DIA SEIS

The next morning we take the same rickety old plane back to Ciudad Bolivar. A rather gruff and surly cab driver meets us at the airport for our 2.5 hour drive to Tucupita, where we are to rendezvous with another guide, another tour group, another boat, to make our way to the Orinoco River Delta.

The road is flat and bone straight, running through wide open fields peppered with low brush and cacti. The driver says about two words the entire trip. He is averaging about 100mph and playing chicken with every car in the oncoming lane. He may be 60, but I have no doubt this dude is mean, and I'm thinking he could most definitely kick my ass if he so desired. For some reason, I always "size up" old guys: "Can this old bastard kick MY ass?" I wonder. Sadly, the speculative answer is often "yes". I should have been in more fights as a kid. Would have toughened me up. Oh well. One of these days I'm gonna take one of these geezers down. Then we'll see who's the tough guy around here.

The driver plays some weird classic rock CD, on repeat, for the entire trip. As soon as we get in the car, it starts out with "the... road... is... lah-uh-ong..." - "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother" By The Hollies. The freakin' gringo CD, no doubt. Do we look that lame? Next was "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road". There was also a Cat Stevens song. It must have been the top 10 from 1972 or something. We listen to it three or four times in a row. Ugh.

When we finally get to Tucupita, Anabella scolds the cab driver like he was a ten-year-old, for driving so fast. She is a piece of work. The grumpy cab driver just glares at her in silence. He knows not to mess with a feisty Zubillaga from Caracas.

We meet our new river guide, Ruben, in Tucupita. Tucupita is a crappy little town on the Orinoco River. This is the same river that we came across earlier in Ciudad Bolivar - the river that originates in Colombia and winds up in the Atlantic.

The Orinoco River Delta is about 10,000 square miles of rivers, streams, channels, wetlands, and jungle.

The boat is waiting for us at the water's edge, near a public park. There is no dock. Just a dirty river bank. The public park is littered with trash and indigenous homeless people. Four other tourists are waiting there as well. A Polish couple who live in Windsor, Canada, and a young Burning Man-esque Spanish couple, coincidentally from the same Basque town Anabella's ancestors originate from (San Sebastian). Greetings are exchanged, a disastrous bathroom run is made, and we quickly jump in the boat, heading northeastward towards the Atlantic coast.

This boat is far superior to the cramped canoe of Canaima. These seats have a plywood back! And you can sit three across. The lap of luxury. The motor is bigger too. A Yamaha "Enduro". The Rolling Stones' "Satisfaction" is running through my head, from that scene Apocalypse Now. You know...jungle river...boat...etc.



We motor down river at a quick pace for about two hours to reach our camp, "Ubanoco", around 4pm. It is owned by A frenchman, and there are two groups of French tourists. The site consists of two buildings with about 8 rooms in each, and a large thatch-covered dining hall. Mosquito nets hang over each single bed. There are stray dogs and cats everywhere. They look like they haven't eaten in months. Chickens abound. There is also a gigantic pig rummaging around with six baby piglets in tow.






It's only been three days since Caracas, and I am already used to the "no hot water" thing. The rest of the crew seems to be avoiding showers, opting for the ol' "birdbath splash" technique.

The funniest thing about our room is the layout. The toilet is positioned in such a way so that anyone coming to the front door can look directly at you while you're dropping the kids off at the pool. It is absurd. I check Cheo's room, and there's is exactly the same. What genius put up these walls and thought "THE TOILET IS IN FULL VIEW OF EVERY PASSERBY! PERFECTO!" I honestly don't get it.



After dropping off our bags, Ruben, our guide, throws us back in the boat for a quick tour of some small river channels before it gets dark. He tells us that we won't be spending a night in hammocks in a Warao indian village as planned. Something about the place being kind of dirty. As it grows darker, he attempts to find us some cayman crocodiles lurking in the thicket of branches that line the narrow channels. He is using a flashlight so weak, you can barely even tell it is turned on. He is unsuccessful. We soon give up and go back to the camp for another chicken dinner. Hopefully these chickens weren't floating in the river.

After dinner we hang around the dining hall, getting to know The Poles, the Spaniards, and Ruben. I come to understand how a lot of these places operate. Basically, individual tour guides bring groups of people here. They have a relationship with the place, where they stay/eat for free while they show their group around the area for a few days. They bump up the price of the rooms to whatever they can get away and skim some off the top. They are independent contractors with relationships with various travel agencies. most likely everyone staying here is paying a different room rate based on who they booked through. Europeans typically get charged much much more from what I can tell.

