NORTH FROM SANTA ELENA: SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 26
The Federal police are the elite of Venezuela's guardians. I am told that that the Government considers them untrustworthy. They are confined to barracks. Cars and trucks queued for gas at service stations outside Santa Elena. Soldiers demanded documents and destination. Some drivers were turned away.
Now I am stopped at an army post on the road down from the Grand Sabana. Other than at frontiers, this is the first time that I have been asked for my documents during my travels through the Americas. These are serious soldiers, no small talk - or I have the wrong humor for Venezuela. My passport is examined. Where have I come from? Where am I going? What is the purpose of my visit? Finally a stamp and signature are added to the back of the temporary import permit for the Honda.
I am stopped three further times during the day by equally unfriendly military.
Showing posts with label Santa Elena. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Santa Elena. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
NORTH FROM SANTA ELENA
GRAND SABANA: SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 26
Today I enjoy one of the great bike rides. The road crosses the Grand Sabana National Park, a wonderful country of grassland and folded hills. Patches of woodland fill the hollows and palm trees edge the streams. Villages are a sprinkling of thatched adobe huts amongst wispy grass. The road climbs to a cold, windswept moor blanketed by charcoal cloud. A stinging drizzle drives me to seek shelter in the cafe of an indigenous tourist centre. No coffee, no soup. Nothing. The clouds lift to show a magic land of flat-topped mountains. What lies within the clinging mists and jungles of these small isolated plateaus? Imagine clambering the precipices, rocks slippery with spray from waterfalls, knotted tree roots - bight eyes of a dinosaur, ruined walls of a forgotten civilisation.
The road discovers a crack between mountains and plunges down and down from the cold moors into steamy rain forest. Mountain sides are vertical. Glancing up, I catch glimpses of cloud spilling over jungle table-tops.
Today I enjoy one of the great bike rides. The road crosses the Grand Sabana National Park, a wonderful country of grassland and folded hills. Patches of woodland fill the hollows and palm trees edge the streams. Villages are a sprinkling of thatched adobe huts amongst wispy grass. The road climbs to a cold, windswept moor blanketed by charcoal cloud. A stinging drizzle drives me to seek shelter in the cafe of an indigenous tourist centre. No coffee, no soup. Nothing. The clouds lift to show a magic land of flat-topped mountains. What lies within the clinging mists and jungles of these small isolated plateaus? Imagine clambering the precipices, rocks slippery with spray from waterfalls, knotted tree roots - bight eyes of a dinosaur, ruined walls of a forgotten civilisation.
The road discovers a crack between mountains and plunges down and down from the cold moors into steamy rain forest. Mountain sides are vertical. Glancing up, I catch glimpses of cloud spilling over jungle table-tops.
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