8.40pm, Tuesday May 26, a bar in El Paraiso .....another hopeful man

Tonight S didn't come home and I am tired. I had a hard day and I want beer and conversation. (Now that I've finally found a bar no one wants to serve me. The other bars I've been to had table service. Guess I'll go back inside to the bar...)

So I've come to the bar, ordered a beer, listened to men I don't understand until 'sit down' and a motion towards the chair made at least something clear, and now I'm writing at the bar - how daggy!

Today... After my internet relief I successfully made my way to the colonial art museum only to find it closed. So I attempted to walk a different way back to Belles Artes and got lost. I wandered through San Bernardino, a wealthier neighbourhood of big apartment buildings with barred windows. These residential buildings are cleaner and nicer than in other parts of Caracas.

Women here wear very tight clothes. Jeans mostly, in this weather! I can hardly bear looking at them. T-shirts, tank tops, tight ones, are common on women of all shapes and sizes. Cleavage is mostly bursting out of bras. It is ironic: shorts and short skirts aren't worn but breasts and asses are shown off. Here and in Buenos Aires and Lima mannequins have prominent asses. (I have just had a bar snack set in fron of me - a small plate of deep fried...dough? cornmeal?)

When I finally decided I had no idea how to get back to the subway station I asked a woman to point me there. After talking and pointing to my blank looks, she hailed a bus for me and I got on it. The bus took a circuitous route to the station and when I got off I was very thirsty. I searched around for a drink. Street sellers seem to have everything else when one is dying of thirst (how many people need phone recharge cards?): ice cream, hot dogs, assorted candy and junk. I finally found a Pepsi. It cost $5 bolivars. Then I found the entrance to the dance photography exhibit in the station but was told by a guard that I'm not allowed to drink in the station. So I held my Pepsi and rushed through the exhibit and surrepititiuosly finished it while waiting for the train. The Caracas subway platforms have traffic guides like parking spaces - parallel lines enclosing footprints, three sets per lane. People stand on the footprints and chaos does not reign.

Once back in the centre of Caracas I found the old part of town right away - a massive white governor's mansion, not castleish like Lima's but government-building-like. I tried to go in but was motioned to go back across the street by a guard when I reached the median strip. Instead I went into the cathedral, and I saw more red shirts in Plaza Bolivar. I walked in circles a lot, through shops and markets, trying to find more places to visit, as there is supposed to be much stuff of tourist interest here. All I found was the Bolivar museum and the city library.

While walking I eyed some sweet coconut patties and the woman selling them motioned to me. I asked how much one cost. I thought she said it was $1 bolivar and gave in to her desire to give me one of each colour - white, brown and dark brown. She then asked me for $10 bolivars. I questioned this cost and she said that each one cost $3 bolivars but she insisted on charging me $10 and couldn't figure out what the extra bolivar was for. I emerged from the encounter pissed off because I didn't want to spend that much money - more than my lunch budget. So, one of those highly sweet patties served as my meal. Then I needed to find more hydration...

As I sat in the square feeling sorry for myself, next to tears again, sticky and hot but in fantasy that I love the hot weather, a man came to talk to me, short, a little crooked, buck-toothed and pot-bellied. He didn't speak much English but told me he is a mathematics teacher and that I am beautiful.

I chatted with him for a bit and when I said I was going to the Pantheon and asked him which way ('Donde es Panteon?') he pointed the way...and came with me. He gave me a running commentary on all the generals and other heroes buried in the Panteon, of course almost totally incomprehensible to an English-only speaker. I nodded and looked interested.

El Panteon Nacional is a grand building of tall statues in white stone, resting place of Simon Bolivar's sarcophogas and cemetery for many soldiers, doctors and three women who helped independence. A high-towered white monument, the tomb of Bolivar lays under a gold and blue domed roof, while the rest of the ceiling is covered in bright and chaotic frescoes of Bolivar's life.

I was still keen to see the Biblioteca Nacional de Venezuela, located across from the pantheon, but my new friend was not as energetic as myself. He perched himself upon a wall and mixed himself a whiskey and Coke. After this refreshment, which I did not parktake in, we finally went to the library. Again forgetting that I do not understand Spanish, my mostly incomprehensible guide proudly steered me to a lecture. When after a long 5 or so minutes I answered his question about my enjoyment of said lecture with words to the effect that it was all nonsense to me, we left and walked through an exhibit demonstrating the lack of black faces (the invisible) in advertising and then into a big reading room. My overall impression of the library is that it is huge and cool with a red marble floor.

