Early two Saturdays ago, Eric and I boarded the bus for Maracaibo. (Daniel left later in the day for Guasdualito). It was a fourteen hour ride and ten o’clock when we arrived and were picked up by our hosts.
The length of our journey underscores the historic isolation of Maracaibo from the rest of the country, as it is on the west coast of the huge Lake Maracaibo. Indeed, with its sprawling geography, slower pace, heavy sun and dry, dusty terrain, the city does feel far from Caracas. As advertised, Maracaibo is hot: daytime temperatures are consistently in the mid-thirties with a fair amount of humidity. Contrary to my expectations, however, pretty much everything is air conditioned. But this does not stop all the locals from asking us, somewhat eagerly, with the same kind of idiosyncratic pride that some Canadians display at their cold winters, how we are handling the heat: a standard refrain to which we have learned simply to smile and nod politely.
