Caribbean Compass Yachting Magazine - November 2020

WHAT’S ON MY MIND
ONCE UPON A TIME
IN VENEZUELA
Or, In Every Dark Cloud
There’s a Silver Lining
by John Everton
Back in 1989 my wife Roni and I were lucky enough to spend eight months in
Venezuela with our kids, Kylie and Iain, aboard our 50-foot Manuel Campos
ketch, Gaucho, launched in Argentina in 1943. What turned out to be our
best travel experience in the country was precipitated by what we originally
viewed as a misfortune.
We left Prickly Bay on the south coast of Grenada at 4:00pm bound for a morning
landfall at Los Testigos. After checking in with the Guardacostas, who also sold us
cold beer, we climbed and played in the soft hundred-foot sand dunes, accepting the
kids’ challenge of rolling down without rolling into the prickly vines — we made
it! We then discovered there was a fiesta happening with fishing boat races, food and
more ice-cold Polar beer — more fun!
NOVEMBER 2020 CARIBBEAN COMPASS PAGE 26
Breakthrough Bay, Los Testigos
The next morning we departed for Pampatar on Isla Margarita, a few hours’ sail to
the west. We arrived in Pampatar, a small fishing harbour that could accommodate
a few yachts, in time to clear in with the authorities and then meet friends for lunch,
the first of many memorable meals in charming little restaurants during our stay.
As we were walking down a shady street after lunch I remarked to Roni what a
peaceful little town it was when I felt something bump my arm. I turned to say,
“excuse me,” and then I noticed a moped with two well-dressed juvenile delinquents
speeding away with my bag containing our passports and ship’s papers. After a few
hours of futile searching alongside the road we went to the police station to report
the theft. I doubted little would be done to apprehend the banditos but the good part
was that we received a very official-looking typewritten document with its half a
dozen stamps, stating what had happened and serving as our travel permit within
the country. Having this form actually expedited checking in at ports on our journey
to obtain new passports at our consulates in Caracas. Maybe they felt sorry for us.
And so it was we cruised the coast and offshore islands until we reached Carenero,
a well-protected harbour with an adjacent mangrove lagoon just to the east of Cabo
Codera. Every evening before sunset we would dinghy into the lagoon down to a
certain group of trees where the birds flew in to roost for the night: first the scarlet
Ibis, next the white egrets and third the green and yellow mangrove parrots
chattering away, each species to its own tree. The cluster of tree branches sporting
different colours evoked a Christmas mood.
It was easy to spend time in Carenero, which we used as a staging area for a couple
of bus trips to Caracas from Higuerote, the nearest town with a bus terminal.
On the first trip we took up the long winding mountain road to the capital, the bus
was full and I just managed to squeeze onto the last seat next to a large lady —
Arminda. Although she spoke not a word of English and my Spanish wasn’t much
better, after a three-and-a-half-hour ride listening to her non-stop chatter I started to
comprehend most of what she was saying and was able to communicate back to her.
When we arrived at the Caracas terminal Arminda made a point of stopping people
on the street and asking directions on our behalf — the first being a restroom, then
the Mariner outboard outlet — even though she had a full day of shopping and a
dental visit scheduled.
At the US Consulate the children and I were able to procure new passports over
the lunch hour. At the British Consulate Roni was told to return two weeks later for
hers. Boarding the return bus that afternoon there was one empty seat next to me.
As we readied to pull out of the station Arminda showed up with her arms loaded
with shopping bags and her face all puffed up from her dental visit. And so it was I
was able to hone my Spanish language skills to another degree on the hair-raising
ride down the mountain. It was good to have someone to talk to and to keep my hair
from rising too much, and Arminda was as voluble as ever despite her swolen jaw.
Arriving in Higuerote she gave us directions to her boyfriend’s restaurant and told
us to come visit there and enjoy a meal, which we did the following day. After a
delicious and very reasonable beefsteak lunch with all the beers on the house and
more lively conversation we invited them to visit us on our boat the next day. They
happily did and we polished off a bottle of rum while divining more mysteries of the
Spanish language. As if that weren’t enough socializing, Arminda invited us to their
apartment the following evening to share a typical Venezuelan meal of arepas with
several different fillings. The other couple present also spoke no English and so after
dinner we played cards and dominoes, drank rum and tried to converse in Spanish,
sharing many jokes amidst much laughter. It felt like a festive occasion —
Venezuelans are known to party any time friends get together.
After meeting mostly European and American yachtspeople in many ports it was
refreshing to meet such welcoming local people and we remember that as the
highlight of our Venezuelan visit. This of course would never have transpired if the
passports hadn’t been stolen, nor would we have gotten to see Caracas with its
modern clean and efficient subway, designed and built by the French, or enjoyed
watching the birds roosting, or visited Isla Tortuga where we caught a surfeit of
dorado, among other things.
And so we ended up being thankful to those well-dressed juvenile delinquents who
snatched our bag.