A rather drunken local guy comes over and starts blabbering to Cheo. The indigenous people round these parts suffer from pretty much the same afflictions as native americans: poverty, unemployment, & alcoholism. He tells him that a local tribe wants the land where our camp is, and they have put a Santeria curse on all of us. Great news. He says his brother started acting weird, biting people like a rabid dog. Now his Mom is doing the same thing and he's getting scared. We're like "uhmm....okay. Thanks for the info". Cheo is too polite to tell him to take his drunk ass elsewhere. Eventually Ruben comes over and leads him stumbling back to the kitchen.




We take a bottle of rum from the kitchen and sit out on the dock under the stars, swapping more stories. For some reason we get to talking about Spanish royalty. I think Cheo was explaining to us why our fellow travelers from Spain are in favor of breaking up their country.

I tell my story about the time I was DJing at Tavern On The Green at a very hectic outdoor party. These parties were huge suarees thrown by Susan Bartsch, one of the reigning queens of the NY social scene at the time. Her parties were always packed with the fabulously wealthy and the uber hip. Movie stars, rock stars, and the most outlandish drag queens the city had to offer. Around 3am, a very well dressed man in his thirties came up to the booth looking very distraught.
"I am the Prince of Spain and I must speak with you at once!" He said as he handed me a plain, cream colored business card that read "Felipe Juan Pablo Alfonso de Borbón y de Grecia" in embossed gold script. It said nothing else.
I was rather busy at the time.
"I have lost my bodyguards and you must make an announcement for them to meet me here at once!" He said authoritatively.
"Sorry, man. Don't have a microphone" I replied.
"You do not understand! I am The Prince of Spain!" He insisted.
"I can see that, but I still don't have a mic, so I can't do nothin' for ya" was my answer.
He was looking rather anxious and frightened. I think all the New York nightclub freaks were starting to bug him out. He hovered around for few more minutes before disappearing inn to the crowd. And so went my big brush with Spanish royalty. Not much of a story, I know.

Cheo & Anabella told us about some friend of theirs that had recently married and moved to Spain.
"That guy is a CUNT!" Cheo proclaimed.
Anabella, unfazed, said this person was actually very happy in her new marriage.
"Yes yes" Cheo agreed "and he's a CUNT! Like a real, REAL CUNT!"
I was confused. It takes something rather awful for one man to call another man a cunt. In fact, you almost never hear the term used a such.
"Why are you saying he's a cunt?" I asked.
"Cuz he is! He's a real CUNT!" Cheo insisted.
"You keep saying that, but what did he do exactly?" I asked "WHY is such a cunt?"
"He's a cunt! You know....like CUNT CHOCULA!"
We all burst in to hysterics.
The whole time he was actually saying "count', i.e. a member of the Spanish royalty.

Good times.

DIA SIETE

Anne and I struggle to sleep together in one of the two single beds in our room. Very few accommodations around here seem to care about couples trying to sleep next to each other. First hammocks. Now this. We crawled under the mosquito net and did our best to adjust, trading off who was to sleep on their side and when. I always end up on the losing end of these deals.

I am awoken twice in the middle of the night. First by every single rooster within five square miles announcing the sunrise at 2:25 am. The sun is not up, I can assure you, but some rooster decides it is time to wake the neighborhood, and everyone else just kind of falls line. Anne, sleeping comfortably on her back, taking up the lion's share of the bed, sleeps right through this. She will be sleeping through the apocalypse as well. I would bet on it. Dreaming about ponies and Keanu Reeves, no doubt.

The second time is at 5:30 am, when I start to hear this chattering of birds. It starts as a dull cacophony, somewhere in the distance, behind the camp. but it grows louder, and louder, like a tidal wave barreling through the jungle. Like a loud rattling freight train, growing nearer. Within a minute, the volume has reached full blast. the screeching is coming from all directions. It is ridiculously loud.

Still, Anne is fast asleep.
"Johnny Utah.....Bodi.....fifty year storm" she mumbles.
Point Break again.

I throw on some pants and go outside. The sun is almost up over the horizon. The sky is littered with parrots. Thousands of green parrots, flying in pairs. I simply cannot believe I'm the only person here who was not woken by this. The sound is deafening, yet the number of parrots I can actually see doesn't match the collective roar they are creating. Seems like there must be five hundred of them just beyond the trees that line the camp perimeter.

