On July 17, 2008 I leaved early from Cucuta with the idea of crossing into Venezuela and moving as far as possible each day to reach the city of Merida. Of course, nothing happened the way I expected.

I had two bridges by which I could cross the Arauca River to enter the new country: one towards the town of Urena, and other, the principal one, to San Antonio del Tachira. The first option appeared more direct to the roads that I had chosen and following the directives of the people and road signs, I arrived at the crowded crossing. As it couldn’t be otherwise, dozens of cars were lined up to cross the narrow bridge. I was about to get into this chaotic traffic when in a moment of wisdom it occurred to me to ask a customs officer in Colombia where was I supposed to get an immigration officer to get me an exit stamp. "You have to go to the other bridge," he replied. "What? There is not one here? ". "No, only in San Antonio" was his dry response, ending our conversation. 

Insulting in a low voice, I was left with no choice but to go back to where it had been, making the 15 miles to another bridge then reversing on the other side of the river as I inevitably had to go through Ureña! Luckily I found a couple of cyclists who in addition to the company and the conversation, they showed me a shortcut to save a few kilometers and avoid the heaviest traffic.

I noticed that the other bridge was the main crossing since the traffic jam in the place far exceeded what I had seen in a while. I was wondering why so many Colombians would go to Venezuela and the response was obvious when looking around me: everywhere abounded precarious street stands piled with gas drums, the product of smuggling par excellence because in Venezuela, as I heard people saying, the gasoline was cheaper than water. Would it be really like that or were they exaggerating?

I squeezed by the opposite side of the road to avoid having to wait for hours without end, I passed immigrations and there was just one detail pending. As he had entered the country by air, at the airport in Cartagena de Indias, I had to perform a procedure of temporary import of the bike so I would "not have problems with customs at the exit." I just had to deliver the paper when leaving Colombia and that would be it. Really? What a dreamer!

To begin with, the person in charge was not there and I had to wait half an hour for her rounded figure to return with a walk so slow and parsimonious that I believed she moved back in time. Taking the paper, she looked at it with disdain and simply said, "It’s wrong." What? How? When? Why? It turns out that in Cartagena they had put a termination date for the license that was the same as for its issuance. A simple mistake, I thought. It had been a clear typo, otherwise why would they give me a voucher that would last only one day, mostly when I was traveling on the bike in question! "You have to go back to Cucuta and see how you solve the problem in the Customs building." How? What? When? Why? Not by any chance! Return to the city and get into a world of bureaucracy with the bike on tow? No way. I got firm and demanded that she find the solution from there, that I could not lose the whole day in such a negligent process generated by them. It was not easy to get her to agree and reaching my patience limit (and my manners), I finally got her to call Cucuta and seek an alternative solution. "You have to wait for them to communicate with Cartagena and corroborate the papers," she told me with not so friends face. "And how long would that take?” "I do not know," She replied inherently.

That indefinite period of time lasted more than two hours, in which I stayed in front of her office, standing stoically awaiting an answer and constantly reminding her of my presence. The time passed by and I even considered more seriously the possibility that the communication with Cartagena was with messenger pigeons. I did not see a lot of willingness on the part of this lady and around noon, a little anxious because I was still around, had enough pedaling to and fed up with the indifference with which I was treated, I approached her and ask her: 'sorry, could you tell me name? ". Look of bewilderment ... "is that I want to know whom I am dealing with when I have to explain my complaint about how bad I was treated with this matter." I took me a while to learn that my interlocutor was named Maria Vivas, and the prospect of publicly outlining her attitude, as if by magic, in five minutes I had my papers resolved and was ready to move on. "I hope you don’t leave with a bad image of Colombia for this little mishap," she said. "From Colombia, no, not at all, the negligence of the customs officers and their behavior, that's another thing ..." and with that I left for new horizons.

The entry to Venezuela was quick and direct. I got my passport stamped and the first thing was to try to change some dollars to keep some cash to get to Merida, about three days of pedaling around. I looked for the typical characters who exchange currency in the border sites, but I could not see them. I went to an exchange bureau and they told me that they had no change. "Well, I can try your luck at Ureña," I told myself, and I began to roll towards the other border town.

I was entering the land of Chavez. I had heard much about this particular president and I wanted to see what the story was from the inside. While immersed in a different historical context, Chavez had some points in common with what had been the government of Peron in Argentina back in the forties. Peron attempted to socialize the country, with a populist government that ousted the elitist class of the era, creating a new environment of power around him. He nationalized virtually everything and benefited the poorest people. The wealth derived from being "the breadbasket of the world" during the years of World War II favored the continuation of his administration, until it was overthrown by the military. For some, Peron was the best thing, for others the worst. Here, there was a similar process, except that the wealth came from a different source: oil. We had the "General", here there was the "Comandante".

