When my partner Aidan and I were considering temporarily abandoning our Pan American Highway route to pop east to Venezuela, there was very little information available about traveling there. All we knew was that the country had been in economic trouble for the longest time, and that the currency was devaluing fast. We met many Venezuelans in Colombia, who told us they missed their beautiful home, but were unable to make a living there, and in Bogota’s street markets artists were creating paintings on worthless notes of the Venezuelan bolívar. Yet, the Instagram account of another motorcycle traveler we knew was tantalizing us with mountain vistas, coffee plantations and boat trips to idyllic white beaches. He was slightly ahead of us, and when we asked how he found the country, he simply replied, “You’ll love it here!”

The decision was made; we had to go. But we had three main concerns: how and in what currency would we pay for things? With the notorious gas shortage, would we be able to get what we needed? And how would the people, who had endured years of hardship, react to a bunch of “rich” tourists, gallivanting around their country on fancy motorcycles? We loaded up with spare fuel, brought US dollars in cash, and agreed that if it all felt too dangerous, we’d simply turn around.

Border Crossing

The border at Cucuta had only fully reopened a couple of months before, and Venezuelans were frantically shopping for things in Colombia that were hard to come by back home. We joined the chaos of overloaded, dilapidated cars with suitcases spilling out of the trunks, goods piled high onto the roofs and people hanging out of the windows with stuffed Ghana-must-go bags dangling off their arms. But an official soon pulled us out of the line and kindly advised that tourists like us must cross at the brand-new border a couple of miles over.

The place seemed deserted and Colombian Customs were out for lunch. But they soon returned and checked our motorcycles out of the country. On the Venezuelan side, our passports were stamped right there at the barrier booth. But there was no Venezuelan Aduana (Customs) here. For that we had to return to the other border, to receive our Temporary Import Permit (TIP). Once there, it was easily arranged though.

To obtain a Venezuelan TIP, we needed mandatory third-party vehicle insurance. The officer who stamped our passport said there was a place on the way and a ratty, hand-painted sign pointed into a residential area. By now our travels had taught us that something which might seem forbiddingly dodgy back home, may well be the way it’s done around here, so we followed the signs. And sure enough, a kind lady invited us into her living room, served us iced water, and began the tedious paperwork.

First, there is the medical permit to drive in the country; a document that essentially declares you healthy and sane enough to safely operate a vehicle. Not to worry, she could issue that, filling out a form with nothing more taxing than a few standard details and our blood type. After that she sorted out the insurance. I can’t remember the cost, but it was negligible, and we could pay in US dollars for it all. We never had to test the validity by claiming on the insurance, but it was accepted by the customs office for the TIP.

Thirsty For Fuel

The fuel situation was a little more complex to figure out. Ironically Venezuela sits on vast oil reserves, yet there is little gas to be had across the country. While claims to the exact reason would be pure speculation on my part, we heard that it has something to do with a lack of investment into the refineries. As it is, obtaining fuel can be a challenge. Near the Colombian border, people sell fuel by the roadside out of old soda bottles. They accept payment in Colombian pesos, which they use to fetch more from across the border. It’s more expensive than the local stuff at $1-2 USD per liter, but that’s nothing we regretted paying the bootleggers for their efforts.

Colombian fuel is also considered the better stuff. A couple of bikers who ride bigger, more modern motorcycles, told us that they often run into trouble with their fuel pumps or engines, due to continuous use of bad Venezuelan gas; and they go to great lengths to obtain Colombian fuel to keep their beloved machines running. But for the few weeks we were there, my 1991 Honda NX250, and even Aidan’s 2004 BMW F650 GS ran just fine on whatever we could get, without sustaining any damage.

Just west of Merida, a few hundred kilometers from where we crossed the border, the roadside fuel dries up. The rule of thumb we learned to apply, is to always carry spare canisters and start looking for more, at the latest sixty miles before running out. The queues at gas stations are often literally miles long and people wait day and night to obtain fuel. Many push their cars, having run the tank dry in an attempt to delay the long wait. Security guards the gate, only letting a few people in at the time and making sure the line remains orderly. Luckily, as obvious travelers, no one wished us to suffer the wait as they must, and no one begrudged us jumping ahead. We rolled up to security and politely asked to be let into the front of the line, and they always allowed it.

The thing to know is that you need to pay at the booth or in the shop, before heading to the pump. It took us a while to understand this, because each time we went straight to get filled up, the gas station attendant just ran to the booth with our money to rectify the situation, handing us back the change and receipt, as if payment post-fill-up was normal.

There are also gas stations that only serve cars and others that only serve motorcycles. And some stations switch between car and bike days. But people would always try to get us sorted out. If we arrived on the wrong day, they usually knew of a gas station nearby that would likely serve us. Once we arrived on a car day in a remote mountain town where a full tank and our spare canisters would only just get us to the next place to fill up. We had to get gas here. The attendant understood our predicament and made an exception to the cars-only rule.

