Wasting away in Margaritaville

Isla Margarita

There is a haze that hangs over Margarita.  There had been no bright blue, cloudless skies radiating the sun’s ultraviolet rays during our stay.  Usually, it was overcast.  Sometimes it seemed difficult to even feel the warmth of the sun, which was strange for a desert isle.  At night especially it was rather cool with the winds from the northeast.  The water was chilled like an artic current.  I dove on the prop one day to clear it of barnacles and algae grass.  The water was so chilling it became difficult to hold my breath for very long.  And several small silver fish swarmed around me like a cloud of locusts.  They were picking off the scraps of algae, plankton, and barnacle that I had scraped off.  I constantly had to swat them away in order to see what I was doing.  They remained fearless, but it had been the only sea life I had seen since arriving.  The one exception being the  dozens of small menacing jellyfish, black in color with stringy red tentacles.

Anyhow, back to the haze hanging over Margarita.  We weren’t aware at how hazy it was until about noon one day.  The skies were still cloudy, but the horizon seemed to clear for the Sunday afternoon.  Off our starboard side running along the entire length of the horizon was the mountainous silhouette of a large land mass.  We were all shocked because it had not been there in the days before.  A quick study of the chart revealed it to be the coast of the Venezuelan mainland.  It had appeared vividly from the cloudy haze like a mirage.  The next day it was gone again.  The mysterious disappearing continent. 

Margarita is an interesting place.  The beachfront where Alyson and I were accustomed to hanging out was like the setting of a Hemingway novel.  The bars were filled with sailors, expats, and hustlers who had all come from far off places, and each with a very different story.  The bay of Porlamar is very much a touristy place, although things definitely seem to be on the economic downturn.  Many restaurants and businesses seemed to be closed and half built condos and skyrises had been left unfinished for several years.  We took the opportunity one morning to hire a taxi to take us to the western side of the island to a place called Chacachacare (pronounced shak-a-sha-kar-ee).  Our intentions were to visit the marina and boatyard located there.  Chacachacare was quite different from the Caribbean beachfronts we had seen so far.  It is very much a desert that sits on an island in the sea.  The mountains loom in the distance over the sandy plains.  Only cactus and other dry shrubs grew here, and I couldn’t help but like it.  It conjured up dreams I have had of driving through desert landscapes, and my brief taxi ride through the deserts of Margarita only reinforced those feelings.

Everything there was very dry.  Not only a desert, but also an island, so the fresh water must have been extremely scarce.  Nearly every casa had large rain barrels to catch water to live on, but with the desert landscape I doubt whether they got nearly enough.  Surely, they must purchase water to be delivered or have it piped in.  Who knows from where.  It made me think of how often I once took water so for granted back home.  It was so easy to turn on a faucet and get an unending supply.  Being on a boat has really taught us about water conservation.  Every drop is precious.  We wash our dishes and sometimes ourselves in salt water.  Even rice and noodles are occasionally cooked with the water from the sea.  I bathe only every 2 or 3 days, which can become quite a long time in the tropic heat, and brushing your teeth with salt water takes some getting used to.  

Boat on the Hard at Chacachacare

The boat yard at Chacachacare was not ideal.  It was about an hour taxi ride from any city location.  There are not many stores surrounding the marina, and none at all within.  It is nearly an open desert on the sea shore and the wind blows the dust so much that it blankets everything.  This gives a very old and run down look to all the boats.  Possibly, it would do as a place for storing your boat for a few months, but definitely not the place to purchase one to fix up.  And be prepared to do some serious cleaning every minute of the day.  We were there for only a couple of hours, so we decided to have some lunch while we waited for our taxi to return.  A gentleman, Venezuelan, lived right across the street from the marina.  For $3.00 a plate we got 2 fillets of fried fish, rice, and a salad.  It was really good.  He prepared the meal in his little cocina and we ate at his kitchen table.  I haven’t had fried fish so good since leaving Alabama.  Driving around Margarita, the villages seem rather poorly, in disrepair, and even dirty.  But in retrospect it is really not so different from the many small towns I have driven through in Alabama.  Towns with empty houses and rusting cars in the yard, abandoned gas stations, and lines of deserted store fronts that echo a past of livelihood.  I suppose ‘Hard Times’ are not discriminate of race, religion, or creed, and ironically change is the only thing constant.

