It was a 14hr journey from Pablo's Medellin to the the Colombian border town of Cucutta, deep into the unadvised travel "red zone". We arrived around 7am, and I was tripping over my bags from the double drop of Valium I'd prescribed to sleep through the buses Antarctic aircon. On the flip side, it made the sketchy town feel like a more friendly place and had less to worry about whilst we casually exchanged money on the black market, converting the equivalent of around $15,000 US. With an inflation rate of an estimated 300%, Venezuelas desperate economy had made it's people desperate for the stable dollar. As a result, many people were now willing to exchange their crippled Bolivares for around 15x the official rate of 6-1 (95-1). Facilitated through a street dealer shouting "CAMBIO!!" our disposable income was sorted, and we were immediately flung into the top 1% of Venezuelan aristocratic society. The next stop was to get into Venezuela through one of its most dangerous cities (San Cristobal) and catch a bus to meet the lightning man.
He may have had an unmarked cab, but he had a nice face, so we grabbed the 1st taxi man who confronted us. In broken Spanish we agreed for him to take us through the border and all the way to Cristobal, around a 2hr journey.
Expecting Fort Knox, or at least a cavity search, we passed through South Americas most dangerous border crossing. It was also one of its easiest; a surprise considering we were traveling from the heralded cociane Capital. Going through immigration was optional. Nothing to declare, because nowhere to declare it. The only real security check we encountered was a fresh faced kid in an army uniform glimpsing at our passport photo from a motorway tollbooth.
Checking into El Vigias finest 4* hotel brought the first real smile to our haggard faces, as we all coughed up an extortionate $6 for the night. The 5 of us, all Brits minus a Kiwi, had been traveling South America separately for between 3-6 months, usually paying almost double that in an attempt to sleep in the top bunk of a dingy 12 bed dorm. The stories we heard were true. We ended the day with a sublime $3.50 steak, washed down with $1 cocktails, and someone dropping the line "at this price, it's worth the risk of being kidnapped".
Alan Highton, a Barbadian expat and local meteorological expert picked us up in the morning. His jeep was accompanied by 300 oranges strapped to the roof. "That's your dinner for the next few nights".
Venezuela is renowned for its food, medicine and toilet paper shortages, so I couldn't be sure if this was a joke. I'd have kicked up a fuss, but I'd ran out of South Americas most reliable source of nutrition in Bolivia (Berocca), and braced myself for a well needed vitamin C diet. The only concern being they were green.
We had all initially come here to see one thing; a glimpse at the most impressive yet almost unheard of Wonder of the World and Alan was our guide. "You're the first gringos we've seen here in months". He looked like a gringo himself, which was reassuring. Turned out he'd been living here for around 15 years after meeting his own Mrs Venezuela.
A stop was made on the way to the jungle jetty for mossie spray and rum, which grabbed the attention of a few locals. He dealt with the more curious ones by planting crumpled notes in their hands, and they wandered off. 2 hours later we reached a small fishing town where we loaded the lawnmower-engined boat with green oranges and beer. Polar Lights were the only cervezas on sale and would be our first taste of a nationalised monopoly.
Heckled by howler monkeys we made our through a mangrove river and into the entrance of what would be South Americas biggest lake, the Maricaibo. The title swept away by it's mouth with the Caribbean. It's other uniqueness includes being surrounded either side by the Andes, where its spine ends and splits in two. We didn't come here for this, but both apparently have a big part to play in it.
Our home for the next couple of nights came in the form of a hut on waterstilts, suspended over the edge of the lake. On arrival Alan pulled out a goodie bag filled with meteorological diagrams, maps, and a Guiness World Record Certificate he and his friend had received recently:
Alan tried to explain his theory on the how's, and why there is one spot in the lake that regularly attracts a mere 300 bolts of lightning. Per minute. Apparently nobody really knows the reason, and we weren't that much closer to finding out after his explanation. What was more of a mystery was how shockingly few people knew about this place. Probably because Lonely Planet's "Top 15 of South America" considers a fruit market near Quito more interesting than seeing 5 bolts a second in an area the size of (something that is 1 square km).
Almost just as interesting, he also told us Brian Cox had come for a visit last year, and had made his film crew sleep outside in hammocks.
The first night was a flop. Not in my eyes, as we'd had a fish supper. Catatumbo's potential was only made itself visible from the horizon. Nonetheless, still impressive. The second night was a completely different story. Alan banged on our door at 10.30pm to wake us up, "Shows on!". Polars in hand, we took our front row plastic garden seats.
If I'd dropped acid that night, I might have thought the US were getting revenge for Chavez nationalising The Hilton, and were carpet bombing Venezuela. At first you couldn't hear anything, just silent flashes and forks covering the lake in front. That didn't last long, as bout 45 minutes later the winds changed and the storm came right for us.
We agreed it was time to retreat to cover after Dean had been blown off his garden chair by the hot and now gale force winds. Alan was also screaming something at us from the hut, and a lightning bolt had hit a conducting rod no less than 100 meters from us.
We didn't need a torch to get back; it was practically daylight. Lucky thing none of us had epilepsy... "Put your shoes on, now!!", "I think we're gonna get hit!". The thin plastic sole would be our main line of defence if we were. Thinking we were safe, one of the local bright sparks realised his little fishing boat was still afloat in the lake and that it probably wouldn't be in the morning if remained there. Unable to on their own we were unwillingly called up, and a new Guiness World Record was set for shoring a boat.
By the time we were back undercover the storm was above us. Strobe lighting revealing large tears in the metal sheet roof from previous beatings, water pissing out of them. One of the neighbouring huts took another hit.
Alan estimated it was around a category 1 cyclone, about an hour later after it had passed. "I'd give that show a 7/10", said slightly smugly, "only about 200 bolts per minute". It was still going on, just at a much safer distance. I filmed this:
iPhones can now stream porn in the Amazon, and maybe even get you laid with the indigenous through tinder; but they can't film a lightning storm. Refusing to capture the more distant flashes, it would only pick up about a quarter of the action. So I emphasise this doesn't do it justice.
Alan dropped us off in Merdia the next day, and a new plan was devised. Originally we were to spend just 4 days in Venezuela and get the hell out. But it had won us over. As I'm writing this I almost wish I had left then, because now I'm stuck here. 5 weeks later, down to my last dollar, and trying to trade my iPod to a fisherman who can take me to Trinidad, my safest way out.
