"HOW TO USE ATM'S, TAXIS, AND BORDELLOS IN VENEZUELA"
Sep 21 '01 (Updated May 09 '05)
The Bottom Line A tale of Bank Machines, Lawn Chairs, A Broken Bus, Shotguns, Brothels, Cab Drivers, Beer, and a guest appearance by Right Said Fred and the New York Rangers.
It was all the New York Rangers fault. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. May 1994, and once more I was stupid enough to venture from the relative safety of my apartment and into the wild and woolly world.
This time it was the sunny shores of South America that beckoned, and for the first time too. Well actually I never got to the South American continent this trip. I made it as far as Isla Margarita, Margarita Island, part of Venezuela and just of it's coast.
For those who've never been there, Margarita Island is a vacation spot for both foreigners, and Venezuelans from the main land. A sort of Disney land, come Las Vegas with a hint of Daytona Beach thrown in. The reason I headed there was obvious. It was warm and it was cheap. Besides Cuba was sold out that week.
Actually I was in dire need of a vacation. My ex had just charged back into my life, again, and I'd had to deal with all her baggage for a week, before she flitted off to wreak havoc on some other poor soul. Besides the Leafs had just been eliminated from the playoffs by Vancouver in the semi finals so there was really no reason to hang around Toronto.
Margarita Island was a prime vacation spot for sun hungry North Americans and Europeans. The once mighty oil based Venezuelan economy had gone into the toilet recently. This meant a very favourable exchange rate, and that meant really, really, cheap vacation packages.
After a seven hour flight which was more than bearable, I arrived at the main airport just outside the largest, and only, city on the island, Porlamor. The bad news on the flight was I was booked in the very last row on the plane. The only row where the seats don't recline. The good news that I was the only one in that row. I took my boots off, stretched out over three seats and slept most of the way.
After a short bus transfer we were dropped at our resort just outside the city and near the charming fishing village of Pampatar. The local tour rep took time to brief us on the ride and point out a few of the local sites as we drove by. One of the ones that impressed me most was the anti American demonstration/riot taking place on one of the main streets. Nothing like the aroma of CS gas and burning tires to get me in the vacation mood I always say.
I, and several others from my flight, were booked into the "Value Club Village" for my one week stay. The name alone should have warned me off, but it was cheap. So what if I was staying at the hotel equivalent of a Target discount store. It was cheap, all inclusive, and right on the beach.
Actually I have no idea what the place is called now, for the masochists amongst you considering booking there. Prior to my trip it had been the Decameron, part of that Latin American hotel chain. It was the first Decameron I ever stayed at, and that should have put me right off. Since then I've stayed at several others, mainly in Colombia, and usually been impressed.
The first couple of days there I had a few problems with local cab drivers. None of them could seem to find the hotel. They just didn't recognise the name. After I learned the original name this ceased to be an issue. I just jumped into a cab, said "Decameron" and away we went.
After checking in I was shown to the tiny cubicle that was supposed to be my room. I won't say it was small and cramped, but I have an ancestor who was transported on a prison ship to Australia in the 19th Century, and I think he would have balked at the accommodations. Japanese businessmen who sleep in those sardine stacks they call hotels would have revolted at the size of this room.
To be honest I've slept in slit trenches that were roomier. Mind they didn't have indoor plumbing and this room did. The bathroom was a study in jamming everything possible in the least amount of space. I should have been impressed with the ingenuity of how they crammed everything in, but I wasn't .The hot water tank was actually perched above the toilet, something I kept forgetting. By the end of the week I had quite a collection of sun burned bumps on my head and a constant headache.
There may have been plumbing but there was a serious lack of other modern conveniences. There was no TV or radio in the room, probably because there was no room for them. There was also no phone.
I discovered this last deficiency rather quickly. After dropping off my bags, I headed down to the lobby. Here I changed some dollars into Bolivars, the local currency, and incidentally got reamed on the exchange rate. I also picked up the key for the in room safe, as tiny as the room itself. While there I decided to ask for a wake up call. I'd forgotten to bring my travel alarm, so I asked the front desk to call me every morning at eight.