After we left the library, my didactic acquaintance kept trying to get me to go to the movies with him and telling me I was his friend forever. I told him, several times, that my friend was expecting me home for dinner and that I would tomorrow be leaving for Cumana, his hometown. He walked me to the bus where he finally left me, blowing kisses goodbye. Why do funny-looking older men think young women are going to be interested in them? Even young women like me, who are slightly odd and probably quite decent and kind, pretty enough in a non-intimidating kind of way, do not find anything appealing in such overt and impersonal interest from desperate and lonely men. What are these men thinking? That flattery will get them somewhere? Grow up and get real. I am nice, though, and when this happens to me said old men are nice back - this one bought me a bottle of water and gave me a Spanish women's magazine.

Today put me off travelling. I don't like not speaking the language. At one edifice with a lovely courtyard garden I got talked to as I tried to enter the courtyard but had no idea what the guard was saying, so I just looked on as others entered without hassle. I've lost my chutzpah. Maybe its the heat.

People love their horns in Caracas and traffic lights are often taken as suggestions only. Coming home from the salsa club, young Mr. I drove blithely through red lights in the early hours of the morning, arguing that cars get robbed while waiting at lights. I am annoyed at the breakdown of what is lawless and what isn't in this country: driving is lawless, sitting and drinking in train stations and on Bolivar statues is patrolled.

2.00pm, Tuesday May 26, Biblioteca Municipal de Caracas ....so sad

I am sitting at a wood laminate table in a room with a rust-coloured floor in Caracas city library. It is a depressing library: very few books, all of which seem to be in the fields of math and sciences. There are 11 sets of five-shelved small bookcases on each floor with none of the shelves full. A few people are studying quietly on the different floors but the only cheer is the sun pouring through the library's windows from a courtyard. This courtyard cannot be seen from the windows, only a shingled roof. The entrance hall to the library is a vast square space with a couple of its walls exhibiting photos and information about a farming collective. There are a few small murals of national heroes, but otherwise the hall is empty, with empty balconies holding empty glass-doored wooden bookcases. So sad.

It is another hot day. I am on my own. I took the bus to Capitolio and the subway to Belles Artes in order to use the free internet at the gallery (S's home connection is sporadic). All the computers were in use. Before leaving Paradaiso I walked to the internet place near S but that appeared to have closed down in the last several days - there was black plastic partially covering its sign. I waited for a bit at the museum but no one appeared to be leaving and there was a woman ahead of me, so I decided I was wasting my time. I hadn't been online in ages and was beginning to feel upset because there were some particular emails I wanted to answer. I started to head towards the Museo de Arte Colonial, outside of the city centre and shortly found an internet cafe were I spent a happy hour and a half.

11.00pm, Monday May 25, bed at S's ....jealousy

I suppose it is common to want to be the favourite. I have had this problem forever, from the time I was a little girl and my friends had a best friend who wasn't me. I felt again that pang of jealousy tonight as S showed me photos of past couchsurfers. She talked of on Asian girl who was unafraid to go anywhere on her own and another couchsurfer who wants her to work on an organic farm in Mexico with him. Two Germans are begging her to come to Germany.

To some extent couchsurfing inspires this sort of gratitude for being so well looked after, but obviously one will bond more with some travellers than others. I have to curb my jealousy and remind myself that everyone has their own experience when they travel and my adventures will probably be less social, which suits my nature right now. Like at the salsa club: I like to be the life of the party but I wasn't in the mood to get drunk and I couldn't be effusive because of my lack of language. So I was kind of a nonentity. Why must everyone I meet think I'm awesome?

We went for a walk in El Avila but the day was a bit of a bust. The little town that we had come to see, Galipán, was completely closed, the cable car was also closed and there were no walking tracks on the side of the mountain we were on. On our way back down the hill following our long por puesto trip up the hill, we walked past a couple of open refreshment stands, little wooden huts with bags of cookies, fresh strawberries and other sweet things. I bought a cup of fresh strawberry juice. I had to put sugar in it.

S, A and I made our way down the steep road but A began complaining that she was tired ('cansado') almost immediately. She would come to a halt, bend her knees, put her hands to her groin and say 'no puedo mas' (I can't do more). We let her cry and whine for a while as we kept forcing her to walk with us, but truth be told my knees were vibrating with the effort of keeping myself upright while walking down such a steep hill so I was not unhappy when S flagged down a car. As it turned out, this car that stopped for us contained a very handsome 35-year-old man. S dug him too but stopped just short of asking him for his phone number.