As soon as the parrots clear the area, these big black and yellow birds show up. They are all hanging out in the tree right in front of our room. They are even louder.

I peer back through the screen door. Anne's still sleeping.
"You blew your knee out....big game....so sorry"
Mother fucking Keanu again.

Breakfast is more ham and cheese and a glass of tang. What the fuck is this country's obsession with ham and cheese?

Today is our big boat tour of Orinoco. Ruben and his motorman will be our guides. A Warao village. Canoe trip. Some kind of jungle walk. It's all a bit vague, but maybe that's simply because I only understand every fourth word Ruben is saying.
"Who want to see monkeys?" Ruben asks
"ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME!!!!!"
I fucking love monkeys. When I see monkeys, I know I'm on vacation.

The first order of business is to cruise down some of the channels and see some stuff from the boat. The jungle goes right up the water 's edge. It is intensely lush, and a deep, deep green. We check out some cool hanging birds' nests. Then, these big pheasant things hanging out in a bush near the water. They are called "Hoatzins", or the name I much prefer: "stinkbirds" (not making this up). Look like a cross between a turkey, a quail, and a midget peacock. Venezuelans call them "WAH KAH KOW!" - the call they make frequently. After that, we find a toucan, then some brown howler monkeys, who are apparently not inclined to howl on command.



We stop off at the home of some indigenous folks who live right on the main river. The tribe in this area is called the Warao. They live in wooden huts on stilts. Amerigo Vespucci and Alonso de Ojeda first explored the country via this very same river in 1499. They called it Venezuela because the Warao houses reminded them of Venice. Ruben stops off here to get us some fresh coconuts to drink. The whole family is hanging around by the river bank. A group of girls quickly produce some hand-woven necklaces with little baskets hanging on the end. Animals running rampant in every direction. Chickens. Cats. Hungry, stray dogs with their ribs poking out. It is pretty chaotic and incredibly filthy. Judging from the state of the place, as well as every other home we pass on the river, I would hazard a guess that Warao culture has literally no concept of trash removal. Clearly every item they use is simply thrown around the perimeter of the house. I suppose when every item in their lives was biodegradable, this was not such an issue. These days, it is empty soda bottles and used diapers. Not a pretty sight.

Ruben tells us that social workers come through the area every few years, cleaning up and trying to teach them basic sanitation, but it simply never sticks.




Next stop is a small Warao village. The village being, basically, a row of about 20 huts on stilts. Most have no walls, just a wooden platform about 12x12, covered by a thatched or corrugated tin roof. Each one is full of so much trash, it's almost painful to look at. These are even filthier than the last place. This was the town that we were supposed to be sleeping in. Yikes. And the out-house...WHOA!...a wooden hut with a hole cut in to the floor, overhanging a muddy bog. It's about ten feet from the hammocks. DOUBLE YIKES! Thanks but no thanks. There are kids wallowing in filth at every turn, along with chickens and pigs and more and more stray dogs. The muddy bog beneath the village is covered in trash as well. The area beneath the outhouse.... well... let's just say it has replaced the white whale in my nightmares.

More cute kids appear out of nowhere, setting up beaded bracelets and necklaces for sale. Ruben asks one of the local women to cook some fish he brought while we check out the town. He tells one of the villagers to get the canoes ready for our canoeing adventure. I am wary of getting anywhere near the water here, but I keep my mouth shut.





The Warao make canoes from a single tree trunk. They dig out a section of the trunk and then set it on fire. Once burned, they dig out the embers and make a deeper hole. They do this again and again, until they have an entire canoe hollowed out that is only about two inches thick. The canoes seat about five people and sit very low in the water.



The four of us get assigned to one canoe, with me paddling upfront and Ruben's motorman paddling and steering in the rear. The Spanish couple and the Polish couple take the other one. The river is choppy due to wind, but seems manageable. Manageable, mind you, except for one minor detail: this canoe is leaking. There is a huge split down the right inside of the canoe, that has been stitched back together with thin strips of aluminum. Airtight is not the first word that springs to mind when describing this repair job.

