Roraima; getting there a trial, getting up and down a tribulation.

Ah, Mount Roraima!  My accidental adventure.  Serendipitous?  Yes.  Rewarding?  No doubt about it, but, there were times, many times, during the ascent, whilst on the peak and during the descent when I would have given anything to be anywhere other than on that mongrel of a mountain in the southeast of Venezuela.

Mount Roraima is a tepui, or table mountain, that rises to an imposing 2,810 metres above sea level.  It is nestled in the southeastern corner of Venezuela close to the borders that Venezuela shares with Brazil and Guyana.

My story goes like this.  I was sitting in an internet cafe in the small Venezuelan town of Santa Elena de Uairen where I had arrived the day before from Brazil.  The border lies just 15km away.  I had arrived with very little remaining Brazilian reales and limited US dollars.  New country, new currency, no worries.  I'll just go to an ATM and withdraw some bolivares and Bob's your uncle.  Now, while that is entirely feasible it is not especially wise.  You see the black market for currency exchange is thriving in Venezuela.  If you withdraw cash from an ATM you will get the official rate of approximately 4 bolivares for $1 US whereas if you exchange cash on the street, be it the much sought greenback or Brazilan real you get a much, much better rate. For $1 US you get 7 bolivares.  Almost double.  So, withdrawing cash from an ATM means that everything becomes almost twice as expensive than if you have changed the aforesaid currencies on the street.  So there I am in the internet cafe searching for a solution to my fix;  little cash in any currency to change to get the much better rate.  So, scaling a demanding mountain to reach a so called 'lost world' was not at the forefront of my cerebral processes.  However, it was the focus of the guy sitting next to me. Enter Katzi, an affable Austrian who asks me whether I would at all be interested in joining he and his girlfriend in climbing Roraima independently, that is not in a travel company group that hires local porters to shoulder the burden of carrying food, cooking equipment, tents and all other manner of paraphernalia that weighs one's pack down.  Katzi eagerley explained that by carrying all our own gear and independently hiring the local guide required that we could save a considerable amount of bolivares.  Whilst I, at this stage barely had a bolivar to my name and hadn't even considered climbing Roraima, the idea of saving money in the predicament I was in was certainly appealing.  After looking at some images of the spectacular mountain I was sold, provided I could sort out my moola dilemma.  Thus, the seed of new adventure was sown.

At 6am the day after next we took off from Santa Elena for Paraitepui, a small indigenous village that serves as the gateway to the trek to the peak of Mount Roraima.  The previous day was spent going back and forth from Venezuela to Brazil trying to sort out the damn money woes.  Firstly I hitchhike the 15km back to the Brazilan border town of Pacaraima to try and withdraw money from an ATM at the bank of Brazil branch.  The machine, unfortunately doesn't accept my card.  Dejected, I hitch the 15km back to Santa Elena with a young Brazilian guy who was heading into Venezuela to fill up his car with the dirt cheap state subsidised petrol.  I am resigned to having to withdraw cash from an ATM in Santa Elena and the consequent lower exchange.  Chatting to the Hong Kong born and raised owner of the lodge where I am staying about my predicament I am told that there is a supermarket back on the Brazilian side of the border that will do cash advances albeit with a hefty commission that will leave me with an exchange rate roughly half way between the official and black market rate.  In the circumstances it is my best option so it is back to Brazil once again.  By this time I am more than familiar with this stretch of road!  With money finally in my pocket I say a final farewell to Brazil and start the journey back to Santa Elena.  By this time it seems that I have aroused the suspicion of the heavily armed Venezuelan army cum border officials as I am bundled off into a questioning room to be interviewed and searched.  Thankfully, I am allowed into Venezuela again without too much drama.

