Gone wetness Amazon. We are comfortably air-conditioned buses in a direction Ciudad Bolivar Venezuela, 2000 km further north. Bus change expected at dawn in Boa Vista, the latest big Brazilian city before the border with Venezuela. After some mechanical problems, we loupons correspondence. We are now stuck in Boa Vista for 24 hours. It's hot, flat landscape, a deserted station, in this dream we find a seedy hotel close to the train station and a shower to wash the sweat of the journey and we go in search of the city center. We walk along a huge avenue, few cars and no buses. In this heat the end of the road seems far away. Hail to us a taxi, only slightly more expensive than a bus. A few minutes later we get off the taxi, we are in the center. Regular and desert, Sunday, 13 am 30 in a provincial town in the Amazon. One area in this city on the horizon cleared and the sweltering heat. A snack here and there by a mirror, an air-conditioned supermarket, squares connected by huge gigantic void, without the pace car. What a strange city. So there is not much to do in this city of more than 400 000 inhabitants. Even the main cinema that shows films does not open until 4 in the evening and we do not see a single open Internet. We understood, we return to our shabby hotel for a good nap in the shade of our fans, almost twenty minutes before finding a taxi. We spend the evening in the parking lot of the station in a tavern to restore us. What a great day, curtain and tomorrow.
7:00, we are only three with another English tourist in a huge bus to the Venezuelan border. Once there we make a change for the better, about 25% above the official rate, a sign of an economy that goes wrong. A few kilometers later, the English abandoned us to go the region where the Tepui, tray assembly where you can discover unique ecosystems and different from the rest of the region. Gradually the bus fills As the stops. Long after nightfall, we arrived in Ciudad Bolivar. A woman tells us of a basic hotel not far from the terminal, we prefer that than through an unfamiliar city at night. Indeed the hotel is within walking distance. No bell, so I gave the vote, a lame taciturn open ourselves down and it shows us a room and returns without having landed a word. This is rudimentary but given time it suits.
The next day I go explore the neighborhood while Laetitia continues
survey the land of dreams. An incredible number of old American cases haunt the streets of the city, each more beautiful and dilapidated as each other. Walk on sidewalks requires attention at all times to avoid tripping (slabs shifted, gaping holes ...), especially if you want to watch the walls decorated with political graffiti, much of which the image of Hugo Chavez . Electric poles and soar hundreds of son cling to cross in the sky like cobwebs loose. After an hour of wandering to sweat under the sun of Chavez, I agree to attend Laetitia wake of the princess and it's not always easy! We ship breakfast and we start exploring the city side of history. We are in the late morning, the population has already left the burning city streets to let the few tourists, only people who can brave the heat of the noonday sun to watch a few colonial buildings left by the powerful English crown. We'll obviously by the Simon Bolivar before our wanderings, and a final bit of insight will take us in the shade of trees in the botanical garden. The heat finally falls, we return to our hotel, on the way we pass by a cemetery, we will see some graves with names Corsican well. Besides this are not the only evidence that the Corsican diaspora left the country, we also find the souvenir stands of good luck that strangely resemble those of the island of beauty: a clenched fist with the thumb between the index out and middle fingers, but apparently the Venezuelans who sell among other biblos unaware of its origin. All is explained when we know that many Corsican settled in Venezuela and two former presidents of the country were Corsican.
At night we're at the bus station and wait patiently for our bus to the Colombian border. One night, a day's drive over to the west and we come San Cristobal Venezuela side. We spend the evening around the station, charmless buildings, noisy and polluted streets. We eat a piece in an empty room with only a few policemen nearby sipping sodas, all against a backdrop of salsa music, Colombia is not far distant, lit by neon lights flooding we `d light dim . The next day, we climb in a slow train to the border town, an hours
re road further. We pay an amazing right to leave the country but that seems quite formal and resume a bus to the border it is overloaded with people, no air conditioning, ten minutes to sweat and smell the sweat of all the pretty people. We're in line at customs to stamp our passports, we discover on the walls the heads of most wanted persons in Colombia including Manuel Marulanda, who has since died. We cross the border on foot, we arrived in Cucuta. Sidewalks piled hundreds of cans of gasoline and expect the client `s` a lookout for Venezuelan fuel, surely contraband and much cheaper at the pump Texaco ... we jump in the first bus to the bus station, we still have road ahead. We have an appointment tomorrow morning with Rafael in Ibague, Colombia's friend we met in Peru, during our walk-in Matchu Pitchu. We wander from window to window before finding the right price and the timing. We choose a bus leaving in late afternoon and arrives in the morning. We warn Rafael and we start dragging our spats in town, nothing extraordinary but lively. Back at the station, we see the full search of our bus through customs, no need to explain what they want, Colombia produces 80% of the cocaine consumed worldwide. It is 17 hours bus starts, for a good hour we can enjoy the scenery before the sun sets behind the mountains. Gradually hunger begins to be felt, but apparently the driver is an ascetic and is not willing to take a break, we fall asleep almost empty stomach, the few chips that we really do not feed. The sun rises, he goes another two hours when we finally stopped to eat breakfast in a sort of restaurant giant roadside, but adapted to the rural community that should be plentiful in the region. A huge stockyard adjacent to the restaurant, funny mood to take these cornflakes among cows mooing and a mild smell of dung. We leave on a full stomach, not for very long. We fall down, we wait half an hour to change buses. A new half-hour and again we immobilize. Before us, a long line of vehicles are stopped, people are sitting on the roadside and pa tientent. We leave ourselves, and learn a bike race is held in the region, we will wait two or three hours before leaving. It's hot, very hot, we eat much ice cream and a tricycle like a miracle happening and offers all sorts of refreshments.