As soon as we get in to the boat, water starts streaming in from the split.
"Uhm...this boat has a big, long hole in it" I announce.
I was thinking about my digital camera going in to the water with me. Not cool. Not cool at all.
"No problem" Ruben assures me from the safety of the dock "Two people paddle, two people scoop".
By 'scoop' he means two people bail out the water as you go, using empty plastic yogurt containers. As long as they bail fast enough, the boat won't sink.
That is the system.
You gotta be fucking kidding me.
"If you say so, dude" I reluctantly comply.
We get in the water and start heading down river. Within one minute, the little crack in the side opens a bit wider, becoming a large, foot-long split. Water is now POURING in to the boat, WAY faster than Cheo & Anabella can bail it out.
"HELLO! Uhm, this boat is ACTUALLY sinking! Like, SINKING sinking. This is fucking crazy. We gotta get out of this sinking boat, like, NOW!"
Everyone is in agreement. The boat is most definitely sinking.

I paddle like mad towards the edge of the bog. Yes, THAT muddy bog. The one with all the trash and flies and feces and god knows what.

We stop near a log lodged in the mud. I leap out of the boat as fast as possible. "Must...not...fall....in" is going through my head, over and over. "Must....save...camera". The bog is more solid than it looked, and you can actually stand on it without sinking in above your ankles. Even that is frightening, but we'll make it to the log at least. Everybody jumps out and traverses the log to the nearest dock. Right beneath the dock, there is dog lying in the mud, in the sun. This dog has JUST given birth to two puppies. I kid you not. The puppies' eyes aren't even open, and they're are making this high pitched whiny sound, rolling around in mud. The mother is lying on her side, panting like crazy. And this is all happening in the filthy, nasty bog, mind you. TRIPLE YIKES! The look on Anabella's face is priceless. I think she almost puked.

"OK! That was fun. What's next? I say sarcastically.
"He's gonna fix the boat!" Cheo assures me "It's gonna be fine. He fix it and then we can go"
"THAT boat?" I ask, pointing. "Are you fucking crazy? It would be very unwise to get BACK in a boat that we know is sinking. I mean, seriously, it's got a HUGE fucking hole in the side!"
"It'll be fine, Moe" Anne pleads "The guy says he can fix it, so he'll do that, and then let's just go. C'mon..."
She is guilt tripping me with the 'don't sweat it / don't ruin everyone else's good time' card.
She's crafty, that Anne.
"So you guys want to get BACK IN the sinking boat? That's what you're telling me?" I ask the group.
Cheo is talking to the motorman, who is still in the canoe, bailing water and ripping apart an old Tshirt.
"He says it's gonna be fine, so let's just trust the guy" Cheo again assures me.
I look at Anabella, who I know damn well doesn't want to get back in the boat, much less the muddy bog we need to traverse first.
"Whatever you guys want to do. I could go, or I could stay here" She states diplomatically.
She's crafty, that Anabella.
Nobody wants to be the wet blanket. Especially me.
I run back and drop my digital camera with our stuff, and then quickly return to get back in the sinking boat. The motorman has stuffed a long piece of ripped Tshirt in to the hole on the boat. Somehow, this has actually plugged most of the hole, and we are back to only some steady leaks, rather than gushing fissures. Now that my camera is safe I'm just resigned to taking a swim.
"fuck it. If we go in, we go in" is all I can say.

this is what our canoe looked like when it was "fixed", with the Tshirt stuffed in to the biggest hole


We set of again, heading down river towards a tiny little channel on the right hand side. We take turns paddling. I think that they are letting us paddle simply for show. The motorman guy is doing all of the real paddling, and all of the steering. He must think we are total retards.

As soon as we get off the main river, the water is like glass. We glide down a thin channel that snakes back in to the jungle. It is wonderfully dark and shady. We pass right beneath all kinds of tree branches that hang low in the water. Palm trees. Coca trees. Giant leaves and bright flowers. All sorts of vines. It's beautifully peaceful, with only the chattering of birds and insects as a soundtrack.
"Should have brought my damn camera" I keep thinking.
Oh well.

We eventually catch up with the other group. Their boat is also sinking but the bailing is keeping them afloat. We both turn around once the channel gets too narrow. We soon make it back to the village, all quite relieved that our boat never actually sank.

We eat a quick lunch of fried Lao Lao fish (a local catfish), boiled yucca, and boiled callaloo (taro root). It didn't look particularly appetizing, but it tasted pretty damn good. The fact that they had washed the plates in the feces-filled river was simply something I tried not to think about.

