; tepuis, flat topped mountains. On Sunday we are returning to this area, ´La Gran Sabanna´ to undertake the 6 day hike to the top of Roraima, the oldest mountain on planet earth. The summit was unexplored until a hundred or so years ago when explorars finally made their way to the top- there they found a lost ecosystem completely different and completely unchanged by the natural events at sea level. This mountain was the inspiration for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle´s ´The Lost World´, where dinosaurs roamed on the top of these table top mountains. I can´t wait.

Flat topped mountain

Canaima waterfall

Soon I will finally travel West, to get my first peak of the Andes in the adventure sports capital Mérida, and to take the short hop over to Columbia, one step further in my South American adventure.

Venezuela will undoubtably be the country in which I will have spend the longest time (almost 3 months) in this continent, and my impressions are a strange amalgamation of emotions.
Awe, pity, confusion, anger, sympathy, envy.

I have never before travelled to a country in which there operates at least three exchange rates; the official one (regulated by the government at a obscenely expensive rate) the official black market rate (discovered by accessing a secret website unlocked by certain keywords) and the rate which you can realistically expect to get from shopkeepers or people on the street.
Why does there exist a black market? Simple. Venezuelans are unable to keep their savings in banks, as the rate of inflation is such that it becomes worthless there almost immediately. Instead, to keep their money secure, they must purchase dollars or real estate. However, a recent law has passed decreeing each citizin must own only one house. Moreover, a Venezuelan resident is only entitled to change $300 through the government, once a year. No other countries will accept the Venezuelan bolivar. Imagine wanting to take a holiday to Europe. How far will $300 take you? Nowhere.

If I go into town by myself, I can guarantee that I will be the only white person, and will walk to a chorus of catcalls, shouts of 'gringa!', and car horns. And then those same people will lean forward with a keen interest and ask me if I like their country, why I am here, what it is like in England. What is regarded at home as obscenity is meant here as a genuine gesture of admiration. Gringa is not meant as derogatory, instead to insult is to show affection. Our Spanish teacher regularly greets his friend as "¡Gordo!" (fat man!), he gets a "¡hola jirafe!" (Hey giraffe!) in return.

There are regular shortages of things here, from the luxuries such a sugar to the banal such as toilet paper. The government ensures that these shortages remain in places such as the coast rather than Caracas; cities can rebel, villages cannot.

Why are there shortages? Venezuela is a rich country. It has gold, it has minerals, and it has a fuck load of oil. It has more than enough to sustain its people, and more besides. Unfortuately, with a load of oil there comes a load of corruption. During a trip into town, I will see a dozen or so posters and graffitis informing me that this bridge was built by Chavez, that I should vote for Chavez, that the way forward is with Chavez.

Vamos con Chavez, ´We go with Chavez´

Chavez is the socialist president who has been in power here for 14 years. In that time the country has declined into the entity that the international recognises it as, dangerous, corrupt, poor. And yet over 50% of the people here think that he is a saint. A clever leader, he gives people the things they need in the shrotterm, and it tricks them into thinking he is doing something for them, when in fact long term projects would be benefital. This is a complicated point and I am running out of time on the internet cafe, but it is interesting.
Read about it.

Viva la vida!

The sun rises here at 6 in the morning, and sets at 6 in the evening, 365 days a year. I wake in the mornings to sunlight streaming through the mosquito nets around our room, to early morning traffic, the strangled crowing of cockerels and the twang of Latino music spreading through the village, as each household determines to both start and end the day with a party.

I'm staying on the Caribbean coastline of Venezuela in the north, at a village called Playa Colorada, enrolled with a language school called 'The Travelling Classroom', which incorporates intensive Spanish classes with adventure sports and expeditions around the country. So far, our days have been spent scuba diving, hiking, meringue dancing, sea kayaking and of course, a 4 hour Spanish lesson. The scenery is breathtaking. Sandy beaches, turquoise seas, rainforests and mountains encircle the camp. And yet, rubbed up against the natural beauty, there is the smell of petrol, the beer bottles on the beach, and everywhere the stray dogs scrounging for food; some pregnant, some with three legs, all near to death.

From working with beautiful, healthy huskies in the pristine North, with its clean lakes, untouched forests, vast stillness and castigating attitudes to littering, I couldn't have come to somewhere that is more different. Not only is my body trying to adjust (minus 35 to plus 35...) but my mind as well.