I was surprised how many people live up this mountain given its steep climb or descent from or to the nearest urban area. However, people do live up here, including our sexy driver, and they grow strawberries.

S was due to leave for work around 2.00pm, so after she made us more arepas and was on her way I had a nap for a couple of hours, played with A and had a night in. We made soup with vegetables - yucca, taro, celery root and potato - bought on the way home from a big, dark, indoor market with fruit that looked decidedly homegrown. We also threw zucchini and onion into the mix. S says making soup with a whole bunch of random vegetables is traditional Venezuelan hangover food, though it normally would also have meat thrown in as well.

S's dad came up with a good way for me to exchange money: he will give me bolivars for $50 of my dollars and write me two checks for $800 and $700 bolivars, respectively, ($250 US) so I don't carry around thousands of bolivars at a time. I can go into a bank with my passport and cash the checks.

3:35pm, Monday May 25, in bed at S's ....I eat well

Arepas, black beans, white cheese and guacamole for lunch. I eat so well on this trip! My bowels seem fine today but I woke up this morning with a sore throat.

On Saturday afternoon I slept until 2.30pm. S awoke a couple of hours later and for lunch I made what was supposed to be an omelette but turned out to be a mess of too many vegetables and not enough egg. Despite its inability to remain in patty form, the mess tasted nice. By the time we had eaten, showered, used the internet, played with A, it was evening. S was too tired to go to a couchsurfer's birthday party across town so we decided to go to the movies with A. I was to see Star Trek and S and A were to see Coraline. However, the movies were on too late so we ate gelato (nice, but not as nice as my favourite Elgin St gelato) and bought A a DVD, which Venezuelans buy pirated rather than renting because renting is more expensive. The gelato was more expensive ($15 bolivars) than the movie ($10 bolivars), which made me laugh. Monday is cheap night at the movies but still... S keeps telling me that food is expensive in Venezuela.

At home, S made A and I popcorn and guacamole and we talked while A watched 101 Dalmations in black and white. I played with A - tickling - until she went to bed and S and I watched Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, cranking the sound above the party below.

Yesterday, S and I went to El Hatillo, a cute little town on the outskirts of greater Caracas. S worked in the morning and by the time we had a lunch of sauteed eggplant and tomato, which I made (eggplant a little undercooked but the dish was still tasty), and cauliflower lasagna with three-cheese sauce that S made, and finished discussing politics with F, it was already 2.30pm.

When S talked of Venezuela's Catholicism - and F considers the Church to be very much aligned with Chavez's rich enemies - I asked her about teenage pregnancy and STD rates. She said AIDS mostly occured among prostitutes but young mothers are more common. She explained that in the barrios girls are so economically and physically vulnerable that they get together with men at ages as young as 9 - and sex is how they keep the men. Condoms are expensive even if desired so girls have many babies. S said the government is working on getting birth control messages and opportunities to the people.

F says that 25 families own all of the non-oil business in Venezuela and the government is having trouble regulating prices because these families scream 'dictator' every time he tries. Chavez cannot say anything against them. As for the censorship issues in terms of television, F wasn't having any of it. He says Radio Caracas Television's contract wasn't renewed when the contract came up for renegotiation because it is owned by one of Venezuela's richest families, who used the station to spread their own propaganda (and helped in the coup attempt). When people were having trouble finding meat in the supermarkets, F says, it was because the owners of the meat industry refused to sell it in an attempt to bring down the government. But now Chavez wants to communise unused farms by expropriating them from their very wealthy owners. These farms no longer produce much but are held for holiday usage or just to be able to sell off later. Chavez wants to turn them back into working farms owned by collectives.

As S and I were finally leaving for El Hatillo a gust of wind took the front door from my hand and slammed it shut. It could not be reopened. It took us an hour and help and tools from the neighbours to reopen the door. F cut his finger and S finally opened the door with a sledgehammer. Luckily the neighbours had an old doorknob and lock set that F could use until he bought a new one.

The busride to Caracas's outskirts took S and I to El Hatillo's main square. A group of young people in colourful costumes - flowered long dresses and clashing headscarves - indicated to me that I had missed a traditional dance performance. Despite this, I was in time to see my first red-shirted Chavistas, over which I was insanely excited. The people who love and work for their government! The red of Chavez. Previously seen only on television, they were now before me in reality.

