They said it was difficult to leave Brasil. I had become familiar with her dress. Little did I know how much I would miss her.With only a week or so remaining on my 3 month Visa it was time to leave Brasil. It was time to continue north and enter her neighbour, Venezuela. I looked forward to the encounter.It was 33 C in Boa Vista by 8:30 AM. I was soaked before I hit the curb. I back-tracked to where I had had my Federale encounter and turned right. I headed north for Venezuela, confident in my route by the large green sign that shouted "VENEZUELA...FRONTERA."

The mostly naked terrain that had guided me to Boa Vista accompanied me north. There were no more services to be seen. No service stations, no restaurants, no towns...just me and a few dozen suicidal Portugese drivers practising for the "old timer´s" version of the Grand Prix. As they whizzed by I turned my beam on HIGH and gave pursuit so the light reflected off of their mirrors and distracted them from their driving, hoping they would get the message I did not approve of their STUPIDITY. It was a wasted effort but it gave me a tiny bit of satisfaction.

After 2-1/2 hours of nothing I began to think about fuel. I had been humming along at 110 kmph and normally I had only a little more than 3 hours of fuel at that pace. I had expected at least one service station, but none appeared. Then I started to climb. The paced reduced to 2nd and 3rd gears as the sharp turns moved me upwards. I climbed from 300 ft to 3800 ft. The fuel gauge moved lower as I appeared to move away from my destination rather than towards it. Finally there it was...the FRONTERA.

Brasil stamped me out. They cancelled the 15,000 Reais paper that was my penalty for not removing the bike from their country. They issued me a receipt in its place...proof that I had conformed to the rules and regulations and had no liability. STAMP, STAMP. I had left Brasil. It happened so quickly I did not realize the gravity of the event. I had escaped. She did not try to hold me back. She released me without reluctance.

I moved forward into "NO MAN'S LAND"...that space between borders that belongs to no one...is but a buffer zone...PURGATORY. There was a Service Station in this zone...a Venezuelan Service Station. There was no Brasilian Service Station. Venezuela provided the fuel for the Frontera, for Brasil and for themselves. And, why not. How could Brasil compete? No one here would buy her fuel. She could not compete with Venezuela. Fuel sold for 4 cents per liter. I filled up for 80 cents...pocket change...that would be the norm for as long as I remained in Venezuela.

I moved forward to the Venezuelan Frontera. It was almost noon. The buildings were unmarked so I casually joined the first line I found, hoping it was the correct one. The Official locked the door behind me and the four others in front of me. He would accept no more business before noon. I had just squeaked in.

With the clock ticking on his lunch break he processed those in front of me quickly and released them through the locked door. Finally only I remained. He was expecting trouble...he was expecting I would not know what to do...he was expecting I could not communicate. None of it was true. As fast as he could type I was processed and stamped into Venezuela...at least the Moto was. I would have to wait until after the lunch break to go to the next build and get myself processed. Other than waiting for the line-jumpers to get processed my event lasted less than 3 minutes. "How much time do you want," was all he asked. "45 days" came the reply. STAMP, STAMP and I was in. It was 10 km to Santa Elena.

There was a problem brewing in Venezuela. The problem was money. The one bank in Santa Elena did not like my ATM card. I converted my few remaining Reais to Bolivares with the "Money Changers" on the corner. The next big town or City was at least 2 days away. I exchanged more cash. Then I paid for my room and went for dinner. The next morning I exchanged more cash. I had to be sure. I did not know how long it would be before I would encounter a bank. I knew I could feed the RANA but I needed to be sure I could feed me.

Flush with cash I moved north. The 'Gran Sabana' averaged 3500 ft ASL and provided a pleasant respite from the low altitude heat and humidity I had suffered through for the past month. It would last for only a day but beggars can´t be choosers.

