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Day 6: Crackers in Caracas

Ramshackle, multicoloured taxis dash this way and that. They narrowly avoid collisions with a juxtaposed assortment of other rusting death traps and pretentiously polished luxury vehicles.

Insane moped drivers enter the fray, some hopping onto pavements and scattering pedestrians. Rainbow-coloured buses honk and thunder all around, cramming yet more passengers into their overloaded holds.

Welcome to Caracas: Murder Capital of the World.

CARACAS,

VENEZUELA 

There isn’t a lot to Caracas except street after traffic-choked street. They heave with dishevelled people and rickety vehicles chattering, clonking and honking into a cauldron of damp mountain mist and polluted smog. Mopeds whine up and down the pavements, weaving in and out of pedestrians like some urban slalom. Sid and I clutch our bags close to our bodies, fearing a rider might whisk them away.

Needless to say, after the exhaustion of the last twenty-four hours, we slept well, missing breakfast. When we finally awoke, it was late morning, and the hotel room’s ceiling fan struggled against the heat.

We took our time, showering, shaving and just generally recovering. Meanwhile, we decided what we wanted to do for the remainder of the day. While we were still shaken by our unpleasant welcome to the country, neither of us had been to Caracas before. In all likelihood, neither of us would again.

Not wanting to miss out on whatever delights the city held, we packed our day bags, water bottles, guide book and map. Yes, we could have used our phones and Google’s myriad delights to navigate the city. But the advice for getting around the crime-riddled capital is to be as inconspicuous as possible. We already seemed to have painted a massive bullseye on our backs without needing to flash the latest European mobiles for longer than necessary.

We handed our room key to reception and boldly headed out into the hustle and bustle of Venezuela’s capital city.

We set off, winding through the sea of people, instantly noting the economic divide running through this country.

Struggling street vendors offered us everything from rip-off T-shirts to pirated DVDs. Smartly dressed men, suited and booted, jabbered into their iPhones, holding briefcases tight while glaring at the armies of rebellious-looking, lanky-haired youths flitting amongst the crowd.

Our first stop was a small cafe on one of the side streets. We had missed breakfast and were famished, but the menu was pretty much limited to Jugo de Naranja and patatas fritas – chips and orange juice.

The bill came to $6, but, like the taxi drivers last night, the waitress couldn’t break our $10 note. Unlike the taxi drivers, she tried, sending one of her staff to find some change from a neighbouring shop.

A cynical part of my mind thought I’d waved goodbye to that $10 note.

Meanwhile, our hostess used the delay to practise her English with us. Cue much giggling and light-hearted banter, which was a friendly reminder not to view all the residents of this city as murderous crime lords out to get us.

Caracas is considered by many to be one of the most dangerous cities in the world. Indeed, the FCDO (more commonly known as the British foreign office) ‘advises against all but essential travel to all of Venezuela due to ongoing crime and instability.’

The capital alternates the top spot on the ‘murder capital of the world listings’ with Guatemala City. UNESCO’s briefing pack urged extreme caution if visiting the city before the expedition, and I can see, or at least ‘feel’ why.

Everywhere you go here feels as though a predator is eyeing you up. Tramps turn from rummaging in dustbins to eye you lecherously. Mopeds purposely swerve towards you; dilapidated cars slow and crawl along the curbside just meters behind you. Even the military police officers, brandishing what I guess are AK-47s (that’s pretty much the only type of gun I know of), seem more ready to pounce on you than assist you.

I’ve travelled quite extensively through some pretty intimidating places in the world. Still, I can honestly say that this city is the only place I have felt genuinely in danger just venturing down the street.

Nevertheless, venture down the street we did.

Bidding adios to the pleasant waitress (and, surprisingly, receiving the correct change), we crossed onto one of the main thoroughfares. We assumed the busier road would be safer to traverse than the relatively quiet back street on which the cafe (and, indeed, our hotel) is situated.

Further down the road, what had started as a distant clamour turned into a racket. We turned the corner to be confronted by an ocean of bodies. Men, women and children were marching (thankfully away from us), chanting, waving banners and banging on drums. I don’t know what they were protesting, but such occurrences are commonplace here, the people fighting against corruption and inequality.

Despite being confident that their cause was valid, we knew not to get muddled up in such protests, fearing they might become violent. So, following the map in our Lonely Planet (as subtle as possible so as not to unintentionally hold a metaphoric ‘I’m a tourist, come and mug me’ banner above our heads), we made it to the nearest metro station. I was surprised by how relatively clean, modern and safe it felt (weird considering that I find the tube in London a pretty nerve-racking experience!).

