Wetsuit Mountaineering

The adventure is nearly over. We're in Caracas, surely one of the ugliest cities on Earth. It makes Middlesbrough look lovely, though the restaurants and salsa are rather better here. Still, we're off to enjoy our final few days on the Carribean Islas Los Roques, which are reputed to be as close to paradise as you can get this side of a chat with the grim reaper. I hope they turn out to be as beautiful as promised since this trip is going to be the final boot in the groin of my travel finances. I guess it's about time I went home and got a job!

In the past few days we've been alternating between cool mountains and bug infested swamplands that fester in unbelievable heat. Naturally, I preferred the mountains, though the sight in Los Llanos of groups of giant capybara, the world's largest rodent, was possibly worth the entry price paid in mosquito bites. Grace would disagree I suspect. Not everything has gone exactly to plan of late. A day of canyoning in the Andes went totally tits up, resulting in three of us inventing the new sport of mountaineering in wetsuits in order to get back to civilisation. It can get a bit sweaty in the suits, but they're handy for downpours during the wet season.

The Venezuelan coast is particularly spectacular with pristine beaches backed by coastal mountains that provide a magnificent backdrop. This is indeed where the wannabe Miss Worlds are all hanging out, though with a strictly fry it or throw it attitude to food preparation in this country they're not all going to live the dream. The people seem to have a lot more attitude in these coastal parts too, which can seem engaging or straight out rude by turns. You learn to tred a little warily as a gringo here.

...Oh, and England didn't win the World Cup again, in case you hadn't heard.