Margarita Island, located just off the Venezuelan coast in the Caribbean Sea, is where Venezuelans (and sun worshipers from Europe) come to party over Christmas and New Year. According to our by now tattered copy of the LP guide to South America, it is an urbanized and highly developed beach vacation experience replete with fancy restaurants, high-rise international hotel chains, and plenty of duty-free shopping. It’s not quite how I envisaged spending New Year’s Eve, but Venezuela has been exhausting mentally and physically and some mindless beach fun is surprisingly attractive for a few days. Myself, Christi, Kelvin, and Ashley begin our Margarita Island experience with a visit to the local grocery store to buy food to cook in our fully-equipped kitchen. The chalet also has cable TV and air-con, but the shower only yields cold water.
Later, while Ashley and Kelvin head to the beach, Christi and I run a few chores. And because spontaneous, unplanned travel over the festive season is proving so difficult in Venezuela, Christi and I decide to stay put on Margarita Island for 5 nights. Kelvin and Ashley will return to San Francisco in two days and when they do, Christi and I hope to find a 5-star shack for our last few nights. This means we’ll need more money and I am determined to change the bloody Brazilian Reals that are burning a hole in my wallet. This is easier said than done until we are introduced to the Island’s Godfather. This guy has clearly modeled his appearance and his operation on the Marlon Brando Mafia character. Christi and I approach his beach-side office with due deference. The Don is surrounded by muscle-bound hunks and a smattering of female eye candy, although I curb my wandering eye temporarily. I’d love to back out of this financial interaction right about now, but I don’t want to offend him. There’s not much in the way of negotiation. He offers an exchange rate of 2:1 and we make the deal. Six hundred Brazilian Reals becomes 1200 Venezuelan Bolivars. The Don also knows (I didn’t ask how) that we’re looking for better accommodation and rents us a ‘nice apartment’ for 2 nights…for 1200 Bolivars. We leave with no money and the promise of an apartment. But at least we’re allowed to leave. We amble back to our chalet along Playa El Agua. Take a quick dip in the Caribbean along the way. Christi does well to hold on to her bikini top as a particularly large wave drenches her. Fortunately I catch the moment on camera, although Christi wonders (quite animatedly actually) why I didn’t bother to warn her about the approaching rogue wave. Oops!
Count down the Old Year with Kelvin and Ashley in our swanky chalet with lots of happy, excited mosquitoes and when the clocks strike midnight the beach is suddenly lit with a million fireworks. The beach is packed with New Year’s Eve revelers and fireworks zooming in every direction. It’s a crazy, drunken, thong-bikini rich orgy – and I love it!
Blog post by Roderick Phillips, author of Weary Heart – a gut wrenching, heart-wrenching, laugh-wrenching drama.
Speak Your Mind