El Hatillo's houses are brightly-coloured rendered stone with round-tiled roofs, mostly now restaurants and shops selling jewellery, bags, tourist statues and knicknacks. S and I went into one huge shop selling native objects and everything else a tourist could want (except for postcards of El Hatillo). Popular in Venezuela are statues of big-breasted women in colourful dresses. The multi-roomed shop also contained a cafe where I availed myself of the men's restroom, which is not done in Venezuela. Unfortunately, I ran out of photos on my disposable camera, so no images of my own, but here is one from someone else's blog:

(www.venezuelatuya.com/902/img/7319307305.jpg&imgrefurl=)

In El Hatillo I sampled a delicious drink called chicha, which is like liquid rice pudding - it is a fermented rice drink with sweetened condensed milk, though S says it is found in corn and barley varieties as well.

Tonight F was excited over a news report that 24 laundered Toyotas were found at a residence of Guillermo Zuloaga, president of television station Globovision and one of Chavez's main enemies. F said that the anti-Chavez forces will make it appear as if Chavez is trying to shut the television station down, ignoring the fact that the director is engaged in illegal activity.

The national dish of Venezuela is rice, black beans, fried plantain, avocado and ground meat. My kind of country! Also, Caracas smells nice, especially compared to the auto-fumed Buenos Aires and Lima. Caracas has a lot of trees that smell sweet or spicy in the humidity of the valleys. It is lovely.

S and I were so tired yesterday that we went to bed around 8.30pm. We were to get up early to hike in the mountainous El Avila national park. I woke at 7.00am this morning, well, earlier, but didn't get out of bed until 7. I threw on my shorts and t-shirt, grabbed a hunk of bread and S, A and I were out the door. We took a bus to a poor neighbourhood of old houses in the hills, some colourful, some not, and waited a long time for the driver of the por puesto that would take us up the mountain to decide to leave. He said he was waiting for more passengers, but he lost some to other trucks going up the mountain until there were only seven of us. The ride cost $12 bolivars a person. It was a bumpy, view-riddled ride up the mountain. The forest itself is rather ordinary compared to Australia and New Zealand but the views of Caracas in the valley below are awesome. Caracas has spots of tall buildings centrally and then spreads out in drips of low-lying city along the valley floor. The ride up the mountain was like in a travel show - precarious turns, windy cobblestoned (!!) road - but it wasn't so close to the edge as all that.

Sunday, May 24, 9.37am ....still tired

As S, A and I left the national gallery I was feeling tired and dodgy and all I wanted in the world was to go home, but I didn't say so. It is amazing how much tiredness can feel like illness.

Still in Caracas's arts precinct, we stopped in one of the government-subsidised bookshops, Fundacion Librarias del Sur, where books are sold at cheap prices and the independent writings of Venezuelans published and sold. Nationalised books: how wonderful! After buying a children's book for A, S and I stopped in a bar for beer. A was radiant over her Coke and her mother's new lighter with blue and red blinking lights and a flashlight. I began to feel better at the pub, and then we made our way back to S's to prepare for our night out, beginning at M's house for rum and Cokes and then to a long-popular salsa bar.

It took S and I much too long to get to M's apartment. We arrived as per normal at Capitolo station and hopped on a train going only one stop. Why wait now when we can sit in airconditioning for a spell and wait later? However, when we got off the train we smelt the terrible smell of burning rubber. Then we saw smoke emanating from the back of the train and conductors running towards it. Those of us waiting for the next train, hoping they'd move the burning train along, were ushered out of the platform by security, who told us the smell was dangerous and train line would be closed for a while. S wasn't sure how to get to M's now and asked a fireman outside how to get where we needed to go. His instructions involved two buses and then back on the train farther down the line. By the time we got back to the train, the line was running again. I think it took us an hour and a half to get to M's.

M, also a couchsurfer, is a pretty, fiery Mexican gal with a big personality and a foul mouth. She is great. She lives on her own in an apartment very different to S's: darker, with smaller rooms. The living room is a homey space with bookshelves on the far end below the windows, artworks, a liquor cabinet, flat green carpeting, big couch along the wall. I only drank one rum and Coke while talking sex with the gals and had a few tokes from a joint once I arrived in his off-white camping trousers, cream polyester shirt, red tie with 'stop Bush' pin, round blue-glassed Lennon sunglasses and gentleman's hat. A good-looking, young 30-year-old with a great capacity for chatter, smiles and the swivelling knees of a great salsa dancer.

