Zelma’s Trip

I checked out of the hostel and headed to the bus station.  At the bus station I found a shared car heading to Barcelone from where I hoped to be able to get a bus to Puerto La Cruz in order to get a boat over to Isla de Margarita.  I had previously intended to visit Trinidad but this proved to be costly by air and the boats apparently only left once a week and less helpful than the infrequency was the fact that they left on Wednesdays.  I had toyed with the idea of getting a lift with a fishing boat or smugglers’ boat but didn’t really have time to hang around to find one and was also warned off the latter by my mother.  There was also a possibility of trying to hitch a lift on a private yacht but when I was looking into ways to get to Trinidad there were a lot of reports online about pirates attacking private boats in this stretch of water so I decided that may not be the best plan either.

So, after some time and after a family of four got into the back of the car I was also in, we headed off towards Barcelona at breakneck speed.  One of the small children snored annoyingly while the other swayed a drink can around worryingly close to me.  As we went round one corner he, rather kindly, trickled luminous purple Fanta down my leg.  After some time we stopped and, to my relief, the family got out.  Unfortunately so did the driver who apparently needed to have a chat with a mate who was driving on the other side of the motorway.  Once I had smoked a cigarette and the driver had decided that he should probably take us somewhere, we headed off again.  He spent the next part of the journey making lewd faces and, I presume, remarks at the girl in the front seat who was rather younger and more attractive than he was.  Before, and after, the girl was dropped off the driver asked me a number of questions I didn’t understand before shrugging at my, probably nonsensical, responses.

Eventually we got to a city which I presumed must be Barcelona.  The driver took the opportunity to ask what kind of music I liked before cranking, “Mr Lover, lover”, up and opening all the windows.  As we pulled up to the bus station he began beeping the horn in time which it transpired was even above the Venezuelan’s noise and tolerance levels as many of them shouted at him.  He didn’t seem too bothered though, smiled at me and punched the horn a few more times for good affect. 

I got out of the car, paid and thaked the comical driver and walked into the bus station.  I asked a helpful looking man which bus I needed to take to Puerto La Cruz.  He looked slightly confused and pointed up.  As I angled my neck I felt like a complete plum as I read the sign saying Puerto La Cruz Bus station!  So I wandered towards the square in the town and found that the place I had planned to stay in was full.  Having found an alternative close by I explored the town which was actually rather nicer than I had expected, particularly the lively waterfront with bars, restaurants and street stalls.  After getting some falafels, being chatted up by the waiters and wandering about some more, I headed back to my hotel for a relatively early night.