In the "Chavez World" I noticed some interesting things. The time zone was different to that of Colombia ... by half an hour! The posters with the face of Chavez and regional politicians from the ruling party were everywhere. I could see him virtually in all forms of expression: smiling, pensive, victorious, and serious. It was like a giant family album of the president, covering the last 10 years of his physical appearance. Since he had come to power in 1998, the flag added an extra star, the horse in national coat of arms had changed its direction, the name of the country was different, and everything was "Bolivarian". The words “socialist revolution” resonated everywhere, there was a new currency and the red color appeared to be the official one. Although he had implemented a series of social programs benefiting the poorest, most people I met complained of mismanagement of resources. It was a rich country, but apparently that wealth was not distributed correctly, or invested in improving the nation. I often heard people saying: "Chavez is the best we have," almost at the same time with "He is the worst thing that could have happened to us." As it’s customary with strong and controversial personalities, opinions were sharply divided.

For my part, the first impressions that I had were not very happy. Upon arriving at Ureña I realized that something as trivial as exchanging currency was an impossible undertaking. Normally there was no problem in changing a few dollars to the local currency until I get to a bank and I’m able to extract money from an ATM, but here I was in a parallel dimension in which the ruling party prevented such transaction in foreign exchange bureaus. The official rate was far below the market value and everyone told me the same thing: "Why didn’t you exchanged in Cucuta?" I didn’t know that. Just to think of having to repeat the traumatic border crossing gave me the chills, and moreover, it was already 2 pm and I was still in front of the city that I should have left behind hours before!

Tired of going back and forth and outraged by the inability to get some Bolívars to carry in my pockets, I chose to get on the road and let things evolve for themselves. My destination of the day had changed to the nearby town of San Juan de Colon, where I had been told that there were firefighters and I surely could spend the night with. But I was still separated by the foothills of some mountains that it would take a few hours of climb. The amount of pot holes and ditches that was such that the road appeared to have suffered from a recent bombing, a situation that would constantly be in my path through these lands and that I did not come to understand considering that an oil nation should have much better preserved roads.

I was somewhat cranky from the day that I had and I had been doubtful that I would had made the right decisions, until finally things started to improve. Upon arrival at El Vallado at the top of the hill, I started to talk with officers of the National Guard and when hearing my misadventures one of them came forth and gave me a few Bolivares so I have something to get me to Merida without starving. It was a noble gesture which surprised me pleasantly. The night was here and I arrived up to Colon in the middle of the dark. I was starving and the first thing I did was to get into a bakery to eat something. There I met Ender, and from that moment everything would change in my pass thought Venezuela.

He was part of a group of cyclists and offered to take me to dinner a little later. Meanwhile I settled in the local fire department, where the officers, with their usual solidarity with the traveler, had no objection to accommodate me in a corner. Ender picked me up and he introduced me to some of the gastronomic specialties of Venezuela: hamburgers and hot dogs! After that we met the rest of the group and chatting about the trip, it turned out that they had been the same people that hosted Oscar, my Colombian friend, who was over there three years ago, during his South American tour! Coincidence? Destination? Who knows? Chatting late into the night, it was with them that I received the first greetings for my birthday...

It didn’t take much time for me to move into the Eduar’s house and what was going to be a passing glance by Colon, which was not even in my original plans as a place to stay, it became a four-day stay in which the whole group treated me like a brother. Or rather, a cousin! Initially I thought that it was the way to colloquially be called in these lands, since one could hear the "hello cousin" greeting being used with everyone. But it was not so! Colon appeared to be a really big family in which all were related to each other!

Eduar and his family, as well as Rolando, Ender, Yobany, Luis, Winston, Omar and other members of the gang conspired against me so just once into Venezuela, I would not leave the state of Tachira! Between cycling, sightseeing around the area and abundant dinners, the hospitality of the Venezuelans was being imposed with capital letters. I not only celebrated my 35th Bday, but we also celebrated my 20,000 kilometer (12,500 miles) journey through the Americas so far.