We left for the club in I's car around 1.30am, arriving at a steamy, brightly-coloured bar full up of dancing couples, with deep sky-blue and red walls, old and famous, with a live salsa band in the back room. Three men asked me to dance. The one who held me way too close was the easiest to salsa with because I had no room to move wrongly. I was less adept with the men who held me at an appropriate distance, but I got the basic idea as I have salsaed before - years and years ago in Bristol. All three men spoke some English so I was able to talk while dancing. One man hung around our table after we danced and he danced with S as well. I never asked me to dance.

I admit that as the night wore on and young Mr. I got drunker and drunker, coming on to M in a most annoying manner, and with everyone talking in Spanish and S often off dancing, I got a little bored. I only drank one Guarana-flavoured vodka drink. Also, I'm watching I, our ride, get drunker and drunker, to the point at which I did not relish the idea of getting into a car with him. I didn't want to get in a car with him when we left M's place, but I admit that when he backed down a curvy narrow street parked with cars on both sides quickly and perfectly despite the rums on ice and the joint, I was impressed. Apparently, I is a pilot.

S said that driving drunk in Venezuela is normal and the only accidents result from rain and driving on curbs to get out of traffic, but not alcohol. I would never accept a refusal to get in his car, it's just not done. So I got in the car. This, for me, was the scariest thing I have encountered in South America so far. It is possibly an interesting question to explore whether drunk driving is only a cultural difference rather than a policy difference with measurable consequences.

In any case, we arrived at a restaurant safe and sound around 5.00 in the morning (I closed my eyes while I negotiated the narrow roads decorated with parked cars) and I ate a cachapa con queso, a sweet corn pancake stuffed with white cheese. It was delicious. However, the waiters were rude to us because M and Mr. I asked for more menus. S explained that customer service is terrible in Venezuela. But we WERE loud. Well, M and Mr. I, still drunk, were loud. S and I were ready for bed. A gentlemen at a nearby table attempted to pick a fight with a most willing I but the gals, annoyed, cajoled I out of rising to the bait. I would have left and let him fight. Why is it women's job to keep drunken idiots from fighting in restaurants?

Saturday, May 23, 10.00pm, S's dining table ....the kiss of a child

A is such an expressive lovely child. She likes to curl her fingers , wave her arms and growl like an angry tiger. She is very good at it. She often plays with her face, making her eyes big, and hopping. She thinks arepas and black beans are as good as chocolate. I am almost in agreement with her. She's extremely well-behaved and when she cries it is brief and quiet. We have taken to each other and she grabs my hand when we walk, pulls me to play when I can't understand her Spanish and tonight gave me a kiss goodnight.



12.30ish am ....the world's most amazing party

The world's most amazing party is going on downstairs, outside, enveloping the whole neighbourhood. These Caracenos must be used to noise. There is always traffic noise, dogs barking, crickets and now what sounds like live music with sing-along. I canot express how loud it is - not in a sheer decible way but in the clarity and breadth of the sound. And I have my earplugs in.... I don't see how I'm going to sleep tonight.

I've just finished watching Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - the Tim Burton version. It is wonderful - this crazy mishmash of movies styles, from English 1970s teleseries to 1980s perkiness to Burton's own classic fantastical scenes.

I'm already mosquito bitten and have the lightest touch of diarrhea. It has been a slow day recovering from the excess of last night. (The macarena is playing now). But last night is yet to come. I have left S, A and I eating arepas near Plaza Venezuela...

After satiating ourselves on arepas and fruit juice (mine was freshly squeezed passionfruit juice), S, A and I made our way back onto the subway to get to the Museo de Bellas Artes. We walked through its green and stone-pathed park with statues, sculptures and a waterless fountain, with works made by famous Venezuelan artists. A insisted on carrying a magazine with her as we walked but tried to get her mother to hold it for her. S refused. A rolled the magazine up and stuck it in her pants.


(Jardin Belles Artes)

The museum displayed contemporary art and had a great exhibit of Gego's (Gertrude Goldschmidt) wire sculptures, some hanging from the ceiling in sprawling shapes formed from gridwork. One work was a room full of such shapes - covering the walls like ivy and dropping from the ceiling. You could look into the room from doors on either side. There was also an exhibition on military dictator Cipriano Castro, showing photos and artefacts from his ruling years in the first years of the 1900s.

A got upset for the first time since I've been here. She wanted to go to the science museum, which she loves. She was bored and tired from all the art S and I inflicted upon her. One work consisting of yellow plastic tubes hanging in a big square cheered her up. She and I played in the tubes, me hunting her while tangling myself up. It was a great hands-on piece of art.