Even though Margarita lacked the natural beauty of Los Testigos, it flourished with the stories of interesting people.  Alyson and I had become regulars at a small, expat hang out on the beach called “Casa Blanca”. Once it had been a restaurant, but has been closed now for nearly a year.  Only the beach bar remains in operation.  There wasn’t a large selection of drinks.  Nearly empty bottles of liquor lined the shelves in front of the mirror behind the bar.  Only a ready supply of Polar, a Venezuelan beer, remained in stock.  Always gravitating towards people our own age, we quickly made friends with the staff of the bar.  It was managed by a friendly Czech named Jan.  Jan had come to Venezuela with a Czechoslavakian arms company, but after they went out of business he took up running the bar.  The economy must really be suffering if arms dealers have trouble staying in business in Venezuela.  He seems to have a good life running the bar now.  He lives on an island, manages a bar, and has a beautiful girlfriend.  His employer pays for his apartment, car, food, and visas.  It seems to be the dream life for a young guy, but I think Jan is growing weary of it and has his mind on returning to colder climates.  “Its nice here, but every day is the same,” he tells me.  It reminds me of the lyrics ‘wasting away again in Margaritaville’.  

The expat bar was filled with a variety of characters, and their stories seemed to give away clues to the seedy underbelly of the lives they led there.  Hustlers and drug dealers.  Men who tried in vain to convince us that they had the connections to procur us anything we may need during our stay.  And of course the silent group of Norwegians who kept to themselves sitting alone at a table in the back, beneath a single sinister bulb as they sipped their whiskey.  There was a French sailor who was notorious for drinking the night away and then complaining about how the staff had inflated his bill.  This usually ended in drunken quarrel between him and Jan, and then him being thrown out.   And also there was Jhon.  Jhon is a Colombian fellow who was so likable that he became our immediate friend.  He was so honest and so genuine it was impossible not to like him.  He must have been one of the only people that came to us without an angle, which was a refreshing change from all the other hustlers and opportunists.  And there were plenty.  He spoke little English so Alyson constantly had to translate between us.  I will definitely need to re-educate myself in Spanish.  Alyson gave me a translation dictionary to study, but half the words weren’t even in English, so I couldn’t read most of it.  

Before leaving Alyson and I were determined to drink a Margarita while in Margarita.  This turned out to be a much more difficult task than we had thought.  The only place with the capabilities to make ‘that frozen concoction‘ was a little place called the ‘Sunset’ near Juan’s Marina.  I think its run by a family of Italians.  Its not a popular place among the cruising crowd who complain of bad service and frequently overpriced meals for gringo customers.  Expect to have your bill calculated to include a “Yankee Tax”.  They were right.  We had two frozen margaritas for 20 Boliviars a piece, which was more than we had spent all week.  We definitely got cheated; although, I suppose we should have expected to pay for being so touristy.  Drinking margaritas in Margarita while watching the sunset at “the Sunset Bar” is very cliche’.

We left Isla Margarita on Wednesday, June 10 at 9:30 am heading westward towards the island of Tortuga.  The passage over was nice.  The boat rocked and heaved with the waves a bit, but not so bad.  The stars do shine brightly at night.  They sparkle like thousands of diamonds against a black velvet backdrop.  Even the sea glitters with the phosphorescent algae that glows so brightly.  At times the two seem to mirror each other.  Each splash of wave against the hull erupts in a vibrant glowing explosion like a fourth of July firework.  Looking between the sky and sea you could easily be disoriented.  I really enjoy my quiet watches when everyone is asleep and its just me at the helm.  We saw dolphins on our trip over while passing the canal between Margarita and her outlying islands.  They swam along with us for several minutes.  They speed along like bullets in the water surfacing briefly before diving below.  A silvery shadow flashing through the water and then diving beneath the boat.  There were several.  Beautiful creatures with dark fins that came breaking over the crests of waves and then revealing those beady winking eyes, the sleek smooth backs and mouths that seem to curl up in little smiles.  They seem to be very happy creatures.