Missing Angel Falls, but regaining trust in humanity

 I checked out of the ramshackle motel in the Nuevo Circulo district of Caracas, Venezuela. The first order of business was to retrieve my passport from the Brazilian embassy. When I arrived, my documents were waiting for me, and under the visa stamp was scrawled "Gratis." I looked questioningly at the officials, and reached into my pocket, anyway. Certainly there was some fee involved. They shook their heads and smiled.

"Obrigado," I thanked them in Portuguese, and left, a little puzzled, but grateful.

My last day in Caracas was spent wandering the expansive Parque del Este, and window shopping at the elegant Parque Crystal mall. As the sun set, I made my way back to the bus station. Choking on the black exhaust of scores of buses and minivans, I tried to find a place to stand where the barrage of fumes wouldn't be so bad. Seats inside the station were full, and I didn't want to risk missing my bus to Ciudad Bolivar, a city approximately 370 miles southeast of Caracas. The journey would take all night. 

Luckily, there was a nice family waiting for the same bus, and we chatted easily. Somehow, in between our pleasantries, and the gentle rocking of the bus, I was able to get some quality sleep. Early the next day, I picked up my luggage at the side of the bus, and hearing the urgent call, "Aeropuerto!" made my way in that direction.

A converted school bus shuttled passengers to the airport, dropping us off in front of a small propeller plane, displayed at the front of the terminal. I learned the plane was that of Jimmy Angel, who came across the world's highest waterfall in 1937 while searching for iron ore. The Falls, known to indigenous peoples as Kerepakupai-mer, was subsequently renamed Angel Falls in his honor.

Several tour packages from Ciudad Bolivar to Angel Falls were available, but after checking around, I found they were out of my price range. The costs were not unreasonable; I was simply traveling on dangerously low funds. I sat down at the airport's only food service counter for coffee, and to mentally reassess my situation. The two gentleman next to me turned out to be a pilot and a tour guide, heading back to Canaima National Park after picking up supplies. Aware that Canaima was the starting point for Falls tours, I dropped a few hints, not admitting even to myself that what I was really doing, was attempting airplane hitchhiking. 

"I can take you to Canaima for $40 US," the pilot volunteered, finally. "Sometimes you get lucky, and our flight pattern takes us over Angel Falls." 

It was worth a gamble. I forked over two of my precious $20 bills, and climbed into the tail of the tiny supply plane, more worried about the money than caring that the two men could dump me in a remote jungle, never to be heard from again. The thought barely crossed my mind before I forced it out. "I'm not letting him win," I thought vehemently. 

Sitting amid boxes of foodstuffs and toiletries, I tried to ignore the fact I could see daylight through the plane's floorboards. We took off, flying low over the Orinoco River, and several iron mines. Unfortunately, there was turbulence, so there would be no flyover of  Angel Falls. A short time later, we landed, and I opened my door, jumping down onto the narrow dirt runway. The tour guide then took me by motorized canoe past several smaller, but nonetheless impressive, waterfalls on the way to the camp. I told him there was no way I could afford the three-day Angel Falls tour, but that didn't stop him from trying to sell it by giving me a free preview. 

At the camp, I relaxed in a hammock, complete with very necessary mosquito netting. Then I traipsed through the surrounding wilderness known as Gran Sabana. The trail virtually disappeared within a few hundred feet of the camp, and I found myself surrounded by waist-high grass. In the distance loomed a stunning flat-topped mountain, covered with lush vegetation. It was truly a prehistoric landscape; I would not have been surprised if a dinosaur or two had rumbled past.

I turned back before camp was too far out of sight. Talking with the tour guide about flights south, I was disappointed to learn the only way out was to fly back north to a place called Ciudad Guyana, and from there I could take a bus to Santa Elena on the Brazilian border.

"Backtracking," I grumbled. Oh well, the day spent in such beautiful surroundings had been well worth the trouble, with or without seeing the famous Angel Falls. 

At least the plane to Ciudad Guyana was much larger, and having an actual seat this time was much more comfortable. A lovely flight attendant from Trinidad served us Frescolita, a heavenly concoction tasting somewhere between cream soda and Orange Crush. 

Upon landing, I was faced with the dilemma of how to get to the bus station from the airport. After blowing my budget for the day, I could hardly afford a taxi, so I set out walking. Several minutes later, a car pulled over. "Hey, weren't you on my flight?" called a woman's voice, in a lilting, almost musical accent.

I was delighted to see that lovely flight attendant from Trinidad, and her fiancé. They gladly gave me a ride to the station, where a bus for Santa Elena would be leaving in an hour. 

It was another all-night journey. In the wee hours of the morning, the bus stopped in the middle of nowhere, still roughly 100 miles from the Brazilian border. Was it a rest stop? Everyone was getting off the bus. I looked out the window, still half asleep. To my horror, uniformed men, difficult to tell if they were police or military, were collecting passengers' passports, and lining them up. Maybe it was because I wasn't fully awake; maybe I had seen too many movies. But what I did know, was that I wasn't going to give up my passport and line up willingly. That never ended well. 

I was the only one still in my seat, hunching over my bag as one of the authorities stepped onto the bus, looked at me, and started walking up the aisle towards my seat. I opened my eyes wide, trying to look as young, scared, and innocent as I could; it was my only defense. The man stopped, smiled, and made a beckoning gesture. I was disarmed for a second, then glanced out the window again. There was no panic among the passengers, or even apprehension. I felt silly. I got up and shrugged apologetically,  handing him my passport. Outside, there was a roll call of sorts, and all documentation was returned, as soon as people answered to their names. A checkpoint of sorts, nothing more. In less than two hours, I would be in Brazil.