The route from Ciudad Bolivar to the Morrocoy National Park passed by a 12-hour coach trip to Valencia and then we had to get on a local bus until we reached Chichiriviche. The itinerary began at 7 pm but we did not leave until 8:30. We spent a few hours at the Ciudad Bolivar terminal and took the opportunity to eat dogs, fruits.
We met a nice Portuguese who ran a bar at the end of the terminal. He told us that he had been living in Ciudad Bolivar for more than 20 years, we talked for a while about the situation in Venezuela and he told us about his saudade when we talk about the green Porto, fados and the excellent dish of bacalhau that was zamp for Christmas -a dish very difficult to find in Venezuela, he told us-.
We prepare a handbag before getting on the coach. As in most South American countries, coaches usually have a single position in air conditioners: ON or OFF. That is, either you peel yourself from cold or you heat yourself. So we prepared jackets and warm clothes for a trip that seemed more typical of Swedish Lapland than of a Caribbean country.
We arrive around 8 in the morning at the bus terminal in Valencia. When picking up the backpacks we met two German backpackers with the same destination in mind and joined together to find information about the buses that were going to Chichiriviche from Valencia.
The buses to Tucacas - curious name - and Chichiriviche - a name that does not lag behind the previous one - leave from the same platform and the ticket is paid once you get on the car. They were the Christmas parties and apparently they had raised the price by surprise. The first coach to arrive was that of Tucacas and the people after getting up and finding out about the price were outraged and a revolution formed. Finally, they all got off the bus and the driver would not give up his boldness so he left the parking lot empty.
From here we started a fun discussion and I was glad to observe that in Venezuela nobody gets rid of the scam and the high prices are not unique heritage of the four backpackers who were walking through the Valencia station but of the standing people who live day after day This unstable situation. Undoubtedly, these conversations are the ones you have with more affection when you travel.
After half an hour of waiting the bus arrived in the direction of Chichiriviche and we got on it. Backpacks on the floor and some on the legs. There was no choice. The controller warned that the price had risen because someone said that one Jesus was born a couple of centuries ago on those same dates and people began to be outraged. The usual price from Valencia to Chichiriviche is 35 bolivars and in that case they asked us for 50. As the people did not start a revolution on this occasion, we paid just like the others.
Only one person refused to pay the spontaneous price increase and was precisely a nice gentleman who was next to me. The man offered him the 35 fair bolivars and clearly told him that he was not going to give him one more bolívar for the same service they provided day after day. The controller signed the defeat and my companion, whose face resembled the adorable Gabriel Garcia Marquez, he drew a smile of triumph on his face.
After a couple of hours we reach Chichiriviche. The road from Valencia goes to the Caribbean coast and borders the long coastline of the Morrocoy National Park.
Inside the bus to Chichiriviche. In the last row as in the old days