(tube play)

After leaving the fine arts museum we headed to a new home for some of the Galeria de Arte Nacional collection, but much of the grand old building was empty. We saw only a collection of religious art by famous Italian and Spanish painters.

Finally we ended up at the Museo de Arte Contemporaneo, which A was not happy about. We didn't have much time before closing so only was able to view the Oscar Niemeyer exhibit. This modernist architect designed the museum and many galleries and buildings in Brazilia and other Latin American cities. Most of his work is quite dated and, to me, ugly (functional 1950s-1970s structures) but several museums were designed to look rather like spaceships. These buildings are cool, at least in the photographs. We finished up at the museum in the kid's area, scrawling on a wall-length whiteboard and making sculptures out of large thin black and white foam grooved and curved shapes. This took some skill. It was hard to get the shapes to balance one I began fitting them together. Clearly I am not a sculptor.

Saturday, May 23, 5.00pm, S's livingroom ....this couchsurfing thing

I have been playing tickle and growl with A, S's daughter. It is great to hear a child laugh. I remember how much I loved being tickled when I was a kid. Now I find it scary - I am insanely ticklish.

Yesterday was a big day. I made my way to the botanic gardens with S's written instructions: a bus to the metro, then a transfer, then a walk through the university. However, she misremembered the correct line to Ciudad Universidad and I spent a good deal of time confusedly looking for the line before I figured out I was trying to find the wrong one. By the time I got to the gardens I only had about an hour and half to spare before having to head back to meet S and A.

I was starving by the time I left the garden, running late and anxiously hurrying back to Belles Artes - and it turned out I had half an hour to wait for S and A because my clock was off. Good thing she called me when she was leaving work...

So I decided to experiment with purchasing food and drink in Caracas. I walked into one panaderia (bakery) with a self-service sign and a change (caja) register but couldn't figure out whether I order first at the counter or pay first at the register, so walked out to find a place with a more straightforward shop and pay system. I ended up with a Coke Zero from a street vendor.

While waiting in the Metro station for S and A I saw there was an art exhibit showing photographs of ballet dancers, but I couldn't figure out how to get into the gallery - the doors seemed to be locked. I sat down on a low hump surrounding the glass gallery walls, reading Auster, but a guard made me get up. I dislike countries that don't believe in benches and don't let you sit on the floor. I began to get into feeling-sorry-for-myself mode, but fought it off with The New York Trilogy, which I kept reading while standing.

When S and I finally found each other we were both muy hambre (very hungry, though I prefer 'starving') so went into an arepa place near the station. We had the most beautiful arepas - grilled cornflour cakes, which taste a lot like polenta, split open and stuffed. Ever since reading Lisa St Aubin de Teran's memoir, The Hacienda, of her years living as the doña of a Venezuelan estate, which I read before leaving for my South American adventure, I have wanted to try arepas. She wrote about learning to make this national staple that all Venezuelan women are supposed to know how to make perfectly. My arepa was stuffed with mayonnaise-covered quail eggs and a square of fresh mozzarella-like cheese and was delicious. S and I shared the avocado, garlic and chilli sauces served with the arepas, dribbling them over our arepas after every couple of bites. It was heaven after my food-starved morning.

Friday, May 22, 1.05pm, Caracas Jardin Botanico ....new food

I have seen an electric blue butterfly, a couple of small lizards, and a brown bird the size of a hummingbird, i.e. bug-sized and narrow. The Caracas botanic garden has a cactus pebble garden, a fernery, paths through a wooded hill, a bromeliad house and an orchid house. But no cafe, which is what I really need. I had two pieces of bread this morning, one smeared with a bit of mayonnaise. Now I am feeling low blood sugary - tired and lethargic. I am due to meet S at the Belles Artes subway station at 2.00pm.

There is something about the way stalls and shops are set up in Caracas that does not make me want to buy anything, even food and drink. Maybe they are too chaotic, maybe it is a bit unclear about what exactly is each stall or shop's main product, what will be cheap, what will be overpriced.

Yesterday I went to the laundromat, dawdling around a few streets of El Paraiso while I waited for my clothes to be washed. There were some large houses, cracked and puckered sidewalks, many gates. A load of clean, fresh-smelling clothes made me very happy.