Venezuela seems to be a country of dynamic contrasts. The bright white shirts of the school children set against the dust of dirt roads. Paying 3bsfs (5p) to fill up a full tank of petrol, and paying 20bsfs for a bottle of water. It is too dangerous to leave our camp at night, and yet every local I have spoken to has fallen over themselves in their efforts to be friendly, kind and generous; every morning as I walk past the local shop I get a free treat "por la gringa rubia!!" Amidst the grime, the corruption, the poverty, this country strikes me as being more of a living breathing entity than anywhere else I have been, it is alive in itself. The meringue, the salsa, the laughter on every corner, the complete unashamedness in doing whatever you want to do whatever anyone may think, the yearly Christmas competition to paint your house the brightest colour, speeding along a narrow coastal road on a rattling old bus with people hanging out the doors and music on full volume it all just screams of colour, vitality, life.
Viva la vida!

Walking through the village

From the hilltop over our village

Diving in Mochimo National park

The price of petrol here...... utter madness

The Great Miami Airport Debacle

Hola! I won't spend this post raving on about how amazing Miami was as that's not only kind of obvious but really kind of boring; it's much more fun to read about the things that have gone wrong (and way more useful as well!!) Suffice to say re: Miami I had an incredible couchsurfing host who not only lived in a beautiful apartment with a rooftop pool (!!) but was also one of the most generous and kind people I'd ever met. Fast forward chilling at the beach, visiting the Everglades national park, holding Snappy the alligator, checking out the artsy design district of midtown Miami and spending New Year's Eve drinking champagne on the beach watching the fireworks and the 'orange drop' (Miami Florida's take on the famous New York apple drop in Times Square) and you have me at Miami airport, facing number one of my string of bad luck.

Lining up to check my bag in for my flight to Caracas, Venezuela I reach into my rucksack to get out my flight reservation only to remember with a sinking feeling the image of my trusty blue dolphin travel folder sitting innocently on the counter of my couchsurfing host's kitchen.... along with important documents, passport photocopies and $150 inside it...

Panicked phone call to my host Eileen, and the lifesaver that she is 20 minutes later she came speeding back to the airport (in her beautiful Mercedes....) to meet a very apologetic and embarrassed Clare. Dolphin folder safely back in bag. Lined up for bad luck number 2.

Okay, so the Venezualan visa system is that British citizens are allowed to enter the country for 90 days on a tourist visa, as long as you fill in a landing card on arrival and have proof that you are going to be leaving the country in the form of a return or onward flight. I did a little research to see if this meant that I actually had to book a flight out of Venezuela before entering the country, and was assured by the Lonely planet forums (as well as by my language company) that they never asked to see it. Which suited me as I have no idea yet what date I want to leave Venezuela and where I want to go to next- probably a bus to Columbia- but I wanted to see what the other people doing my language programme had planned. Besides, I thought the flight I have booked from Rio back to London would be enough- what more proof do you need that I'm going to be leaving Venezuela than a flight back to London from Brazil?! The answer, according to the US/ Venezuelan officials is... more. Not even hostel reservations in Columbia was enough- they wanted an actual bus, plane or cruise ticket booked for exiting the country; and they wouldn't let me board the plane until I got one. The check in desk closing and the flight departure time drawing nearer I had about 20 minutes to sort something out otherwise the flight would leave without me. The lines at the ticket desks were too long, the wifi on my phone wasn't connecting and I had that crazy panic feeling rushing up inside me. The kindly Miami air manager let me into his office to use his Internet and I madly searched for a flight from Caracas to Bogota in Columbia, not having time to figure out how to book bus tickets online. Which is a real bitch as flights in South America are stupidly expensive and I suddenly found myself $600 poorer, running to the gate and catching my flight in the nick of time.
(I've requested a cancellation and refund for the ticket but I have no idea whether I'll get the money back.... People I've spoken to here think maybe this was just the USA being....well, the USA and that travel from one South American country to another they're not as picky but, well, I don't know if I'd take that risk anymore!)

Feeling so very inadequate with my lack of Spanish I settled into the flight, trying to relax but stressing about the money I had just spent and about the stupidly short connection time I had at Caracas airport for my next flight to Barcelona, Venezuela. The flight was slightly late to land and I poised myself by the door, first person off, immigration was a breeze and I was feeling like yes, I can make this flight And....then I had to wait 20 minutes to see which carousel our bags were coming through on. And then another 20 minutes for the carousel to start moving. And then it stopped. And then finally, after about another 20 minutes my bag appeared and I had 40 minutes to pass through customs, sprint to the domestic airport and check in before the flight left. I've never ran so hard in my life!! (And with an 18kg backpack on your back in 30 degree mugginess believe me it's bloody hard work...) Sweat streaming off me I reached the gate, gasped out Barcelona, and was promptly told the gate had closed. "Por favor..!!"
"No"
Damn.