We arrive in Ibague with only 5 hours late, we call Rafael, we settle into a small booth outside the station and command two espresso with freshly ground coffee. Rafael
happens:
- "Hola amigos, ¿The gusta nuestro cafe de Colombia?
- If mucho, el mejor desde el Kilimanjaro. "
7:00, we are only three with another English tourist in a huge bus to the Venezuelan border. Once there we make a change for the better, about 25% above the official rate, a sign of an economy that goes wrong. A few kilometers later, the English abandoned us to go the region where the Tepui, tray assembly where you can discover unique ecosystems and different from the rest of the region. Gradually the bus fills As the stops. Long after nightfall, we arrived in Ciudad Bolivar. A woman tells us of a basic hotel not far from the terminal, we prefer that than through an unfamiliar city at night. Indeed the hotel is within walking distance. No bell, so I gave the vote, a lame taciturn open ourselves down and it shows us a room and returns without having landed a word. This is rudimentary but given time it suits.
The next day I go explore the neighborhood while Laetitia continues
survey the land of dreams. An incredible number of old American cases haunt the streets of the city, each more beautiful and dilapidated as each other. Walk on sidewalks requires attention at all times to avoid tripping (slabs shifted, gaping holes ...), especially if you want to watch the walls decorated with political graffiti, much of which the image of Hugo Chavez . Electric poles and soar hundreds of son cling to cross in the sky like cobwebs loose. After an hour of wandering to sweat under the sun of Chavez, I agree to attend Laetitia wake of the princess and it's not always easy! We ship breakfast and we start exploring the city side of history. We are in the late morning, the population has already left the burning city streets to let the few tourists, only people who can brave the heat of the noonday sun to watch a few colonial buildings left by the powerful English crown. We'll obviously by the Simon Bolivar before our wanderings, and a final bit of insight will take us in the shade of trees in the botanical garden. The heat finally falls, we return to our hotel, on the way we pass by a cemetery, we will see some graves with names Corsican well. Besides this are not the only evidence that the Corsican diaspora left the country, we also find the souvenir stands of good luck that strangely resemble those of the island of beauty: a clenched fist with the thumb between the index out and middle fingers, but apparently the Venezuelans who sell among other biblos unaware of its origin. All is explained when we know that many Corsican settled in Venezuela and two former presidents of the country were Corsican. At night we're at the bus station and wait patiently for our bus to the Colombian border. One night, a day's drive over to the west and we come San Cristobal Venezuela side. We spend the evening around the station, charmless buildings, noisy and polluted streets. We eat a piece in an empty room with only a few policemen nearby sipping sodas, all against a backdrop of salsa music, Colombia is not far distant, lit by neon lights flooding we `d light dim . The next day, we climb in a slow train to the border town, an hours
re road further. We pay an amazing right to leave the country but that seems quite formal and resume a bus to the border it is overloaded with people, no air conditioning, ten minutes to sweat and smell the sweat of all the pretty people. We're in line at customs to stamp our passports, we discover on the walls the heads of most wanted persons in Colombia including Manuel Marulanda, who has since died. We cross the border on foot, we arrived in Cucuta. Sidewalks piled hundreds of cans of gasoline and expect the client `s` a lookout for Venezuelan fuel, surely contraband and much cheaper at the pump Texaco ... we jump in the first bus to the bus station, we still have road ahead. We have an appointment tomorrow morning with Rafael in Ibague, Colombia's friend we met in Peru, during our walk-in Matchu Pitchu. We wander from window to window before finding the right price and the timing. We choose a bus leaving in late afternoon and arrives in the morning. We warn Rafael and we start dragging our spats in town, nothing extraordinary but lively. Back at the station, we see the full search of our bus through customs, no need to explain what they want, Colombia produces 80% of the cocaine consumed worldwide. It is 17 hours bus starts, for a good hour we can enjoy the scenery before the sun sets behind the mountains. Gradually hunger begins to be felt, but apparently the driver is an ascetic and is not willing to take a break, we fall asleep almost empty stomach, the few chips that we really do not feed. The sun rises, he goes another two hours when we finally stopped to eat breakfast in a sort of restaurant giant roadside, but adapted to the rural community that should be plentiful in the region. A huge stockyard adjacent to the restaurant, funny mood to take these cornflakes among cows mooing and a mild smell of dung. We leave on a full stomach, not for very long. We fall down, we wait half an hour to change buses. A new half-hour and again we immobilize. Before us, a long line of vehicles are stopped, people are sitting on the roadside and pa tientent. We leave ourselves, and learn a bike race is held in the region, we will wait two or three hours before leaving. It's hot, very hot, we eat much ice cream and a tricycle like a miracle happening and offers all sorts of refreshments. We arrive in Ibague with only 5 hours late, we call Rafael, we settle into a small booth outside the station and command two espresso with freshly ground coffee. Rafael
happens:
- "Hola amigos, ¿The gusta nuestro cafe de Colombia?
- If mucho, el mejor desde el Kilimanjaro. "
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