On getting back to my room I noticed there was no phone. How, I wondered, was I supposed to get a wake up call without a phone? I unpacked, went to explore the grounds, discovered the all inclusive bar and soon forgot about the whole thing.
The next morning about eight there was a loud and persistent knocking on my door. It was accompanied by a very feminine voice calling out. "It is eight o'clock please Senor, time to get up." I opened the door, this time remembering to grab a pair of pants, I'd learned my lesson after Santiago.
There standing in front of me was a chamber maid, beaming. In her hand was clutched a scrap of paper. Written on it were the room numbers and wake up times of all the guest's. I had to give the place full marks for ingenuity.
The place wasn't really too bad, the scale model replica of the room aside. Not that I really spent a lot of time in my room any ways as it turned out. It was close to the city and the abundant night life there. It was also right on the beach. Maybe not the best beach on the island, but a beach nonetheless.
The two bars were both all inclusive and the bartenders had a heavy touch when pouring if you know what I mean. The food was surprisingly good, and there was always plenty of it. In fact I began to regret the meals I missed when I was out exploring the island.
The guests were an OK group. There was a large contingent of Canadians who'd come in on the same flight as I had. A fair number of Americans were there as well. Dutch, Brits, and Germans represented the European contingent. Finally there were quite a few Venezuelans over from the mainland. Everyone seemed to have one thing in common, to enjoy themselves. That suited me just fine.
There was another couple from Toronto, Polish Canadians, who I spent a lot of time hanging around with. The next morning we three and a couple of others all booked a bus tour of the island. Early that day the mini bus showed up, loaded us and several other assorted tourists from nearby hotels and drove off to the nearby mountains in the centre of the island. Here it promptly broke down.
Mid morning found us stranded in the middle of this small mountain town. It was a stereotypical south American town, or so I thought. A nice tree shaded main square complete with obligatory statue of Simon Bolivar in the centre. The locals went about their daily routine in a sedate almost serene manner with hardly a glance at the polyester clad intruders. They were better off than we were and they knew it.
The driver and guide drifted off to report what had happened and to arrange for another bus. Most of the passengers clumped around the square and sat gossiping the morning away. Being the leader I am, I took it under my wing to find cold refreshing drinks for my travelling companions and myself.
When I returned from the local store, I noticed that my Polish friends were chatting with the only other single person on the bus. A tall blonde, good looking, female, single person I might add. Naturally I joined them.
It turned out she was from New York City, although originally Russian. Like me she had grabbed a week on the spur of the moment to get away from it all. In her case it was to get over a relationship that had just finished. All of a sudden my week was starting to look good.
All the couples on the bus were soon playing matchmaker with the obvious results. When we stopped for lunch at the north end of the island, the two of us shared a table. Being the gentlemen that I am, I picked up the tab. Being the lady she was, she insisted on picking up her share and handed me a pile of Bolivars.
After lunch the two of us went exploring in a local flea market. Here she decided to buy a couple of T-shirts for souvenirs. Unfortunately she'd given me the last of her cash for lunch. For some strange reason road side T-shirt Vendors in South America aren't equipped to handle credit cards. Rather embarrassed she asked if I could loan her some cash. In fact the exact amount she'd pushed on me after lunch.
Of course I loaned her the money. Hey I'd been more than willing to treat her to lunch in the first place. She promised to pay it back and asked me to meet her on the beach between our respective hotels that evening.
After dinner, I strolled down to the beach and surprisingly she was there. Even more surprising she paid me back. We strolled along a bit and then went and grabbed a drink. Then at her suggestion we went back to her hotel for a night cap. Nothing happened, but we did make plans to meet again the next night.
By the way I'd like to point out that her room was much bigger than mine. Actually her suite's bathroom was larger than my entire hotel room. Her suite itself was bigger than my apartment in Toronto.
Just when things were starting to look up for me, the dreaded spectre of the NHL playoffs once more descended to ruin my vacation. Like I said Toronto was out of the running, but the team that defeated them was going to the finals. That year it would be the Vancouver Canucks versus the New York Rangers.
As patriotic Canadians several of us at the hotel decided to watch the series, or at least the final game. One problem, no TV. Like I said there were none in the "rooms" and worse yet, none in the hotel lobby either. Actually there was one, but we didn't know about it.