Luckily, they simply put me on the next flight which was 7am the next morning at no extra cost, and I started chatting to a lovely Venezuelan family who were in the same situation. They insisted I come and stay in a hotel with them which I happily accepted, I didn't like the idea of staying overnight in one of the world's notoriously dangerous airports and it was so useful to have some local knowledge and Spanish to help me out. So things turned out okay with me in a nice hotel room with a hot shower and wifi- the family were going to pay for me but I felt so bad I gave them some US dollars to pay for it but they told me the local exchange rate. People have the wrong idea that Venezuela is an expensive country, and it is if you go by the official, tourist exchange rate which is about 4 bolivars to a $. However, there is also a black market, and the local exchange rate which is what anyone visiting here should use, and that's about 15 bolivars to a $.... a huge difference.

So from there things started to go more smoothly, several last minute gate changes at the airport conflicting with the screens and waiting an hour for luggage ("this is Venezuela!!") I arrived at my base camp for the next 11 weeks- Playa Colarada on the Caribbean Sea. Very remote, I can't get any phone signal anywhere (if you've texted I'm not ignoring!) and the nearest place I can get Internet is a town a 45 minute bus journey away, and just wifi at the moment so no pictures yet :( Scuba diving and Spanish lessons start tomorrow and for the moment it's just time to chill and meet everybody else.
It's beautiful and I'm determined to be the best spanish student the world has ever seen- maybe if I can talk like a local the mosquitos will leave me alone?!?!

Gracias and MIAMI BABY

Before I begin, I want to just say thank you to everybody who read and responded to my previous blog post. It was so reassuring to discover that my career and life dilemmas were not unique to me, and I massively appreciated all of the advice! One friend in particular had been in a very similar situation, and her advice was so useful that I'm sure she won't mind me sharing it on here.

She got a gap year job with Deloitte after she'd finished sixth form, a scheme whereby she worked for them for half a year and earnt money, and they'd then pay for her to go travelling for the rest of the year. They then paid for her university fees as long as she worked for them in the holidays. And she hated it. She hated it with a passion that meant she'd often pretend to be ill so as to avoid going in to work.

She rebelled against the corporate world, and vowed not to become one of the miserable people she worked for, who hated their jobs but felt they couldn't leave because they, or their families, had become accustomed to a certain sort of lifestyle that the salary afforded. She saw her other option as to keep travelling, move to Australia and pick fruit in various places and move from job to job and project to project. Needless to say, the Durham careers service were appalled to hear about her life plans, and she herself began to think about the life of a nomad- freedom perhaps, but insecurity, no roots, no real chance to establish relationships, have children.... Things that might not seem important to some people but mattered to her, and that matter to me.

She now has a job at Marie Curie and is loving it. I fully expected her to tell me to sack off my job and go right into the charity sector but interestingly, she didn't. She told me there were several important differences in our situations. Firstly, I didn't hate my internship with kpmg, in many ways I enjoyed it. Secondly, she was working in the tax department which is pretty evil, helping companies avoid paying tax etc. My sector can, perhaps, be justified ethically. Thirdly, she said one of the major reasons for her securing her job at Marie Curie was because she did have corporate experience and certain useful skills from Deloitte. She advised me to take up my job, see how I found it, save up some money and then reevaluate. But what was most important was to never feel as though I couldn't leave if I wanted to. To never feel trapped in a job because it was easier, or it paid more. I think this is such excellent advice, and it has made me feel so much better and more at peace with myself. I can now go into house hunting in London with a happier heart.... Although of course things may well change after South America, after all, 6 months is a long time....

So yes, this is stage 2 of the adventures!! I'm currently on my couch for the next 3 nights, in MIAMI BABY...!! I'm not afraid to say that I'm pretty terrified about this next stage of my adventures. Scandinavia was a doozy really, when you think about it. Part of the EU, one of the lowest crime rates in the world, police you can trust and a short hop home should anything go wrong. South America is none of those things. Venezuela, where I'm spending the first 11 weeks, is known as the kidnapping capital of the world, and the police are notoriously corrupt. When I called up to get travel insurance, I had to inquireinto their kidnapping and hostage cover. Apparently they don't pay the random, but they'll pay for my parents to come out a negotiate with my kidnappers (I kid you not). Oh but apparently I shouldn't be too worried- they usually only keep people for a day or two. Great. If you want to see what might happen to me watch a film called 'Hostage', I haven't watched it as I'm afraid it'll make me overly paranoid but yep, that's where I'm headed....
Nah I'll be fine, they usually only kidnap rich Venezualan kids apparently- I'd like to think they'd avoid me as if I were kidnapped it would cause somewhat of a stir in the British press (I hope).

Anyway, plans. 3 nights here in Miami (new years eve woop woop!) and then flying to Venezuela to take part in an intensive Spanish course, which also includes getting my next scuba diving qualification (Rescue diver), hikes in the national park, kayaking expeditions and travelling to Angel Falls, the world's highest waterfall (and where they go to in Up!) I'll be doing the course with about 10 other people on a stunning Caribbean beach and it will hopefully give me the language skills to be able to get by on the rest of the continent. I hope Spanish is easy!

