We had planned to wake up very early in the morning,
planning to be on our way by 6 am, so we would be at Paraitepuy at 10 am ready
for pick up. My batteries, alas, were at best 50% recharged, so I undertook the
11 km walk with some trepidation. It was not too bad really, but one of those
never-ending walks in which the ridges in the horizon keep succeeding one after
the other with no apparent end. But all good things eventually come to an end
and at about 9:50 am I dragged myself up to our starting point. Surprise,
surprise, no ride waiting for us.
Luis was nowhere to be seen, trying to find a cell phone
somewhere in the village that had both battery and minutes to make a call to
our driver. What followed was a tangled story in which the driver claimed in
turns to have paludism and appendicitis (my opinion is that the bum wanted to
stay home to see the soccer match and have simply ditched us). After additional
calls Luis secured another ride, who could be expected to arrive between 3 and
4 pm.
The most interesting thing that happened during the wait
period was that a group of women were preparing cassava flour, a process that
involves scraping thin peelings out of the cassava root, packing the shaved
peelings inside a long tube woven out of tough yucca leaves, and then
stretching the tube between a roof beam on one side and a long leverage pole on
the other. The pole is pushed down until it hooks in a notch on a ground stump,
the tube stretches and squeezes the cassava peelings, and the juice contained
in them is slowly pressed out into a bucket (this fluid can be fermented to
produce the local gut rot, or is added to salsa to give it a delicious flavor).
Once the cassava has been squeezed dry it is dried on a hot plate, and then can
be ground into cassava flour. We had cassava bread in one of our gourmet
dinners, and I can say it is not bad.
I also used the waiting time to distribute tips to Simón and
Antonio (more about total costs later).
Finally, at around 3 pm, a Ford Bronco made its appearance.
Rescue at last! All of a sudden the driver accuses Luis of being a traitor, and
Luis responds in kind with other epithets. “Luis, what are you doing? You
should be giving him a thankful kiss rather than picking a fight!” To my
surprise that is exactly what he did and a general round of laughter erupted.
It turns out that Jonathan and Luis are old friends, and the pretended fight
was their way of saying hello.
No sooner had we loaded ourselves into the Bronco when it
started to rain hard. The sabana, hit with the rain of the last two days, had
turned itself into a sea of mud, which Jonathan navigated with considerable
flare for the next 50 kilometers. The sparse people we encountered were going
about their business under heavy loads, as if the rain and mud were mere
annoyances. This made me think, and ask, about the lack of donkeys, cattle, or goats.
Luis told me that the grasses were too tough for the animals, and that nothing
else would grow in the acid soils. Too tough for donkeys or goats? Hard to
believe.
We finally reached the paved road, and ahead of us saw the Rio
Kukenán in flood (but fortunately the road was still passable). Man, there is a
lot of water coming down from the tepuys!
I mentioned before that here vehicles are kept going by
fixing them with gum and spit. The Bronco was no exception, even though
Jonathan is a mechanic. Easier for him to weld an add-on than to get an
original part, so the Bronco has the pleasant appearance of a vehicle that
would draw many expressions of admiration at a Steam Punk convention.
Finally we made it to Santa Elena! We were all famished, and
I had invited everybody to go have arepas in town, but Luis’ Mom beat me to it
and had already organized a welcome back (alive) dinner with fried chicken and arroz con caraotas (rice with black
beans). Jonathan is clearly the favorite “son”, and all his whims are quickly
catered to. For example, he is convinced that caraotas are much better with sugar, so one of the giggling girls
was glad to bring him a sugar bowl (I, of course, also had to try it, but I
cannot say it made any improvement on a food that has been perfected over
hundreds of years).
Later on I bid everyone good night (Luis and Jonathan were
clearly planning to carouse until the wee hours of the morning), and headed to
my humble abode, again trudging through sticky mud for what seemed like a mile.
Once at my Eco Camp I had to take a bath, standing on a plank by the rainwater
barrel, and scooping the cold water to rinse the soap out. Not quite optimum,
but the feeling of being clean was absolutely delightful. Then I had to go to
the bathroom. Rats! I pussyfooted my way through the mud to the so-called
Vietnamese toilet and found a little hut with nothing in it. I have been to
Vietnam and know that the trick of the toilets are two chambers, used in
alternate fashion, where the poop is composted on one side while the other is
being used. The few months it takes to fill in the active chamber is enough for
the composting process to happen, and the new “soil” can then be removed for
use in the fields. Luis’ toilet had nothing like this. Just an even surface of mud. So I had to do
my thing by squatting down, and then had to haul some mud from the outside to
cover my poop. Not very sanitary, but I will let the locals manage the product.
Vague memories of a luxury room in Cancún keep intruding in my feverish brain.
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