 So finally we are ready to begin the quest to scale this mountain.  It is Katzi, his French girlfriend Cynthia, our guide Antonio, a proud father of a son born just the day before and I.  The pack on my back is heavy but it feels good and I tackle the first stretch of the path with optimism and vigour.  The only hiccups in the early stages are a few physically harmless falls on the slippery path that leave me muddy and a tad miffed.  All in all the first day is successful.  The most challenging aspect of the day is undoubtedly the second river crossing.  While the water is only waist high, the current coupled with the heavy pack upsetting my balance makes it a difficult proposition.  I am more than happy to negotiate the crossing without trouble.    The surroundings are scenic, the path generally of a fairly gentle gradient and the mind strong.  We arrive at our camp for the night with the knowledge that the next day will be the true test of one's mettle.

We set off early on day 2 and after a few hours arrive at the Roraima base camp from where the path changes dramatically.  We now find ourselves in the midst of jungle on a narrow, steep and rocky path.  As we climb some particularly steep parts of the trail I begin to question what I have got myself into and wonder how on earth we are going to be able to come down this same way.  Luckily the weather is clear, rain would only make the path even more treacherous.  As we take a lunch break on the narrow trail I mention this fortune to Katzi and Cynthia but wait, wait a minute there.  I have spoken too soon.  Torrential rain begins within the minute and my half eaten tuna sandwich suddenly turns very soggy.

The next part of the ascent is the most testing of the entire trek.  The path demands that you follow the path of a running creek that winds its way up the steep side of the mountain, crossing under sheer drop waterfalls.  With the constant threat of large rocks hurtling towards you this section of the trek is certainly not for the faint of heart.  Drenched to the bone, with the weight of the pack increasing with the absorbed water despite my best attempts to cover it the journey to the summit of Roraima has converted into a true strength of mental and physical fortitude.  I tell myself to be strong and push myself to make it to the top while my sense of logic and reasoning suggests that it will be quite a miracle if I actually make it.  Determined I push on, focused on conquering this beast of nature and not letting it get the better of me.  By this time I am on my own, there is no one else around to offer advice or support.  It is me verus the mountain.

Finally arriving at the peak of Roraima in one piece is euphoric.  The rain has not ceased so we take shelter under a boulder offering some protection from the inclemency.  Later we make it to our camp place to pitch our tents and settle in to our new home for the next couple of days.  The incessant rains and visibility reducing mist prevents any possibility of exploring the peak of the mountain to begin to reap some of the fruits of reward for our hard labour in toiling to reach this 'lost world'.  Instead, after hanging out a variety of soaked clothing articles to hopefully dry, I retire to my tent for some much needed rest.

The following day the weather still hasn't improved, a thick fog blankets the peak of Roraima.  Despite this we set out to explore a little of the moon-like landscapes.  Antonio, our guide, who didn't seem particularly interested in guiding during the first couple of days and was indeed largely superfluous to our needs suddenly is of much value as he guides us to various points of interest on the intriguing tabletop of Roraima.  Narrow canyons, unique flora and fauna such as lizards, birds and frogs and carnivorous plants add to the mysticism of this unique place.  However our exploration is cut short when heavy rain once again rears its ugly head and we scurry back to the safety of camp.  Once more we retire to our respective tents.

The highlight of the entire trek comes early the next morning.  We awake to, unprecedented in our journey, completely clear skies and set off shortly after sunrise to 'la ventana', the window, to experience the most spectacular of views across the thickly forested valleys surrounding Roraima.  It is extremely difficult to do justice to the supreme and sheer beauty of the vistas that surrounded us as we stood perched on the edge of this 'lost world' of Roraima peering over the edge.

  

After the highlight of visiting 'la ventana' in clear weather we make our way back to camp to pack up and begin the descent.  En route, however, Katzi and I can't miss the chance of refreshing ourselves in the freezing natural springs on top of the mountain.  I hope it will give me the required vigour to successfully negotiate the descent.  The way down does prove to be as challenging as I had thought.  By this stage I am more than ready to get back to civilisation but just as the ascent is a two day affair so is the descent.  This time, Antonio, decides to forge ahead of us at a cracking pace in order to get to a camp where he can also get a meal as he has run out of food.  Seemingly he also knew something that he didn't bother to inform us of.  After the heavy rain of the past couple of days the more challenging of the river crosses is impassable.  We have no choice but to pull up stumps for the day, camp on the far side of the river and hope and pray that we will be able to cross the next morning.