I finally went my way towards Merida. The huge lines at gas stations had caught my attention and that in many cases; they were closed for lack of fuel. Wondering what happened I was told that there was a shortage of fuel because of its trafficking to Colombia! In Venezuela one could fill a tank with a dollar and change, something unthinkable anywhere else in the world. Until I saw it with my own eyes I could not believe it: 50 liters of gasoline for 4 Strong Bolivars!! It was ridiculous! The same price that would cost just a liter in Argentina! The cars I’ve seen corroborated this, because for the first time I saw huge and old vehicles, those who devour gallons of gasoline at an accelerated pace. The hellish Chevrolets took all the prizes!

I went through several tolls, but unlike what I had experienced in Colombia, here they were abandoned or at best, maintained by a small group of employees. The roads had passed into the hands of the state but by what they saw, they were not doing a much better job than the private companies. The state of the roads still left much to be desired.

My first stops to eat gave me a more complete idea of the cost of living in Venezuela. It was not economical at all and I found that food and accommodations were far more expensive than in Colombia. I was going to have to sharpen the pencil to stay within budget on Bolivarian land! However, the spontaneous warmth of the locals surprised me once again when in a juice and smoothies stand in Morotuto, I was given three powerful fruit concoctions, two servings of cake and half a pineapple! I almost burst out of my seams!

That night I came to the picturesque little town of Zea. There was only one hotel and it was out of my reach, so I chose to ask at the police headquarters if they would have a place to spend the night. Sergeant Flores Osuna listened with care and sorry for not having the keys to the bedroom that I could have used, he began calling the council members of the village. That was the good thing about being in a small place, everyone knew each other! So it was that thanks to Councilman Labrador I finally ended up at the hotel invited by the Town Hall. One more thing going my way and still adding...

After a long and exhausting day in which the climbs seemed to have no end, I reached the city of Merida. It is one of the main tourist centers in Venezuela, nestled in the northeastern foothills of the Andes crowning the region with the imposing Pico Bolivar, at almost 5000 meters of altitude. I deserved to spend a few days to explore the surroundings and I did just that.

The boys from Colon had contacted me with Luis Zambrano, cycling and mountain guide, who hosted me in his house and made sure that I did not missing anything during the time I stayed there. I got in touch with his friends, like Jerry, with whom I had the opportunity to ride one day and share a few mates with his wife, who had lived in Argentina as a child. Along with his son Javier, his nephew John and some of their friends we did an extensive trek through the wetlands of Culata, appreciating the charm of these unique high landscapes. The vegetation was dominated by a kind of weed called "frailejón" which it is said to be useful in case of emergencies as replacement of the toilet paper. At least to the touch it was soft and had a nice smell!  

Besides being known for the ice cream shop with the most flavors according to the Guinness record, with some as bizarre as garlic, anchovies or onions, Merida was famous for an astonishing piece of engineering: the longest and highest lift in the world! It works since 1960 and joins Merida with one of the highest peaks, Pico Espejo, with a height of 4765 meters above sea level. In total 12.5 kilometers are traveled along four sections independent of one another, the last being the more shocking because they have no intermediate support towers along its several miles long journey. I could not leave without riding this national treasure, but I chose to do so in a less traditional way.

Luis got me the means to go by jeep to the village of Los Nevados, nestled in the the middle of the mountains and from which it was possible to do a six-hour trek up the fourth station of the lift, in Loma Redonda, at 4000 meters. The trip by jeep itself justified the trip, along a narrow trail meandering next to endless ravines and slopes that if we did not have 4x4 transmissions, it would have been impossible to climb. The views of the hills were just jaw-dropping even though it was better to keep the mouth closed to avoid swallowing the dirt.

Los Nevados was a place taken out of a fairy tale. The "downtown" was a crammed group of houses, mostly for the casual tourist lodges and most of the population lived in houses scattered around the area, where each square meter was tapped for the crops. I was surprised on several occasions during the trip by jeep to see the incredible inclinations that had some of the fields had. The atmosphere was more relaxed and it that lend itself to get the mind wandering freely and high.

The walk was the perfect prelude before getting to the famous lift. Immersed in an excursion that seemed stopped in time, all alone and surrounded by the majesty of the mountains, I was climbing slowly, absorbing the texture of the landscape at every turn. The leaden gray sky did not overshadow these giants of rock, but it rather lifted them and highlighted its dark-clear contrasts. The “frailejones” dominated the local vegetation and its velvety leaves shone with the drizzle drops that were posed delicately on them.

The first insight into the cabins of the lift was impressive. Going out of the mist generated by low clouds, the colorful compartments were crowded with people giving a feeling of graceful flying without any support. Traveling there was a unique and spectacular experience, similar to the feeling of a bird in flight towards the conquest of the summits.    

