En route from Merida to Cucuta at the Colombian border and thence to Bogota, seven bridges had washed away or collapsed as a result of the same flooding that had so devastated Caracas whist I was lying low on Margarita.

Two of the crossings required getting wet, and on the last one I nearly lost it all, as I became stuck and the fast moving water, rising to my thighs, threatened to stall the engine and topple me. It certainly entertained the locals, though.