Luckily the river has subsided sufficiently to enable our passage the following morning.  We have made it to the last day of the trek but still have quite a distance to cover before we are back to where we started 5 days ago.  Inconceivably the path is even slipperier that it was on the previous days and I find myself spending quite a bit of time on the ground.  At one point I find myself in hysterics, the only reaction that I could muster to my repeated slides eventuating with me toppling.  Maybe had something to do with the shoes I was wearing which no doubt had seen better days.  My ankles have swollen to a point where a stuffed Christmas turkey would look lean in comparison to their plumpness.  I sing to pass the time and dream of arriving back.  Finally, after hours of soul searching and coaxing of my own will I arrive back at the start of a trek.  A large group of trekkers have arrived earlier and are eating a hot meal provided by their tour company on return.  They look utterly exhausted and they only had to carry their personal effects and not their food and sleeping equipment.  I earn their instant respect when I tell them that I have completed the journey unassisted in this way.  A kindly German woman offers me the remainder of her hot meal which she says she cannot finish.  I lean back, eating, in bliss.
    

Up the amazon; boat travel

Day 1:

Hammocks are strung up, side by side, above and below.  This will be home for the next three days and nights as the wooden vessel wends its way upstream on the Amazon River from steamy Belem, just below the equator in the northeast of Brazil, to Santarem, a lower Amazonian city in the interior of the country.  Dusk arrives and finally we are off, chugging out of port into the muddy, wide expanse.  On the boat's upper level the bar opens, cerveja (beer) flows freely and forró  (Northeastern Brazilian Folk music) pumps out.  I begin to meet a few of my fellow travelers, an eclectic mix of Brazilians sprinkled with a few other curious foreigners.  After a few hours chatting ( my Portuguese, or better said, my portuñol- mix of Spanish and Portuguese, levels up a notch or two) it is time to retire downstairs to the cramped conglomeration of crisscrossed hammocks in search of some tropical slumber.

Day 2:

Whistles are blown shortly after 6am to signal the serving of a simple breakfast of sweeter than sweet coffee and bread (no butter, no conserves).  As it is the only meal of the day that is included in the ticket price almost everybody is up.  As I drink my coffee, still in an early morning foggy daze, a floating stockyard transporting at least one hundred head of cattle drifts by, presumably on its way to market.  With limited road networks in the north of Brazil the elaborate river systems serve as the principal transit routes. 

The dawning of a new day begins to reveal the ways of life on the water.  The thick jungle vegetation is intermittently cleared on the banks to allow for basic wooden hut dwellings.  Several canoes, many occupied by unbelievably young children, come out to meet our boat in the hope that a passenger aboard will throw out a plastic bag of clothes, a common practice and an extremely welcome one for these isolated families where acquiring clothes at the local store is simply not an option. 

Around mid morning we make a scheduled stop in the river port town of Belves.  A myriad of vendors board, all eager to sell a variety of goods including a vast array of tropical juices in plastic bags, newspapers and most popularly, dried river prawns.  As the boat continues on its way it is time to get back to the on board activities to help pass the lingering hours.  While some prefer to while away the hours gently swaying, dozing, chatting or reading, in their hammocks, others, namely rowdy Brazilian men, partake in vigorous and competitive games of dominoes, a popular pastime in the north of Brazil.  Curious children explore every nook and cranny of the vessel, running and smiling, content in their new environs. 

In the late afternoon we reach the long awaited Amazon River proper and the tributary on which we had been traveling opens up into the ocean-like expanse of the world's most voluminous river (The Nile is longer but the Amazon holds more water).  Shortly after we are treated to the most spectacular sunset I have ever witnessed.  Bright pink, red and orange tinges paint the sky around the sinking sun, set off magnificently against the fluffiness of white clouds and remnant blue streaks of the divine day. 