Cheo discovers a large splinter in his finger from the dock, and Ruben makes much ado about getting it out, using whatever rudimentary tools are present in the village. The first tool suggested is a fishbone, but that is a fantastic failure. Ruben gives Cheo shots of clear hooch for courage. Next up is a sewing needle, then a combo of sewing needle and stick. After that, a winning combo of sewing needle, plastic fork, and Cheo's teeth seem to do the trick. After much digging, chewing, prying, and a little blood, the beast is finally vanquished. Cheo, as always, is a good sport about it. Nothing can wipe the grin from his face. This is something I love about this dude.

After lunch we get back in the boat and head through more maze-like channels. I am impressed that Ruben actually knows his way around here. Every little river looks identical to me.

We check out more monkeys and toucans. Parrots are everywhere. Ruben stops by another Warao hut and asks the father to get his machete and be our jungle guide. They seem to know each other. He gets on the boat and we cruise to another spot, putting on our hiking shoes for the big jungle hike portion of the day.
"Watch where you put you hands" Ruben warns. "Branch could be snake!"

The ground is thick, wet mud that comes up to your ankles or your knees, depending on where you step. The Warao man is in the lead, hacking away the thick jungle with a machete. I must admit, I've always wanted to be on some crazy jungle expedition, with a guy walking point, tirelessly cutting away the jungle branch by branch. That's what they always did in pirate movies.
"This is fun" I think to myself "but where the hell are we are going in this swamp?".



We trudge through about thirty feet of jungle. It is not getting any easier for Mr. Machete. Ruben points out big coca nuts hanging on a coca tree. They are pretty damn big for one single nut. He shows us some kind of jungle sugar cane. We chew on a bit of it. Tasty. Some other branch, used as medicine, is produced. The Warao man cuts down a big palm tree with one swipe of his machete. He hacks away at the trunk and pulls out big strips of heart of palm. He hands them to each of us to eat. It is delicious and fresh. A real treat.
"OK. I guess this is kind of cool" I think to myself. "What's next?"
Turns out, that was it. That is our big jungle expedition. Thirty feet, some heart of palm, and then BOOM! back in the boat.

"Vamos a la playa" Ruben declares. Swimming at the beach. The water is a bit scary, but at this point, having survived the sinking canoe, the questionable lunch hygiene, and the swamp sludge, I think we all have a distinct "When in Rome" attitude towards anything and everything Ruben might suggest.

On our way to the beach we come upon a strange sight. A large sixty foot white yacht. This is not on the main river, mind you, but on one of the narrow channels. You do not see yachts this far in the delta. We are still dozens of miles from the ocean, at least. A second large yacht is anchored about 200 yards downstream. The port of call reads Phoenix, Arizona. Huh? I try to picture a route from Phoenix to the Orinoco Delta.
"They'd have to have come all the way down around Argentina" I think "Damn!".

Ruben, as intrigued by the sight of an American yacht as we are, pulls right up alongside the boat. A skinny, sun-weathered, Jimmy Buffet-looking dude appears from below deck.
"Howdy!" he says enthusiastically "What brings you here?"
I think he's trying to figure out if he's about to get robbed.
Funny thing is, we really don't have anything in particular to say to the guy. It was Ruben's idea to pull up alongside him.
"Uhm...we're from New York. Just stopping by to say hello." I offer "You really came all the way here from Phoenix?"
"Nope. My daughter lives in Galveston. We keep the boat there" he answered.
That made more sense.
"How long you been away from the states?" I ask.
"A little over a year. We're retired. We have all the time in the world" he replied.
His wife now comes up from below deck as well.
"Wow!" I said "Well done!"
"Well thank you." he smiled.
An awkward silence...
"well...OK! Y'all have a good trip" he concluded the conversation.
Ruben cranked the gas and we sped away.
I couldn't help but think of Lawrence Fishburne's line in Apocalypse Now "This sho-nuff is a bizarre sight in the middle of this shit".

We drive for a few minutes then stop at the juncture of two channels. There is no actual beach, but there is a shallow sandbar. I guess this is at close as it gets to beach around here.
"Right here? Si? No piranhas?" I ask.
"No no no. No piranhas here" he assures me.
So we swim. The water is actually quite shallow and a wonderful temperature. We pass around the bottle of local hooch. It tastes like rubbing alcohol. A fresh water dolphin teases us with quick glimpses as he periodically breaks the surface of the water about fifty yards away.

After sundown we head to the large Warao town on the main river. Ruben takes us to the local nightclub: an open air corrugated tin shack blasting bachata, merengue, salsa, and reggaeton all day and night, no matter who is there. Several of us ask to use the bathroom. A woman leads us across a fallen tree lodged in a muddy field. The entire town is mud. Worse than Deadwood. This makes Deadwood look like freakin' Vienna. She leads us right through somebody's house (hut) to a pig sty (literally, with pigs and everything). She tells us to climb over the fence, in to the sty. At the edge of the sty - a small patch of grass is the bathroom. A large sleeping pig sneezes. The ladies are none too happy about this development.