Before heading off to work, S came to the bank with me and we managed to get money from my Travellex card after a long time of watching the bank clerk type, converse and make phone calls. My photo was taken but not my thumbprint, standard security measures in Venezuelan banks. I ended up with $500 bolivars. Hopefully the rest of the money I require will end up in my hands for black market rates.

I asked S about the ethics of cheating the country of money by participating in black market exchange. She said another way to look at the black market is as a way for poor Venezuelans to make some money. American dollars are valuable and people can sell dollars at a higher rate than they buy them for.

S's father, F, who lived in Canada for a time, talked to me about Chavez. He didn't vote for Chavez in the beginning because Chavez's military uniform and arms made him appear to be a military dictator. S's dad hadn't voted in 25 years but when Chavez ran again, F voted for him and has voted for him ever since because the poor believe in Chavez's sincerity. He doesn't think Chavez's bluntness, however, is helpful: Chavez says the truth but is mean and undiplomatic about it. F sees this as a time of change for Venezuela and hopes that Chavez will succeed in his socialist revolution. He does think that things have gotten better in Venezuela for poor people.

Yesterday evening S and I went to the movies. We saw 'Wolverine'. Not my first choice (I wanted to see Star Trek but S wasn't game), but it was only $10 bolivars ($6 AUS) - cheap for me. The screen was huge and the movie a bit entertaining, though it didn't make a lot of sense. While waiting for the movie to begin, we drank beer in a bar that looked like a simple big room filled with plastic tables and sports paraphernalia. There were horse races on the wall television and only one other table of women.

maybe 8.23am, Thursday May 21, on S's couch ....shining hills

I am in Caracas!

I look out S's living-room window to what last night was a hill sparkling with light dots but this morning is a hill of wood and tin shacks. S, my Caracas couchsurfing host, said the hill is supposed to be protected land, but the vegetation looks weedy and new-growth to my eyes.

One of my big travel fears has been realised: I haven't been able to take money out of an ATM - it wants an ID#. I tried the first and last digits of my passport as asked but to no avail. I have$470 in US dollars but most of my money is on the Travellex card that is supposed to work anywhere.

Another couchsurfer, H, picked me up from the airport and I was so glad for it. He will move to Melbourne later this year. The poor boy was at the airport for so many hours. He thought there would be traffic so prepared for a long trip. But the roads were clear and he arrived at the airport in only 20 minutes, at 3.00pm. My flight was due at 5.00pm. It arrived on time but immigration took an hour. Venezuelan immigration is like American immigration, all long lines and persistent questions. Peru and Argentina had hardly any lines but in Caracas they question people, holding things up, though not me. I glided through without incident.

H and I spent a half hour trying to get money out of the ATM machine, having trouble even inserting the card properly. We finally gave up and went to the city, where H thought I'd have better luck. Now, there was traffic.

The ATM in the city did not work with my card either and H, with a mother in the hospital and by this time quite tired and frustrated, I think, called S to get directions and, I found out later from S, ask her if she could come pick me up. S does not have a car. I got myself in a taxi, with no money, and H gave the taxi driver directions. S paid $40 bolivars for my taxi ride, beautiful woman, so I have to get money today and pay her back.

S just said that the 'ranchos', the hillside shacks, glitter due to stolen electricity from the surrounding apartment buildings, their residents paying for the barrio's light.

12:00pm, Wednesday May 20, airport cafe ....leaving Peru badly

Finally my brain worked this morning. My pen ran out in the cafe last night and I'm desperate to write. I was going to despair for the third time this morning but then I remembered my date book came with a small little pencil.

I had a really wonderful stay in Peru. I am leaving utterly ungracefully. A series of little issues:

1. When the clerk in the hostel called the bank for me regarding my eaten ATM card, she relayed the recorded message she was listening to, that my only option is to cancel my card. Another new card makes my third this year. I've had this last one for less than a month! I think maybe there is a $10 card replacement fee.

2. Upon check-out my hostel bill came to $104 solars, more than I expected, more than what the internet site I booked through said it would cost and more than the type of room I actually booked. I had only taken $100 solars out at the ATM and still needed around $30 for a cab to the airport. Of course the hostel doesn't take credit cards so that's another $3.85 in Cashpassport withdrawal fee down the drain.