After the Stanley Cup playoffs ended the World Cup began. Then and only then did the hotel staff wheel out a large screen TV they had hidden away to watch the games on. Great the Europeans and Latinos got to watch soccer if they wanted to. For us gringos who liked hockey though, nada.
Porlamar does have a sports bar as it turned out. Some quick advice for the traveller here. Never, never go into a bar in South America and ask, let alone demand that they change the channel from soccer to hockey. Even better advice, if for some reason you try to do this then make sure you have the right night for the game before you grab the remote and begin changing the channels. The game was the next night. The bar patrons apparently didn't see the humour in the situation.
My new found lady friend came to my rescue the next night. She pointed out that her hotel room had satellite TV and why didn't we watch the game there. As she was from NYC and I'd grown up in Vancouver a friendly wager seemed in order. One hundred Bolivars sounds impressive, in reality it was about $1.00 Canadian, or sixty five cents US.
This was the final game and midway through the second period it was obvious who the winner was going to be. Vancouver was failing fast and it looked like the Stanley Cup would be paraded through the streets of Manhattan in the not too distant future. I really didn't want to see that, so I paid up and excused myself. Besides she had pre booked a snorkelling trip to a nearby island for the next day and had an early wake up call.
I headed back to my hotel and got there just in time for the last act of the evening's "entertainment." Now I've made comments on resort entertainment in the past, and usually try to avoid these like the plague, with good reason. This night's event's are one of the reason I've learned to give these shows a wide berth.
I spotted my friends the Polish couple, and after a quick pit stop at the bar, joined them at their table. The last act was about to begin, and it was obvious that it was an audience participation one. Standing on the "stage", well actually the middle of a cleared patio near the pool, were five guests all male.
The MC was searching for a sixth and final contestant to join the quintet on the stage. My attempts to make myself look invisible, failed and in seconds he was hovering over our table. I considered making a break for it, and seriously regretted not going directly back to my room. No on second thought nothing could be worse than the room. A couple of minutes later I discovered just how wrong that statement could be.
I made another pit stop enroute to the stage and grabbed a half dozen drinks for me and my fellow condemned. They included an over aged, overweight, and slightly inebriated guy from Honduras, a pair of young really drunk Germans, and a pair of equally drunk Brits. Somebody must have had the same idea as I did, because there were an even dozen small plastic cups full of a strong rum concoction there. The MC obviously didn't see them as he ordered the bartender to send up another round.
We were too busy dealing with this "Dutch Courage" to pay attention to the rules of this little act we'd all "volunteered" for. The MC had gone around and grabbed 6 chairs and placed them in front of us. Then he grabbed six "judges" to fill them. Five of these were the respective spouses and/or girlfriends of my fellow lambs to the slaughter.
Upon finding out I had no significant other, or at least none present, he grabbed the first willing female. It just happened to be my Polish friend. You'll have noticed I've been rather coy with names so far. There's a good reason. The lady in question is still a friend of mine. In fact she's my accountant, and has been since that trip. There is no way I intend to offend or embarrass her. The consequences could be financially fatal to me.
The MC now turned to us six and the two dozen empty cups, and began to explain the rules again. This time he explained them in Spanish. The look on the middle aged Central American, told us more than we wanted to know. That and the phrase "Mr .Sexy Man Decameron." Our fears were realised when the English and German translations followed.
To this day I really cannot hear the song I'm Too Sexy by Right Said Fred, without shuddering. It takes me back to that fateful May evening and the sight of five other guys shaking their money makers. Something tells me that their memories must be equally traumatic because theirs would have included a vision of me doing the same.
Basically we had to...., well I leave it to your imagination. I'm still trying to banish the memory. The judges then slowly eliminated us based on our grace and physique, or more accurately lack thereof. The poor guy from Honduras was the first to go. That his wife voted him off was probably not a good sign.
Surprisingly I made it through the first couple of rounds. Some of the others were moving really close to the judges and giving them a special show as shirts and shoes went flying into the audience. That's all well and good when it's your wife, but what was I supposed to do. I really couldn't be expected to go up to some complete stranger and say "hi I don't know you, but do you mind if I waggle my crotch in your face. I'm sorry I'm just too shy for that.