Back at the club, the DJ is playing mixed CDs on a single tray DVD player. He is also the bartender and the sound technician and the bouncer. We drink beer, and half the village shows up to watch the gringos dance. Ruben is impressed by our rusty salsa skills. Brooklyn represented, no doubt. We buy a bottle of rum from the DJ and head back to the camp. The mosquitos begin attacking just as the sun sinks below the horizon. It has been an interesting day, that's for damn sure.

After dinner we spend another night on the dock, swapping stories and drinking more rum. Cheo and Anabella tell me something really great. They confess that the entire trip thus far has really restored their faith in Venezuela. In the people. In the land. They feel proud, for the first time in a long time. It has reminded them that there really is a whole world of beauty beyond Caracas.
"We have a saying in Caracas" Cheo says "There is Caracas, and then the rest is all jungle and snakes".
They both seem honestly relieved to have this big city elitism knocked down a few pegs.
"So many of our friends have never been outside of Caracas" Anabella admits. "They have no idea how beautiful this is".
It seems they too are kind of falling in love with Venezuela, right along with Anne and I.
This warms my heart.
These are two wonderful people, and we are so lucky that they arranged this entire whirlwind tour for us. We are seeing the country like few people do. I've got a lot to be thankful for.

DIA OCHO

The roosters provide another false alarm. This one is at 3:30am. They're getting lazy.

I wake up with the parrot avalanche again and toke some photos of the sunrise. It is Sunday. I have to ask what day it is. Almost nobody remembers. This is a good sign. How many jungle palms does it take to erase the mental calendar in your head? Apparently not that many.

After breakfast we only have a couple of hours left before we must head back to Tucupita.

We do some pathetic piranha fishing in a section of river about a quarter mile from where we swam the previous day. It is miserable - sitting there, baking in the sun, throwing pieces of raw chicken to the piranhas. Fishing has got to be the most tedious, pointless, waste of time on earth. I suppose if you're in a comfortable boat with some cold beer, and you're catching some fish to eat, then maybe. But this? I've seen enough piranhas on TV. Clearly I am alone in this. Every one else seems eager to fish all damn day. Ugh.
The Polish guy finally catches one.
"Great! Now we can at least get moving in this god forsaken boat" I think.
The wind will be some measure of relief from the blistering sun.
Not so fast.
Every person was determined to catch their own damn piranha, no matter how long it took.

My anxiousness is becoming more apparent. Anne gives me a disapproving look that says "shut up and stop being such a baby". She is right. Eventually the others give up.

We ferry the boat over to the shore for some quick tarantula hunting. The motorman starts walking through a cluster of aloe-looking plants, searching for tarantula nests. They like to live in these plants, in the little tube formed at the base of several leaves. The motorman isn't even wearing shoes, and he is just poking around in tarantula nests with a stick, like it was a freakin' easter egg hunt. Crazy. He digs a few out to show us. We take some pictures. I feel bad that we have destroyed their hiding place, just for our photos. Seems kind of fucked up. People take turns holding it in their hand. I am not about to go NEAR one of those things.



The oldest nightmare I can remember is about flying tarantulas. I was about two years old. I picked up my favorite blanket, the one I carried with me every day (like Linus from Peanuts). I turned it over, and it was covered in tarantulas. I screamed. They all lifted up in the air, flying directly at me, making this loud, buzzing sound like an electric razor. I froze in terror. Then I woke up.

Venezuela can keep their giant, deadly, hairy spiders, thank you very much.

We grab our bags back at the camp and start back for Tucupita in the boat. So long Orinoco River Delta.



The same grumpy cab driver drives us back to Ciudad Bolivar. We all sleep in the car. He drops us at Posada Rosario, the same place we stayed on the way in. The proprietor drives us down to a local restaurant. We run in to the three Italians from Canaima. Anabella, not surprisingly, runs in to some other people she knows. Even in the middle of god damned nowhere, she knows somebody. Hilarious. It is one of her best friends, who lives in New York City, no less. She is with her boyfriend, a hip hop DJ from Brooklyn. He looks familiar, but I don't think we've met. Small world, at least when you hang with Anabella, that is.