Beginning to get real stressed out here, three ports in three days, no sea days in between, this is pressure like your correspondents have not experienced in nearly three months now. Where is the time to recover and recharge the batteries? It is totally unreasonable to be having to get up in the morning before 8, or occasionally 9, or very infrequently before 9.30. I dread to think what adjustments are going to have to be made next week, perhaps we will just stay onboard, go round the Mediterranean and put up with no responsibilities for a bit longer.
Anyway, it's Friday, so I guess it has to be Venezuela. Whether it was purely by accident or by design we leave you to decide, but today is one of the days we had pre-booked an excursion via the internet before leaving home, so no decisions to be made about what to do or where to go. Simply get off the boat, with two of our dinner companions who are joining us, head through the cluster of stalls, a hundred metres or so long, lining the the path from the dockside, and head for the dock gates about five or ten minutes away.
At the gate we are met by Steve and Marcella our ex-patriate American guides for the day. We immediately realise just how wise we were to have pre-arranged the day. The port of El Guamache is slap bang in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by acres of dusty open ground. In fairness there is a small beach adjacent to the aforementioned stalls and a couple of open air bars. About the only entertainment to be had is from the flock of pelicans diving spectacularly into the water from considerable heights, catching fish. They are either remarkably greedy or remarkably inefficient because they keep going without interruption, or perhaps they are on a retainer from the local tourist board as resident entertainment. You can almost imagine the conversation they are having "Red Leader to Red Three, tourists at 3 o'clock, break left, splash down." "Wilco, Skipper, Red Three out". Been reading too much Biggles. Anyway, if you've seen one pelican beating it's brains out doing death defying dives into the deep blue Caribbean you've seen them all, so we don't linger.
The four of us pile into Steve's Ford Explorer and head off towards the island's only "four-lane" to make for the island's largest city Porlamar, maybe thirty minutes away. Parts of the city are not too safe apparently so these are avoided. We are surprised at the apparent poverty, this is, after all, a major oil exporting country. Where have all the profits gone? Certainly not to Joe Public. Steve suggests this is one of the main reasons why Socialist President Hugo Chavez is so popular, now looking to his third term in office, as he seeks to redress the balance. America is not popular, Chavez is big buddies with one F. Castro and U.S. cruise lines no longer call in Venezuela with major impact on the local economy, and Steve's income. There are no more ships scheduled to dock before November!
But back to our tour. We take in a lighthouse, 149 steps to the top, an absolute doddle for your super fit correspondents, for some inspiring coastal panoramas and close ups of the undersides of some hefty frigate birds. We decide to descend before they take offence at our presence in the traditional bird reaction, for which there is plenty of evidence all over cars parked nearby! On to Pampatar, an old traditional town. Next to a castle built to protect, not wholly successfully, against the ravages of a variety of invaders and famously used by the Spaniards to imprison the teenage wife of Juan Arismendi, the independence leader in the 19th Century. The capital of the island is El Asuncion, a small market town of narrow streets and sleepy demeanour has grown up adjacent to the castle. The cathedral here, whilst not large, is the oldest in Venezuela, having been completed in 1615.
By midday we are at Playa el Agua, certainly the most popular, if not the most spectacular, beach on the island. A great expanse of clean white sand lined with bars, many of them with impressive sound systems. It is easy to see why the island is so attractive to residents of mainland Venezuela as a resort destination, the beaches dotted around the coast are phenomenal. As we arrive at el Agua two busloads of fellow passengers are departing back to the ship. They have been on the rumba bus tour, former big yellow American school buses now painted psychedelic colours (by a one armed blind man high on speed by the looks it) and boasting a set of steroidal speakers. The buses are air conditioned, a necessity in the heat, by the simple expedient of having had all the windows removed. The word rumba is the clue to the main attraction of this outing, apart from the gentle, calming music that is, and no, it's not the gentle rhythm of the rumba, it's the unlimited supply of rum and sundry other intoxicants. We are reliably informed that at least two pensioners were sufficiently legless on returning to the ship that they had to be carried back on board. Us old folk know how to party. You will be pleased to know that your correspondents moved at a more sedate pace partaking of a single cerveza and cola and thanking our lucky stars that we had avoided the questionable delights of a P&O excursion courtesy of the Explorers Team.
From the beach we continued our tour of the north of the island taking in a number of enjoyable sights before heading on back to the desert like port. We enjoyed Isla Margarita, Steve Tinsman was a cheerful, well informed guide who provided excellent value and it is easy to see why it is an attractive holiday destination; the Americans don't know what they are missing in the need to make a political statement.