3. Worst of all: when I get to immigration at the airport I realise I had forgotten about the exit card I filled in upon arrival. I've been carrying this slip of paper with me in the pocket of my red bag. Of course now that I need it it isn't there anymore and I can't think where I've put it. I had a hopeless dig through my bag, knowing all the while it wouldn't be there, and then went back to the immigration officer and said 'No puedo helgadia', which I think means 'I can't find' - but he only understood my English. In the end losing my exit card wasn't a big deal; I simply had to pay another $15 solars, which I had on me. But here's the stupid part: as I was walking away to the gate, I remembered that I had put the card in my belly pouch. Sure enough, when I checked there it was, safe and sound. $15 solars wasted.

I am having another 'triple' sandwich at the airport. I have just eaten the little blue cheese and cucumber sandwich I brought - consoling myself - but I figure I should spend the last of my Peruvian change, so I eat again.

I get so upset about what are really small amounts of money. I hate it. I had a nice stay at Pirwa hostel and instead of leaving with thanks and a smile, I left aggrieved and scowling, which is wrong. It wasn't as expensive as I thought in the moment (around $15 AUS per night) when I actually did the math: $27 solars per night is $12 AUS, which is a perfectly reasonable price. My emotional relaxation due to this recalculation indicates that $3 makes a bloody difference to me!

What bothers me is that I waste money due to my own stupidity - so, not only the loss of money but my lack of sense. And now it turns out that the fucking prices here at the cafe are in dollars and not solars! Arrgggh. So I pay in dollars and give my $9 solars to the waitress. I hate this. Next time I travel to only one country so I only go through all this once!

9.02pm, Tuesday May 19, KSA Tomada ....such a lovely afternoon

I have spent the most enjoyable afternoon with G, a couchsurfer I arranged to meet with at Larcomar, the shopping plaza on the sea in Miraflores. We sat in a restaraunt called Mango and ate dessert while looking out at the ocean's fog. I had something pudding-like, apparently fruit-flavoured though it tasted more lke cheesecake, and a lukewarm cafe au lait. I was given a coffee cup and three mini pitchers, one of espresso, one of water, one of milk. Gratifying to play with but I prefer my coffee hot.

G is a handsome and lovely, open, intelligent and interesting professor and artist. I talked and talked to him. We spoke of movies and plays and my thesis and working. I did not talk about my zits or my weight. That's what happens when I am with a male. I control myself in order to make a confident impression. That's not to say I wasn't painfully aware of my zits or my unflattering black shorts the entire time. I wore them because I was pretending it was a hot day and I didn't want my vanity/insecurity to determine my clothes. We talked a bit about the experience of growing up under communism and then major upheavals of government.

We also talked about existing on the fringe of the arts world, which for him is a choice, for me a lack of personality. While he craves obscurity despite his many successes in the arts industry, I crave fame and would be fine with hanging out in the art-power circles if they'd have me in all my existential unmaskedness.

G has lived in Vancouer and Boston but loves Lima and Peru. We talked so much that the fog cleared and the ocean lay steely blue beyond us.

G drove me to Baranco, the city's old bohemian quarter overlooking the sea, where some painters and sculptors still live and now home to popular clubs. We walked along a wide cobbled path between old summer sea houses and looked out at the ocean. It was a beautiful warm moment of the night, the sun setting a light pink band across the horizon in a lightly but evenly clouded sky. I could have stayed there forever.

We drove on for another view of the sea and then went below the major highway where the city has recently installed large sculptures, several fountains and a footbridge. This little public area appeared to be in the middle of nowhere but it is where people cross to go to the beach and there were rows of closed beachside stalls, wooden white with slatted sides.

G's love of his country is inspiring - as was W's fondness for her city - and I wish that I was staying in Peru longer. I hope to keep in touch with G and meet him again soon.

I am now back in the bookshop for a second round of triple sandwich and beer. The sandwich was less perfect than Monday night's but still just what I wanted.

Earlier this evening I stupidly entered my pin number incorrectly three times in an ATM machine and it ate my card. Stupid!

I should go before it gets to late.

1.04pm, Pirwa hostel rooftop bar ....tamale goodness

I have taken a photo of my meal: a tamale, passionfruit, carambola and a blue cheese and cucumber sandwich - a feast fit for a queen!

On the way back from the gallery I walked the wrong way up Chiclayo. I passed a chocolate shop and when I turned around to go back the other way I decided I was MEANT to get chocolate, especially since I promised Solita I would sample chocolate on her behalf. I bought two dark truffles, one with coconut and one with caramel inside. Very good and only $3 solars.

The tamale is also very good. I found one piece of chicken in it, but it was easily cast aside.

A turtle's head is very phallic, the neck all wrinkly and growing. (There is a pet turtle up here at the hostel.)