Day's end found me at El Dorado, a turn-of-the-century gold town that never grew up. I thought I could find accomodation here but I was quickly losing hope. I kicked myself because I had passed up a nice, new hotel one hour ago. Now it was 4:00 PM and this dirt water town was not to my liking.

I turned off of the main highway to follow the sign that pointed to El Dorado. The road disappeared into a pot-holey slough. After 7 km I gave up. If the road was this bad I didn't want to see the town. I retreated to the highway. The next town was an hour down the road. That last town was a hour down the road the way I had just come. I moved forward cautiously. I was down to half a tank of fuel.

3 kms down the road there was another sign to El Dorado. I pulled off the road onto the wide apron. A pick-up truck pulled up beside me. "Do you need help?" came the query. "I am looking for an hotel" I answered. "There are two in town," he said. "Follow me". I hesitated, as I watched him drive away. A few hundred meters away he turned left onto a good paved road. My spirits picked up. I followed. That last road must have been an abandoned access to town, I reassured myself.

The town was the shits. He waited for me at the turn off to the hotel. It was down a dirt track. I followed cautiously, picking my way around deep holes and rocks. I could see his truck in front of the hotel. I moved forward. What I could not see was the motorcycle parked in front of his truck. He was talking to them...the motorcycle owners. "Your friend is coming," he said. Maia peered around the truck. She later said when she saw me coming she thought it was a mirage. She thought the heat had distorted her vision. She saw a big motorcycle coming down the road, throwing up dust. It became bigger and bigger until it was almost bigger than life. I pulled up beside them. Each of us was equally astonished to see the other. Maia and Andy rode a R100GS with a sidecar. They were from Scotland. We were all competing for a dirt-bag-hotel in a one-horse town that had No Vacancy. It was 4:30 PM.

I laid out the options. An hour to the south was a nice new hotel...condition and vacancy unconfirmed. After that there was nothing. 3 km to the south I had spotted an "Encampamento" sign. I had not checked out the premises. "Let´s go there", I said and check it first. It will be dark soon.

The rough dirt track through the tall grass did not look promising. Around the corner a hotel and restaurant complex with manicured lawns and a camping area greeted us. I was simply astonished. The river passed by on one side. We took the camping option, set up camp and then settled in for an evening of swapping stories. At midnight we paused for a rest. The next day we did it all over again. The third day we left. They went south. I went north.

In Cuidad Bolivar, a city of a few hundred thousand I tried my luck with the ATM machines. They either didn´t work or didn´t like my cards in spite of the Cirrus and Visa Plus signs posted everywhere. Frustrated, I retreated to a park bench to ponder my next move. Eureka, I had it. I would go inside and tell them my problem and see if they could help me. The two hour line up tested every ounce of patience that I had. The clock ticked on towards 10:30 AM. I had wasted the entire morning so far, having started the exercise at 8:00 AM.

Finally it was my turn. I had made up my mind I was not going to do this ridiculuous routine every week. I would get enough money to last several, in spite of the risks of carrying too much cash. I would take a VISA CASH ADVANCE and then phone Sandy to pay it off within the hour. That should work.

"How much do you want?" came the question as I settled into the chair and placed my plastic in front of her. "One Million Bolivares", I replied. "I am sorry, I cannot give you that much. I can only give you 500,000." My heart sank. "If you want more you will have to go over to the main teller." "I do not want to wait for another hour", I said. "No problem." She gave me a ticket and put my number up on the screen. I was next. The teller told me he could not give me any cash. I had to go back to where I came from. I could have screamed. I could have shouted. Instead I drew another number and waited. Finally after another half hour had passed I was back in the chair.

"How much do you want?" came the question.
"One Million" came the answer.
"OK".
"Wait, can you do more?"
"Sure."
"Well then, I want One Million Five Hundred Thousand".
"Are you sure?"
"Yes".

Five minutes later with my pockets bulging I walked out of the bank, a frustrated but happy man. It was too late to leave town now. I would stay another day. I had a million and a half bucks in my pocket. Surely I could find something to do....