Later dinner is served, humungous portions of hearty Brazilian fare of chicken, rice, spaghetti, feijao (black beans) and salad ($R8- Approximately $5AUD)  impossibly heaped onto the plate ensure that those eating don't go hungry.  Later I make my way up to the less crowded upper deck in hope of a much better night's sleep and content in having been made privy to some of the ways of the river in this unique part of the world.  As I am just starting to drift off a new friend rouses me to advise that we need to move our hammocks from their vulnerable position to avoid being drenched by an imminent tropical storm.  Groggily, I do this before sliding off once more into the dreamworld.

Day 3:

After the hoped for better night's sleep I feel well prepared to tackle another strenuous (yeah right!) day gliding along the Amazon.  It is clear that a certain camaraderie has developed among many of the passengers.  Living in such close quarters has no doubt bonded many of us.  Maybe it is because we are "all in the same boat", a cliché that has been bandied about a few too many times by the English speakers on board.  The increased familiarity is evident through nods, smiles and persistent requests from children to buy them a soft drink to alleviate their exaggeratedly feigned heatstroke.  To ameliorate my own condition a refreshingly cool shower in the open air of the top deck with water pumped from the river below us proves to be just the tonic I need.  Refreshed I settle back in my hammock to watch the slide show of life on the river play out. 

The simplicity of life here, far removed from the hectic nature of city life is on display; a little girl helps her mother wash clothes in the river from the modest deck of their humble abode, children splash in the shallows waving wildly at us, families lazing lethargically together under the intense sun.  Life here is a different life,  undoubtedly with its fair share of challenges and hardships but, judging by the faces of the locals that we see as we briefly inhabit their slice of this sphere, it is a life that is embraced and lived with joyous spirit and vigour.  Night falls, the last night on board before the scheduled arrival at Santarem early the next morning.  Good spirits are further heightened when we make another cargo stop late at night and are able to disembark to explore the busy streets of a small port town on a Friday night.  It feels great to be on land and to be able to share some food and drink with cheerful local folk.  Back on board it is back to the hammock for the last night of swaying sleep.

DAY 4:

Not long after sunrise we arrive at Santarem and it is time to continue on.  For me it will be to the Amazon River beach town of Alter do Chão to try and get over what I feel may well be a harsh case of post-boat blues.  Fellow passengers, now new friends are farewelled.  Amazon River travel of this kind is not luxurious, it is not for those who are not willing to share their immediate personal space with all and sundry but those who revel in intrepidness and travel by boat on the Amazon and its tributaries will be rewarded with an unforgettable experience.  A true highlight in a grand continent.    

welcome to mumbai, expect the unexpected

Has to be my strongest and best travel memory ever.  Arriving in Mumbai on New Year's Eve 2008 is like arriving in a parallel universe.  Forget rhyme.  Forget reason.  Mumbai dances to its own chaotic beat.  It is evident from the moment I arrive at the airport.  Where is my backpack going to appear?  Is it going to appear?  I wish you'd put that assault weapon away mr policeman.  You're making me nervous.  Mumbai is on high alert.  The terrorist attacks are a near memory.  I make my way outside the airport to be greeted by chaos.  People everywhere.  Masses.  Swarms of humanity waiting to be reunited with a loved one or,  as is my case, waiting to pick up an unsuspecting traveller to be initiated into the mayhem of India's biggest city, its beating heart.  After a good half hour walking up and down the passenger's makeshift catwalk, like an unclaimed piece of luggage on the carousel, I meet my man.  My way into the city.  My first substantive contact in the subcontinent.  I am safely in the front seat of my ride into town.  All is good.  Still in the airport car park I receive a surprise.  First time in my life that I witness a driver, my driver, speed up when he sees a pedestrian meandering across the intended path.  Nothing like giving someone a bit of a hurry along I guess.

