“I can’t slow down. I have to speed through here because this is where bandits stop cars to rob them.”
That’s what a driver told me as he sped through a remote region near where Venezuela’s border meets Guyana and Brazil. Squeezed between an indigenous guide and a rather large Venezuelan woman in the back seat of a tricked-out sports car, I was having trouble containing the contents of my stomach as we careened around the road’s curves at 150 kilometers per hour (roughly 90 miles per hour).
“Is it true about the bandits?” I asked my guide, with whom I had visited several indigenous villages that day.
“Oh, yes. In fact, just last week they stopped a bus and raped all the girls and took all their things. That happened right here,” he said, pointing to a area between the road and the thick vegetation of Venezuela’s Gran Sabana.
Well, how can I argue with that?
Still, I was skeptical. This hot-headed driver had his Venezuelan pop music blaring, and he traveled at the same speed whether passing through small towns or traveling in the remote areas between them.
He was only one in a series of drivers that day who exhibited more character than driving skill.
Buses in Venezuela’s rural areas travel slowly and offer inconsistent service at best, so men line up with their personal vehicles near terminals to offer an alternative.
Our first driver was great. He navigated the roads smoothly and quickly.
The second driver was a Colombian sporting a giant white bandage on his forehead. I later began to suspect that the bandage may have come from an incident in which he shattered his own windshield.
This guy traveled at a decent speed until he caught sight of a car on the road in front of him. He would then lurch forward and continue lurching until he reached the other vehicle, then roll down the window and lay on the horn while shouting obscenities at the other driver who had the nerve to travel on the same road.
Then, the Colombian driver would slow down and cruise along – until, of course, he saw another car.
The strangest part was that he did all this while listening to Great Pop Hits of the Late 90s. To Celine Dion crooning the Titanic theme song, he sped up to catch a pickup truck loaded with workers in the back. As the Cranberries mourned lost love, the driver shook his fist in the air.
The music
“Even lovers need a holiday
far away
from each other …”
The driver:
“$%&*$%&!!!”
The music
“After all that we’ve been through
I will make it up to you
I promise to…”
Me:
“Not likely.”
The rest of the day included:
– a car completely gutted on the inside save for the seats, the gas pedal and the steering wheel.
– A taxi with red velour furnishings, and a fire extinguisher in a special holder near the driver.
– A car that overheated and wouldn’t re-start on the side of a remote road at about midnight.
– A stranger, claiming to be a friend of the driver who’s car broke down, who offered me and my guide a ride.
– And us, who had no choice but to take it.
I’m not sure when a harrowing story evolves in one’s memory into a good yarn. Soon, I hope!
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