In Pico Espejo, at 4700 meters above sea level, people went out with a unique and unbridled anxiety. They had climbed up there so they can see the snow! One of the few places in which Venezuelans had direct access to this natural phenomenon and as I was told, was one of the reason for building up such infrastructure! Playing hide and seek between the clouds and flirting with the cameras of tourists, the Pico Bolivar appeared occasionally, showing its magnificence and splendor.  

Merida was also the point of reunion with my friend Kathy, who along with Oscar had already shared with me a few kilometers in the Canadian Rockies. This time she was traveling the country on vacation and we agreed to ride a few days together after leave the city. She had brought me a fair amount of equipment that needed replacement due to its use and, among other things, I inaugurated a new house! Due to the fact that the rain fly and the floor of my tent were a collage of continuous duct tape, it was time to move out and inaugurate a new mobile home. She also brought a few other things for Maira, so she wouldn’t feel jealous and make another ‘scene’ like with the handlebar! By the time we left the city she had new pinions, chain plate and chain! For a while she could not complain, right?

Luis, Javier and an occasional companion that passed through there, escorted us out of Merida. They biked with us the 65 kilometers to Mucuchíes, where we did our first stop before tackling the final ascent up Pico del Águila (Eagle Peak), the highest road pass of Venezuela, at more than 4000 meters above sea level! It was going to be a record in my trip and the first time that I was back at this altitude since I crossed the Andes in San Juan, Argentina, in 2003.

The weather could not be more propitious and the freshness of the air was increasing as we climbed. Fortunately the design of the highway was optimal and the slope was not too demanding, so you could get the most out of the wonderful natural environment surrounding us. Zigzagging as a playful waterway within a valley, the road advanced peacefully along the slopes and even on the switchback areas, it maintained a prudent and moderate inclination.

So it was that we crowned the summit while escaping a sudden fog that came stepping onto our heels and, between some chats with the curious tourists who did not give credit to their eyes when the saw us up there with our loaded bikes, we were able to rejoice with the splendid panorama that stretched in front our eyes. The clouds rammed below the mountain peaks and one could appreciate how the road that we were going to descend got lost in that cottony mass. Riding on that road downhill, with the sun above and in such landscape was the glory! It gave us the impression of looking out the window of an airplane. I remembered little Iael, who in Costa Rica had asked me if I could pedal through the clouds ... because my dear friend, if this was not pedaling on clouds, it was very close!

The descent was not only highlighted by the electrifying speed and the curves and counter curves that occurred without respite, but also because the effect of clouds, covering it all with a blinding fog and suddenly letting the sun's rays through in a game that dazzled the senses. We arrived at Timotes exhausted and happy for the extraordinary experience. This was the best way to circumvent mountain passes!

Valera was our next destination and point of separation. Kathy would continue from there by bus bounded for the Venezuelan coasts to squeeze a bit of sun on its beaches, before returning to her job teaching in northern Quebec, where for many months, the landscape would be dominated by the white eternal snow and the beauty of the tundra. For my part, I would travel to the state of Zulia, where I planned to visit the SOS Children's Village of Ciudad Ojeda, along with the social commitment of this journey.

PBut what we did not know was that the reception in Valera would be somewhat unusual. Once again the chain of contacts was under way and this time we were going to be awaited by a group of cyclists in the state of Trujillo ... or so we thought! Of the two possible paths to reach the city we opted for the more complicated and long one, we did go up quite a few meters in altitude, with a breathtaking view of another road that descended directly to the heart of the valley. That alternative delayed us a little more than we thought and when we got closer, a van full of journalists at the helm of Daniel Garcia, the president of Cycling Association Trujillana, came up the road to meet us! They guided us to the Plaza Shopping Center, where his manager, Emilio Tariffi, had organized a press conference that left us totally completely surprised. Television, radio and newspaper got together to meet us. The next day our photos occupied two pages on the sports section and my face shared the cover next to the newly crowned Miss Universe.

To complete the picture, they invited us with shelter and took over to regenerate our energies with generous invitations to eat. As a culmination of what appeared to be a tale of a hallucination or fantasy stemming from a heat stroke, the day that I said goodbye to Kathy and put my pedals before heading to Ciudad Ojeda, Emilio invited me to go hang gliding, something that I had never had a chance to do in my life and that I always yearned. And so, suspended in the air and moving with the wind whim, I then knew why man envies birds...
 

It has been several weeks since I arrived in Venezuela and I still wonder: when you write its name, where is H for Hospitality?