The ride into town is spectacular.  Fires burn along the sides of the roads.  Muslims hold prayer sessions.  Animals wander across the streets.  My driver tries to tell me a little about where we are.  I don't understand too much of what he is saying, maybe it is his broken, difficult to understand English or maybe it is because I have fallen into a trance-like state at all of what has been presented in front of me.  I'm in India now and isn't India letting me know it.  After the hour or so long ride into town I am finally at my hotel (the term is used here because it is in the name of where I am staying).  I make it to my room, I am sure that in many countries gaol cells would be more spacious and comfortable.  It doesn't matter that I have been travelling for many, many hours.  It is New Year's Eve and I am in India god damn it.  Beers will be had.  I venture out into the streets.  Streets that exude energy.  Streets that ooze vibrancy, streets that weep with poverty.

I am back in the hotel lobby.  I have some bottles of Kingfisher in my hand.  I am ready to retire to the shabbiness of the hotel balcony to see in the new year which by now is a mere twenty minutes away.

No sir.  No you shall not.  Fate intervenes in the form of three Russians.  Russians ready to party.  Bottle of rum in hand.  The streeets are calling us back.  With my new friends in tow it is back to the streets of Mumbai.  We set out on the streets of Fort with no fixed destination in mind.  Indians greet us with cries of "Happy New Year", head waggles are liberally given.  Not everyone is welcoming the new year with such vigour though.  Important lesson to learn when walking the streets of Mumbai, the footpath may be a pedestrian thoroughfare but it is also the permanent slumber zone of thousands of poverty-stricken Indians.  Watch where you're going.  Don't want to cause any trouble now.  After hours wandering around the city streets one of my new Russian friends decide the time has come to welcome ourselves officially to India by visiting the gateway to India, built to commemorate the visit of George V.  As we saunter our way down there we witness two young Indians punching on and then wrestling in the middle of the road.  A vehicle approaches and a momentary armistice is reached to clear the way but with the passing of the car hostilities are resumed.  "No you can not, can not pass, not open", security banishes our intention to get closer to the gateway to formalise our arrival.  This is Mumbai in the early epoch of a new era.  Finally it is decided it is time to make it back to our dingy domicile.

I wake up on New Year's day with a throbbing headache and a throat more parched than the Murray-Darling.  I need to get out of this claustrophobic, windowless box.  Mumbai streets by day are calling.  Again as I wander off with no real destination the feeling of having slipped into a whole new world comes over me or is that overcomes me?  I'll have a chai thank you very much.  We'll have your equivalent of five cents in Rupees thank you very much.  Nice deal.  I can deal with that.  I wander on.  The alleyways are buzzing with life.  The start of the new year is no cause to rest.  The start of the year is the time to make a new start, to make a prosperous start.  I feel alive to be walking along as an extra in these street scenes.  I, by chance, arrive in Colaba, the main toursit district of Mumbai to be encountered by all manner of streetside vendors selling there wares.  Some ganga sir? How about some crack?  We have nice young girl, you want?  I get through the onslaught of offers and settle for a English language newspaper.  I sit down for a break, to get lost in the paper and I succeed in drifting off into my own hungover daze.  Only for a moment though.  India has a way of letting you know where you are.  Don't get lost in your own thoughts and world for too long, she says.  In this case I am wrenched from my reading by a loud cracking.  It is as though a gun has gone off right in front of me.  Huh?  What the hell was that, I think.  I lift my eyes and am visually bamboozled by the appearance of a shamanistic gent right in front of.  Brightly coloured clothes, matted hair, a vision of a man unlike any I had ever seen in my preceding life.  A large matted whip in his hand has been cracked and is the cause of my sudden shock.  As I am trying to come to terms with what I am witnessing, an equally eccentric lady with an infant in her arms appears, seemingly teleported from afar.  Talk about sidling!  The sadhu proffers his hand, he has performed his part of the bargain now it is my turn to come to the party and hand over some rupees.  Expected the unexpected in India.  You never know what will happen next.