Christi and I get up early to say goodbye to Ashley and Kelvin and never really get back to sleep again. Both Christi and I wish that we too were leaving, but our onward flight from Caracas to Bogota, Colombia, departs in two days so there seems little point moving on. Still we are leaving the Residencia Vacacional today – and I for one will not be sad to leave the mosquitoes behind. At least I hope our luxury apartment is devoid of mosquitoes. Come to think of it, though, neither Christi nor I have actually seen the place and we’re relying on the word of the Margarita Island Mafia Godfather so who knows if there even is an apartment, let alone whether it is the Paradise we have been dreaming about.
This feeling of unease is exacerbated when an associate of the Godfather, Ciro, who agreed to take us to the apartment this morning, never appears. After waiting two fruitless hours, we walk in our heavy packs and under a brutal sun to the beach-front offices of Javimar to confront the Godfather (I think we really must have spent too much time in the sun these last few days!). Ciro arrives soon after we do and complains that we are wasting his time – lying bastard. The Godfather calms the situation and suggests we (Ciro, Christi, and I) take a taxi (at his expense) over to the apartment, which is located in a gated community miles away from the beach. Superficially everything looks fine, but then we realize there is no fridge, the TV does not work, and the water is colder than at the Residencia Vacacional. Return (initially by foot and then taxi) to see the Godfather and explain, quite forcefully, that his associate Ciro is a lying S.O.B.
Remarkably the Godfather caves, returns our 1200B, and Christi and I storm off. Actually, to be fair, Christi doesn’t storm anywhere and she also wants me to point out that she wasn’t furious either, but I’m sure she gave the Godfather a dirty look! We stagger, depressed and downtrodden, back to the Residencia Vacacional (boy those mosquitoes suddenly look quite appealing!) only to learn that our old quirky chalet has already been rented out. Yet again Venezuela is messing with us. It is the height of the tourist season and we have no accommodation. We could literally have to sleep on the beach for the next two nights, which real backpackers may think to be a perfectly wonderful idea, but which fills Christi and I with dread on so many levels. There’s nothing for it but to heft our backpacks onto our shoulders and go door to door or hotel to hotel until one takes pity on us.
An hour later (and after numerous rejections) we stumble hot, sweaty, and bedraggled into the Costa Linda Beach Hotel. It’s a tastefully decorated complex with a pool and a restaurant and we’re stinking up the place as we stand in the entrance, hoping that a room will be available. We plead with the English-speaking manager, Grace, who looks at us for a long uncertain minute before admitting us into Paradise. The rate is B490 per night and she wants the money in advance. I can’t give her the wretched Bolivars quick enough and then we’re taken to our air-conditioned room, which comes with cable TV, warm water, a double bed, toiletries, fresh towels and lots of space. We’re so happy. We even eat dinner in the restaurant and it’s a yummy chicken curry followed by vanilla ice cream. God, I love backpacking!
Blog post by Roderick Phillips, author of Weary Heart – a gut-wrenching, heart-wrenching, laugh-wrenching story.
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