Sierra Nevada by saddle
An equestrian expedition crosses the Venezuelan Andes on a trail blazed by Spanish conquistadors in their quest for the mythical El Dorado
By MARK EVELEIGH Special to The Globe and Mail Saturday, May 3, 2003 - Page T5 MERIDA, VENEZUELA -- The Caribbean trade winds having chilled in their run up the steep Andean slopes, we spurred our horses onward in an effort to get to shelter before nightfall. Though palm-fringed beaches lay only 160 kilometres to the north, it was easy to appreciate the mingled feelings of fear and respect that this landscape of eerie, swirling mists evoked in the first Venezuelans. To them, the high sierras were the domain of evil demons, and the phrase pasar el páramo -- to cross the highlands -- is still used as local slang for dying.
The immense panoramas seemed to emphasize the insignificance of our horse-and-mule caravan, and from up ahead I could hear the encouraging voices of the muleteers as they drove the cargo animals over the ridge. The rest of our motley European "pioneer column" stretched back down the winding trail, and far below I could just make out the red jacket of Paul Coudenys. As owner of the memorably named Hippo-Trek, Coudenys has ridden in 50 countries around the world. But even for him, this Andean crossing would be a first. At around 4,400 metres, we were probably the highest riders in the world, and were almost certainly the first foreign team to follow this route since the Spanish conquistadors blazed the trail in their quest for the mythical El Dorado.
Of course, we were benefiting from 500 years of hindsight. We allowed time to acclimatize to the altitude. We had teams of more than 20 fresh, local mounts and cargo animals for every new section of the trail so that there would be no need to force lowland horses into activity at dangerously high altitudes. And we had the guarantee of a warm bed -- or perhaps a sleeping bag on the veranda of a ranchito -- and a nightcap of (even warmer) Venezuelan rum at the end of each day's ride. Still, it was a scary sensation to be leaning back over a swaying rump as the horses climbed these steep mountain trails, often bordered by sheer drops.
Already, we seemed to be an entire world away from the terrain the group had ridden through earlier in the week. We had left the swampy cattle country of Los Llanos and within three days had climbed into the virgin rain forest that shrouds the branch of the Andes known as Sierra Nevada.
The Canagua River, rushing to join the mighty Orinoco, began to tumble with increasing ferocity, and we had to dismount occasionally to lead our horses across a chain of swaying suspension bridges.
We spent a whole morning on a steep, slippery climb through a cloud forest, but in mid-afternoon on day five, we rode out into a region of wide, grassy meadows where the horses broke into a cheerful canter.
Then, quite suddenly, we were on the bleak moors of the high paramo. The dripping lianas and moss-shrouded trees of the tropical forest were replaced here by alien, spiky-headed frailejon plants and lichen-covered rocks. Up here we were more likely to see a wheeling condor than a flock of bickering parrots, and the countless hummingbirds that had buzzed around us in the steamy valleys below were replaced by a single, hardy species that hibernates every night in order to survive the chill.
After spending several days cocooned in the forest, the wide-open spaces of the mountains seemed intimidating. The narrow trail that zig-zagged endlessly upward was known by the muleteers, apparently without irony, as la carretera (the highway).
The steady five-kilometre-per-hour days -- providing equal opportunities for exploration and contemplation -- were occasionally broken by short, exciting canters across flat Andean meadows. The highland horses were spirited enough to enjoy this, and during one wonderful gallop, my mare was accompanied by her mate and a yearling foal that dashed in front, kicking up his heels like a gangly bronco.
The mare was the last of the chain of horses and mules that I rode during the trek. An unexpected advantage of this equestrian variety was that we had the chance to meet and travel with muleteers and guides from almost every village in this part of the Sierra Nevada.
The conquistadors found nothing to keep them here, and it seems that even today the local population is struggling to find a reason to stick around.
One in three Venezuelans live in Caracas, and in each of the isolated villages we rode through, boarded-up houses stood testament to a growing exodus of campesinos (villagers) toward the slums of the capital city. The town of El Carrizal was an extreme example of what is happening all over what was once one of South America's richest countries. Founded 150 years ago, El Carrizal quickly grew to become a successful farming village, with rich harvests of bananas, avocados and coffee. Only a few decades ago it was a thriving community of 100 families. Today it is home to just six people.
A Venezuelan foundation, Programa Andes Tropicales, is concentrating on this region in its efforts to promote sustainable tourism that could tempt the campesinos back to the countryside. The philosophy is that Don Rafael, patriarch of El Carrizal's last family, should be able to make about half of his yearly income through offering accommodation to travellers such as ourselves, while other people in the area could provide food or mules, or work as guides. The fact that they would not be able to live entirely from tourism would mean that they would also have to maintain their traditional lifestyle so that their farming traditions would not be lost.
As we wandered back through the deserted village, Rafael showed us around the church that he hopes will once more warrant a visit from the mule-riding priest who used to come here every Sunday. Eating hot pisco Andina (fish and egg soup) with slices of wonderful smoked cheese and arepas (cornmeal cakes) in Raphael's kitchen, it was easy to wonder what life was like for the former residents of El Carrizal, now in Caracas.
Rafael's courtyard that evening saw its first nightlife in some time with the muleteers producing a guitar and singing along with joropo, Venezuela's national music. Many of the songs dealt with the exploits of their hero Simon Bolivar, who during the course of his campaigns against the Spanish in the 19th century, is said to have ridden the equivalent of three times around the world -- and fallen in love 50 times.
Our little expedition was never destined to become the subject of the next generation of joropos, but by the time we crested the highest point of the paramo and began our descent toward the bright lights of Merida, I had ridden four horses and three mules, worn the seat right out of a brand new pair of corduroy trousers -- and quashed for a while my ability to salsa.
If you go
GETTING THERE
There are more than a dozen flights daily to Merida from Caracas. The main airlines serving the route are:
Avior: phone: 58 (212) 202 5811; Web: www.avior.com.ve.
Santa Barbara Airlines: phone: 58 (212) 242 633; Web:
WHEN TO GO
The best time to visit Venezuela is in the dry, cool season during the northern hemisphere's winter.
The hot, wet season extends from May to October, with temperatures averaging between 25 and 31 degrees.
WHAT TO BRING
Pack for all climates. Bring a couple of pairs of thick trousers with flat inner seams and -- for a worst-case scenario -- a family-size jar of Vaseline.
GETTING AROUND
Hippo-Trek specializes in equestrian travel everywhere from Iceland to the Sahara. Phone: 32 (50) 611785; Web: www.hippotrek.com.
INFORMATION
For more information about travelling to and around Venezuela, visit www.venezuelatuya.com or www.think-venezuela.net.