So my plans after Venezuala are pretty loose, I'm hoping to just meet some cool people and head where they're headed. On my to go to list though are:

Lost city trek (Columbia)
Amazon rainforest (Ecuador or Peru)
Maccu picchu (Peru)
Cuzco and allequipa (Peru)
Lake tititca (Bolivia)
Buenos aeries (Argentina)
And I'm flying back from Rio (Brazil)

Anywhere else I should definitely hit? Let me know :)

So here I am. A little tired, a little jet lagged, a little traumatised after having to tell American customs my life story about 3 times (seriously, do I have a suspicious face?!) but unbelievably excited. My CS host is just getting ready and then we're off to some crazy party cruise round the islands. It's 26 degrees here and sunny.
Bring it :)

Home, sweet...

Stepping outside at Gatwick airport my parents were shivering in minus 2; I was peeling off layers. A wave of noise, and light came over me. The air felt thick with pollution. Driving back home, my neighbourhood, which I've always thought of as quite leafy, struck me as crowded and cramped. The next day I was almost run over cycling into town (yes, I was on the wrong side of the road....) One week later and I'm still trying to adjust to life back in England, and trying to remind myself that there aren't any horses to feed, no puppies to cuddle, and that when I step outside I can leave the thermals behind as my breath isn't going to instantly freeze to my scarf and form icicles.

Visiting friends at my university in Durham has helped me adjust, but given me a disturbing feeling of deja vu. Nothing here seems to have changed, and I feel that I have regressed 6 months to my final term at university. Regression can be a wonderful thing in many ways; I have fallen back into old friendships and university life; we've had crazy nights out fuelled by Finnish vodka. I've given them Norwegian brown cheese to try, and hot Finnish spiced drink to taste (Glögi!) and yesterday me and friend found ourselves jamming in the bar only to have the porter come in and request 'Blowing in the Wind' from which we discovered he had very impressive tenor voice. But in such a regression other feelings and relationships have emerged under their layer of Scandinavian experiences, and I have found I was wishing not for a regression but signs of a progression that unfortunately hasn't happened in some areas.

I'm viewing South America now with much more apprehension. I was insanely lucky with my placement in Finland; but I think regardless of that luck, Scandinavia was a place where I felt comfortable and at home. South America will be somewhere of countless contrasts. Quite aside from the obvious (the climate) I will be travelling from places of endless lakes and forests, clean living and clean energy, to slums and sprawling cities. (Amidst stunning beaches, mountains and rainforests I'm sure..!) Norway is among the richest countries in the world (per capita): most countries in South America are among the poorest. I'm not entirely sure how I'm going to respond to the continent. But I guess we can only wait and see.

What is perhaps a more worrying notion is the thought that after my year of travelling I will working in Canary Wharf, London, for a corporate machine. Do I really want to work and live in a huge city? Joining the daily crush of people on the tube? Working in an office, breathing in air thick with car and bus fumes? Undoubtedly not, but I simultaneously understand how lucky I am to have a graduate job in this current climate, whilst many other university graduates are finding themselves twiddling their thumbs at home, or ecstatic to have been moved from a part time to a full time job at Starbucks.
My job is working in the Forensics section of KPMG, so will be dealing with fraud and anti- money laundering (ie: fighting fraud rather looking for ways for companies to avoid paying tax) which really doesn't sound as dull as audit or tax, and I didn't hate the internship I did with them. I will also have lots of university friends moving into London, I have two amazing friends who want to live with me, and I could see myself enjoying the buzz and excitement of the city.

The idea of jumping from workaway project to workaway project is a tempting, but romantic one. Whilst money would not be a major issue as I could jump from temporary jobs to free projects, I think I would crave some kind of stability. And whilst I loved my life in Finland, and the physical activity of working on the farm, I'm not sure if I could have stayed there for years and years without missing some intellectual stimulation; I would have felt I was not using my full capacity. And regardless of everything, to travel to South America I am borrowing some money from my parents, which is something they only allowed me to do because I had a job to come back to, and the means of paying them back. The option of giving up my job is seeming more impossible my second.

I'm trying now to view my job as not me selling out to them, but a way of me taking their money, allowing them to pay for my exams and qualifications, giving me the experience I need of business and corporations and then, just as they have invested into me, getting the hell out of there. Taking the ACA, taking the knowledge of accounts and businesses, and doing something in a field that I actually care about, like conservation. Setting up my own charity, or my own business. Perhaps moving to Scandinavia, or anywhere in the world, as having the ACA I would be a 'skilled professional' which, along with a British passport, gives me a route to anywhere I might like. Can I get through that 3 years though? And should I feel I have to? And am I just saying all this to try and convince myself as it's an easy option? I don't know. Comments help and advice are more than welcome.