I did have a couple of advantages though. Most of the Canadians, who I'd got to know were no where in sight. In front of complete strangers who I'd never seen before and probably never would after this week I gained a certain amount of courage. I also gained a certain amount from the four or five doubles I'd guzzled.
One of the guys bowed out, rather early. As he slowly began to peel off his jeans., he discovered he'd gone commando that night. Not wanting to reveal his tan lines he hurriedly yanked them up, and in the process keeled over. That was it for him, off he went. Probably gratefully too.
Fortunately I had heeded my Mother's warning and was wearing clean undies that night. Tasteful boxers for those really interested. These beat out one of the German's thongs, and soon there were only two of us left on the stage.
The sadistic MC now announced that audience applause would decide the winner. He held his hand over my European competition, to be honest I can't remember if he was Brit or a German, and the audience cheered wildly. Then he held his hand over me.
Suddenly there was a wild burst of applause, screaming and cheering. I looked around, it hadn't come from the seats, which were mostly Europeans and had cheered for the other guy. Then I saw it, a sight to make my heart surge with patriotism.
The Canadian guests were all standing at the edge of the stage area and cheering their fool heads off. They had no idea what was going on, but that hadn't stopped them. It appears as one they'd all trouped over the nearby Hilton to catch the hockey game in the hotel's bar.
It had just ended and rather than drown their collective sorrows with the Hilton's overpriced drinks they'd come home where the booze was free. They'd wandered in just as the MC was encouraging the crowd to cheer for me. Not one of them, I was told later, knew what the hell was going on, or why I was standing in the middle of a crowd clad only in my boxers and cowboy boots, and beside an equally undressed man, but that didn't matter. It was one of "ours" versus one of "theirs" and they knew where their loyalties lay.
For my efforts I received a certificate and a bottle of rum. I still have the certificate somewhere buried in my personal papers. The rum bottle never made it off the stage. I took one long pull then tossed it to my new fan club to polish off.
After putting my pants back on, maybe I hadn't learned anything after Santiago after all, I headed back to the table. Hubby was sitting there laughing his head off. The wife was at the bar. I guess being a judge was more traumatic than being a contestant. It was then I noticed the camera on the table.
I'd left my camera on the table when I'd been dragged up onto the stage. I pointed at it and asked him if he'd recorded my little show for posterity. No he said, no man could do that to another it goes against the code. Not satisfied I pointed to his wife's camera also on the table and repeated the question. Again he assured me hadn't taken any pictures. Satisfied I grabbed my stuff and left. I should have asked him about the cam corder he was holding under the table.
Several months later, back in Toronto they invited me to a party at their place. Traffic was bad, and I was late getting there. When I arrived I realised that I didn't know anyone aside from my hosts. However for some strange reason everyone appeared to know me. What's more as soon as I arrived everyone started pointing and grinning at me.
Later on I found out why. Prior to my arrival they'd all been watching the video tapes of the host's Venezuelan vacation. Anyone care to guess what was the highlight on that particular tape?
For some strange reason I felt the urge to get away from the hotel for awhile. I headed out the front door and jumped into the nearest cab. Downtown I told the driver. He turned, took a final sip from the can of beer in his hand, nodded, nestled the beer back into his crotch, put pedal to the metal and away we went.
The cab was an old Ford Galaxy 500, more tank than car. My father owned several of these while I was growing up. In fact except for a brief mid life crisis with a 1968 white Ford Mustang, he always seemed to be buying Ford Galaxies. The Mustang by the way lasted less than six months. I'm sure it was just a coincidence he chose to sell it off just before his son turned 16 and became old enough to get a drivers licence.
Because I was familiar with the tank, er excuse me car and it's resiliency, it didn't bother me that the driver was drinking, and steadily as it turned out. It bothered me even less when he turned and offered me a can from the six pack on the front seat I popped the top, settled back and then realised I had a problem. I didn't have any money on me.
I'd left in such a hurry, I'd forgotten to grab some cash from the safe in my room. A quick check of my pockets revealed I had probably about five or ten bucks in "B's" or Bolivars on me. I was about to tell him to turn back when I realised I had a credit card in my pocket too, and I knew there were ATMs in town.