Money Issues

The money situation is a little trickier, with fewer possibilities to wriggle things to make them work. Everywhere accepts US dollars. Some vendors give change in bolívar, which can be used up paying for small items from street vendors. Closer to the Colombian border, Colombian pesos are widely accepted as people will use them to purchase goods across the border. As far inland as Merida, only bigger supermarkets might still take pesos. Closer to the Brazilian side, people also use gold. We didn’t go that far east, but I’ve seen other traveler’s photos of prices in shops being quoted in milligrams of gold, and the cashiers have scales to measure the payment.

US dollars are a safe bet. But the problem is that you are limited to what you bring into the country. Moreover, very few places accept card payments, and not all international credit cards work. Even if they do, the vendors are not set up for cash-back, so you cannot draw funds through them and banks can only pay out to clients of their own branch. 

We got one ATM to work. But pay-outs are limited to the equivalent of fifty cents (which translates into a large wad of bolívar notes) as the machines can physically only hold so much. And we paid a $5 fee for that withdrawal. 

Companies like Moneygram and Western Union can only pay out to a person with a Venezuelan ID. So unless you have someone you really trust, and you send funds in their name for them to pick up with their national ID, you are limited to the cash you brought with you.

It is likely though, that you can find such a trustworthy person. I am not one to believe in the worst of people, but Venezuelans have struggled for years. Essentials are unavailable or unaffordable and many are literally starving. So I expected at least some opportunism to extract a few involuntary donations from us. I could not have been more wrong. We weren’t robbed or approached by a single hustler. In fact, the Venezuelans wouldn’t stop giving us stuff for free.

Riding Through Generosity

We had barely left the border when another motorcyclist pulled up alongside for a chat. He helped us join a Moto-WhatsApp group to reach out to, in case we needed anything at all; and they came to our aid when we ran out of fuel, not having got the hang of things yet. 

The Venezuelan motorcycle community is super supportive, sending someone out to help within minutes of my partner Aidan pulling over with a snapped throttle cable. Plus, the owners of Moto Refugio Campo Bello, a moto and traveler friendly hotel in San Felipe, let us stay for free as long as we wanted, showing us around town in the evening and sorting us out with fuel when we left.

It was tough to get anywhere fast though. People would constantly stop us for a chat, invite us for coffee or lunch, and even just ride with us for a while, to make sure we found our destination. Wherever we went, people were curious about us, happily surprised that we had come from so far to visit their country. Everyone wanted to help and be involved in some way, and if we said that we didn’t need anything, they seemed almost disappointed.

Sometimes we gladly accepted their help, though. Unbeknownst to us, for the days during, and on either side of any election, fuel sales for private vehicles were prohibited, and we were there when a referendum was to be held. Our unassuming question as to where we might find a gas station that serves motorcycles that day, set off a series of phone calls. After a short while a scooter taxi showed up and we were told to follow her. The rider ushered us into her backyard where she topped us up from her business supplies.

After several unsuccessful attempts to buy gas throughout the day, two guys on a scooter stacked high with bags of bread finally explained things. We rode as far as the spare in our canisters would take us, then checked into a hotel resigned to having to wait it out. But the owner, a biker himself, topped us up from his reserves, emptying the tank of his ride, even if it meant he then had to push it to the gas station, once sales resumed. All so we could continue our journey, despite the referendum.

The most memorable of all was a lady called Luisa. Pulling up outside a restaurant in the small mountain town of Bailadores, the matronly owner came running out arms wide open, shouting, “Welcome, welcome!”, almost tearing us off the bikes with her huge hugs. She placed loaded plates of home-style beef stew in front of us, then pulled up a chair and shared photos and stories of her motorcycle rides with her late husband. Knowing what travelers need, she offered for us to stay at her house for a few days for free and make use of the shower and laundry area. When we declined, she was immensely disappointed, but we had barely enough cash left to return to Colombia, and it just didn’t feel right to freeload off Luisa. After endless coffee and piles of dessert, she reluctantly let us go, sending us on our way with more heartfelt hugs. And of course we weren’t allowed to pay a dime.

Having run out of US dollars after three weeks, we were forced to leave Venezuela much sooner than we would have liked to. But it remains a highlight of our trip, made special beyond words by the wonderfully kind and giving people, who couldn’t be more welcoming to visitors on two wheels. And every now and again Luisa gets in touch, just to send well-wishes our way.

Photos by Aidan Walsh & Maria Schumacher

Author: Maria Schumacher

Inspired at a book signing at a motorcycle show in London, Maria Schumacher and her partner Aidan Walsh decided to ride around the world by motorbike, even though they had never sat on one before. Since then, they have led a life of motorcycle travel across Europe, India, Australia and the Americas. Based in Vancouver, Canada, Maria writes articles and provides photos of their journeys and experiences for several international magazines and blogs. She also contributed a chapter to Sam Manicom’s collection of motorcycle travel short stories – The Moment Collectors ASIA.