A train pulled up after only a few minutes, and, boarding it, we found seats (something I rarely succeed in doing on the tube). The train whisked us off through the tunnels beneath the city.

Twenty minutes later, we emerged from the La Hoyada metro station back into the sunlight, glaring after the gloom below, and headed on foot to the Casa Natal and Bolivar Museo.

The birthplace of Simon Bolivar has been restored to look pretty much as it would have during his youth. Bolivar is the national hero of many Latin American countries. He fought for freedom from colonial rule and thus ‘created’ the modern states of Peru, Colombia, Ecuador, Bolivia, Panama and Venezuela.

A guide, a young Venezuelan woman who seemed genuinely proud, and rightfully so, of her job, took us around. She pointed out pieces of furniture, paintings and medals that had supposedly belonged to Bolivar himself.

After this, we headed across the busy street to the Caracas Cafe for what proved to be a surprisingly excellent cup of coffee. Finally, we dared to venture on foot to the Panteón Nacional de Venezuela (the National Pantheon of Venezuela).

The twenty-minute trek across the ten or so blocks was arduous. We have yet to acclimatise to the heat and humidity or, for that matter, the constant stench of drains that hang about the city like cheap urban perfume. But, the further we ventured into the old town, the nicer the architecture became. The grotty facades of concrete boxes adorned with the faded Coca-Cola logo gave way to pleasant arches and more traditional stone-built abodes.

The crowning achievement of this building effort, in my opinion, are the two dazzling white spires of the old church. It has recently been renovated into the ‘final resting place’ of Venezuela’s national heroes, most notably Simón Bolívar. Once inside, out of the midday glare, we were confronted by a homage to a man who is practically venerated as a saint.

While other Venezuelan heroes are interred in adjoining areas, the central nave of the  Panteón is dedicated to Bolivar. Our footsteps echoed as we proceeded down it, gazing up at paintings depicting scenes from his life sprawled across the ceiling as though extracted from the Bible. A glimmering aura, courtesy of an elaborate crystal chandelier, lit the otherwise dim space. It reflected from his bronze sarcophagus, reverently situated in place of the old church’s altar. For some Latin Americans, it is the final leg of a pilgrimage from across an entire continent.

For us, it was the end of a very short day out.

A combination of jet lag, heat exhaustion and rising irritability, as well as, I’m sorry to say, a general lack of enthusiasm for further urban adventures (I’m more of a country-boy than a city-slicker), made us think twice about continuing elsewhere. With not a little trepidation, we took a thankfully uneventful taxi ride back to our hotel. We passed out on the bed for a well-earned siesta before heading out to grab something to eat before it got dark (and murdery). 

But, as we rounded the hotel staircase, a man hurrying in the opposite direction barrelled past us.

“You with the big group or the little one?” he demanded, a Liverpudlian accent punching through his words.

Confused, we asked for clarification.

“The expedition intro meeting,” he explained. “Big group’s on the roof terrace, little group’s in the restaurant.”

Sure enough, a notice board in the hotel lobby highlighted introductory meetings for the expedition archaeology team on the roof. At the same time, a handful of scientists from other disciplines were due to meet in the restaurant.

Oops, missed that one.

We dashed back to our room to retrieve our passports, insurance info, and other documentation that our pre-expedition gumpth had told us to provide. Then we hurried up to the roof.

Set out in a circle of chairs, we came face to face with the people with whom we will spend the next six months of our lives.

That’s when things started to go down downhill. 

Benjamin King

My name is Dr Benjamin King, and I am an archaeologist working on the UNESCO Sarisariñama Expedition. Join me on my epic journey to one of the most remote places on the planet – a tabletop mountain towering above the Venezuelan rainforest. This will be my home for six months as my colleagues and I attempt to unravel the mystery of the ancient ruins that lie buried within an enormous sinkhole. Not only do I blog updates about the project, but also the trials and tribulations of life in the jungle. Something tells me that the danger of the jungle’s predators is nothing compared to the perils of being trapped with the same group of people for the next six months! Don’t miss out on a single moment of this extraordinary adventure - follow me on social media @benking1209 Benjamin King is also the fictional hero of the action-packed adventure series ‘The Xibalba Saga’ by James Richardson. Read it now https://amzn.to/3dD9wZW Stay up to date on new releases and exclusive free content at www.moonmask.net and @worldofmoonmask

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