I asked the driver in my fledgling Spanish to take me to the nearest bank machine. Basically this translated as me waving my card at him and miming pushing the buttons while crying out "banco automatico". He smiled, helped himself to another beer, and away we went.
A quick word about Venezuelan ATMs, or at least as they existed on Margarita Island in the spring of 1994. First of all there were only three of them in the entire city. Either that or I only got three tries, because that's how many fingers the driver held up.
Second they all had armed guards at them. Why I don't know. I presume they were there to prevent someone from taking out a "special withdrawal," by bashing the person who has just withdrawn his cash from the machine over the head with a blunt object. I seriously doubt they were there to prevent someone from robbing the machines themselves.
I mean those things are indestructible, and no I don't know that from experience. I've read numerous reports of thieves dragging one off with a truck only to find it abandoned, and unopened a few hours later. More than likely it was just bank policy. I mean the banks had guards ergo the ATMs should too.
We pulled up to the first machine, and I dashed out and ran up to while he kept the motor running. Rule number one, never dash out of the darkness at a semi dozing elderly security guard with a pump action shot gun. After a quick explanation and my heartbeat slowed to normal, I tried the machine. No luck it was out of order.
No problem the driver said, helping himself to another beer, and tossing me a fresh one. Away we went to bank machine number two. Along the way I began to wonder about the beer. Not that I was complaining mind, but this guy appeared to have an inexhaustible six pack up there, or he was recycling.
Fortunately it turned out he had a couple of cases in the trunk and was resupplying himself at each stop. Polar beer by the way I highly recommend. It was cheap too. A can cost about 30 Bolivars or thirty cents Canadian ( twenty cents US) in the local stores. This could rise to 90 Bolivars in some bars, but was still bearable.
We approached the second ATM, and this time I acted a little more responsibly got out quietly and slowly approached the machine. It was all for naught, the guard was sound asleep and the machine was out of order. Off we sped into the night again leaving a trail of crushed beer cans in our wake.
Third time lucky. The first two machines had been right on the street, built into banks or other building's walls. The third was set back in a wide alley that actually looked like some sort of lawn. I think it was an entrance to a mall of some sort.
I approached this one slowly, my hands high in the air and my Master Card clutched between my fingers. Eventually the guard noticed me and beckoned me forward. He was leaning back in a lawn chair, the shot gun laid across his lap. Very alert I thought as I passed by.
This machine worked and I slipped my card in and punched in my PIN. The instructions were all in Spanish, but I easily figured out cash withdrawal from credit card. However I couldn't remember the exchange rate. Sitting in front of me were different amounts to withdraw, all with one thing in common, lots of zeros. I eventually hit 10,000 Bolivars ($100.00 Canadian/$65.00 US). I guess the machine was out of high denomination bills. It spit out a thick stack of 500's and smaller into my solar plexus.
With my big wad of cash in my sweaty little palms I ran back to the cab. The driver saw me, smiled and popped the tab on a couple more cold ones to celebrate. Now I had money, what to do next. Fun as it was driving around with an endless supply of beer at my beck and call, I craved more.
The Mosquito Coast is more than just the title of a bad Harrison Ford movie. It's the name of the hottest and best night club in Porlamar. The Mosquito Coast is run by two expats, one Canadian and one American, and I'd been there my first night in town. I was in the mood for some dancing, and this time I'd keep my pants on. Well at least I'd keep them on while on the dance floor.
Off to the The Mosquito Coast I thought, except for one little problem. I couldn't remember the name of the place. Simple I thought, "senoritas, chicas, take me to chicas" I told my new drinking buddy while making the universal male hand gesture for the female figure. No problem he smiled again, burped, and away we went.
Take me to chicas he did. After a bit we stopped on a dingy dark street in front of a tacky neon sign. "Senoritas" he pointed at the sign. Well I knew it wasn't the The Mosquito Coast, I wasn't that drunk. However it might be a better place, after all who would know this sort of thing but a cab driver right. "I wait here." he said and I went in.
It was a brothel, and not a very high class one from the looks of it. I quickly drank the one drink minimum, an overpriced Polar and left.
I came out and jumped back into the cab, shaking my head. No problem, the driver nodded, threw me another beer and away we went again. After a bit we pulled up in another dingy street in front of another tacky neon sign.