Until next time!

Good Trails,

Damián

Acknowledgments

To Danier Pena, of the National Guard: who selflessly gave me some bolivars to survive up to Merida.

To 1st Corporal Franklin Ramirez, Libardo Monroy Garcia & Freddy Ramirez: for permission to stay overnight in the fire station in San Juan de Colon.

To Ender Rosales: for having opened the doors to the world of hospitality in Venezuela. Thank you so much!

To Eduar Vivas: for your friendship and generosity when receiving me in your home. To mom Mary, Maritza, Camila, Marely and Jose David: for the familiar and fun atmosphere you gave me.

To Rolando Santibanez: for the constant "sponsorship" and your good vibes during my days in Colon.

To Yobany Fajardo: for that genuine interest in the goals of my trip and the unconditional and generous support with your company products. Thank you for the replacement lenses!

To Omar and Rolando Bonilla: for your warmth, attention and contacts in Merida.

To the rest of the bar of the cycling club Las Palmeras, San Juan de Colon: for all you did for me during my passage through your city.

To Roberto Perez, from the greengrocers at Morotuto: for those delicious milkshakes, cake and your great cordiality.

To Sergeant Flores Osuna and Councilman Labrador: for giving me a comfortable place where to rest my bones during my stop at Zea.

To Luis Zambrano: for having made your house a home for me in those days I spent in Merida. For all your support and interest so that I could make the most of my stay. And to your entire family: for the love and affection that you gave me. Grandma, when are we getting married?

To John and Javier: for the complicity and support those sightseeing trips around Merida and its surroundings. And to Jose Gregorio Garcia: for your genuine friendship.

To Jerry Keeton: thanks for the rides and for sharing with me the beauty of Merida.

To Giancarlo Dizi and Jorge Contreras Dizier: for allowing the dissemination of the work of SOS Villages in their radio station.

To Henry Prado, and Hector Peraza: for their lively and relaxed interview in their radio program "The Ugly’s Truck."

To Aldo Lopez: for the interest shown in my journey and generating contacts for my passage through Valera.

To Roberto Uzcategui, Tonny Uzcategui, David Paredes, Laura Duran and other cyclists of the group Cicloides (www.cicloides.com): for that memorable encounter at " El Hoyo del que que”."

To Jenny Cabrera and Ricardo Aldana: for covering my trip and spreading the work of SOS Children's Villages in Venezuela.

To Dariela Fernandez: for the great work being done to realize the construction of a new SOS Village in Merida.

To Juddy Sanchez, Diome Pena and Jose Castillo, from Mifafi Shelter in Apartaderos: for the breakfast and welcome surprise that they gave us during the climb to Pico del Aguila.

To Daniel Garcia, president of the Trujillana Cycling Association: for your warm reception, accommodation and so much generosity and hospitality shown during our pass though Valera.

To Emilio Tariffi, manager of the Plaza Shopping Center: for creating a space for publicizing the instances of this trip and for that unforgettable first paragliding flight.

To Maria Lourdes: for creating contacts with people of Valera, for your sincere friendship and cordiality with which you received us in your city.

To Leonel Polanco, Eudo Ferrer, and Pedro Crespo Eglise Sébrier: for giving me a place to spend the night at the El Encanto Toll, on the way to Ciudad Ojeda.

To Kathy Sauvageau: for your unquenchable spirit, that friendship without half meaning and your infinite generosity which will make me take you with me with love and affection forever. Good trail on the new path that you are about to start! KOS!

Some statistics

During this stage
Days on the road: 23

Days on the bike: 8

Kilometers traveled: 629 km

Average Kilometers per day: 78.6 km

Hours on the bike: 49h42m (2d01h42m)

Average speed: 12.7 km/h

Climbed meters: 8,347 m

Maximum altitude: 4,059 meters above sea level, Pico del Aguila, Venezuela (4-Aug-2008)

Since the beginning

Days on the road: 431

Days on the bike: 244
Kilometers traveled: 20,341 km (1,700 on gravel)

Average kilometers per day: 83.4 km

Hours on the bike: 1.259h44m (52d11h44m)

Average speed: 16.1 km/h

Maximum speed: 81.5 km / h down the Sunwapta Pass, Canada (15-Aug-2007)

Climbed meters: 201,362 m

Maximum height: 4059 meters above sea level, Pico del Aguila, Venezuela (4-Aug-2008)

Number of posters that I saw with a Chavez’ face: around 751.

Feeling of freedom while paragliding: indescribable!