"Better, much better," my driver assured me, so I got out and went in. It was another brothel. This one was probably worse than the first one, and I barely got out of there. They had a two drink minimum.
This could have gone on all night, but fortunately I remembered the name of the club I wanted to go to. Off we went to the nicer part of the city. Again he assured me he'd wait, while I checked the place out so I went in.
By this time I really didn't feel much like partying anymore so I only stayed for one beer. Polar Beer by the way cost $4.00 US in The Mosquito Coast so I recommend sipping them slowly. I also realised that I'd probably wracked up quite a taxi bill by now. There was no meter and I was sure he was going to ream me with the bill. I really didn't relish another trip to the ATM. I'd had enough excitement for the night.
I went outside to settle up, and eventually decided to have him take me home. At the hotel I got my last surprise of the night. I'd been with this guy for over two hours and we'd travelled over almost half the island. The total bill he told me was 600 Bolivars. I gave him a 1000. Hey I'd probably drank about 300 Bolivars worth of beer minimum.
The rest of the week went surprisingly well. Yeah like it could have got worse. My New York friend and I actually got to go out a couple of times. One of our dates included being bushwhacked by time share salesmen who held us ransom for a couple of hours. During that episode I found out she made about three times as much as I did. Visions of Green Cards danced through my head, but alas it was not to be. This was strictly a vacation romance.
I even go to see more of her spacious hotel suite including the magnificent bathroom. Something for which my banged up forehead was eternally grateful. The down side was that the chambermaid over at my hotel became prone to giving me dirty looks.
I got a tsk tsk one morning as I was coming in and she was leaving the room. She pointed at the unslept in bed, and shook her head. I think she was also upset because she'd probably been banging on the door a couple of hours earlier yelling at me to please wake up and not getting any response.
All good things must come to and end, and so must bad and mediocre ones too, it just takes longer. Soon enough we were all crammed back on the bus for the run back to the airport. Once again the sights were pointed out to us enroute. Once again the highlight was another anti American demo/riot in full swing as we drove past.
I was starting to think that these were a regularly scheduled thing for our benefit. Sort of like a surreal Disney like modern version of Pirates of the Caribbean. Either that or maybe it was some novel new way to recycle old tires. This time I had my camera ready and grabbed a couple of partying shots.
At the airport we discovered a few nice little bon voyage presents to speed us on our way. First was the extensive searches. it appears that South America was a source of some illegal substance or something that was in demand in North America. Something or other that began with a C I think.
Neat was the pleasant surprise that we had to shell out $40.00 US departure tax to leave. A if this wasn't bad enough, you couldn't pay it all at once. You had to line up at two separate windows. At the first one you paid $20.00 in US currency. At the next window, again after a lengthy line up, you had the choice of paying in Dollars or Bolivars, whoopee.
All this surprisingly didn't take up all the three hours that we arrived at the airport for our flight. This meant we had our choice, visit the duty free shop or hang out at bar. Guess which one we all chose?
The bar charged $2.00 US for a can of Polar beer. What did they think they were, The Mosquito Coast. At least there they had scantily clad ladies and good music.
Fortunately someone came to our rescue. They'd checked out the duty free shop and came out to announce that they had six packs of American beer on sale for only 200 "B's." Five minutes later the beer cooler was empty. We spent the rest of the wait happily sipping on Schlitz, Old Milwaukee, and Bud.
We were the happiest group every to traipse out the plane I'm sure. We were also the easiest to spot. You just had to follow the trail of crushed beer cans on the runway.
After the plane took off the pilot announced that there would be a brief stop in Aruba to pick up more passengers. Bar, meal, and movie service would not commence until after we left Aruba. No big deal was the general opinion, and another round of brewskis was cracked open.
After spending more than an hour on the stifling hot tarmac at Aruba's airport and not being allowed to deplane our collective opinions changed somewhat. Eventually about six people meekly came aboard. For some reason we decided not to share our beer with them.
My last sight was when we were deplaning at Toronto some seven hours later. I was the last to get off and I glance back at the air plane's cabin. Wedged into almost every seat was a crushed empty beer can, or two, or three.
Detox the next day was fun.
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