The Rodeo

We had stopped at the second police-control in just a few hours. We had to disembark from the bus to enter the police station, where they again went through the passenger list to check that everyone was present. Peculiar, I thought, who would want to jump off in the jungle anyway? The bureaucracy in this country amazed me.

A couple of hours earlier that night I had taken a bus from Georgetown, Guyana, with destination Lethem on the Brazilian border. The bus departed at 9 pm and was going to run all night. 12-18 hours it said, depending on the road condition and weather. There had been no rain the last couple of days and I was optimistic.

We had now cruised down 2-3 hours on a fairly good paved road, passing a few villages along the way. My name had been called by the police officer and he had decided that he wanted to inspect my passport too, as I obviously didn’t look like a local. After, he made a little tick on the passenger list and waved me out. I was now walking the 100 metres back to the bus from the police station. This was the moment when the guy walking right behind me suddenly started to talk to me:

-“First time on the Rodeo?” he asked, in English.

I was taken by surprise when I was walking through what would have been considered a warm summer night in Sweden, around midnight and obviously very sleepy. Everyone had seemed to be annoyed by being forced off the bus in the middle of the night and I didn’t expect anyone to want to start a conversation. And moreover, I didn’t quite understand. Rodeo? There must be some rodeo or holiday going on down in Lethem, I assumed. In order to not think about it too long and appear stupid (and I didn’t want to ask more about it either), I came to the conclusion that wherever the rodeo is, it will clearly be the first time for me just as everything else I have seen since I left Lima a month ago. So I answered:

-“Yes, it is.“

His reply was short and said in such a way that relieved a big smile, although I was a couple of steps ahead and didn’t look at his face to actually see it:

-“You will enjoy it then!”

I don’t remember my answer but it is of no great importance as its main objective was to politely agree in the same moment as I was about to ascend the steps into the bus, to demonstrate that this late-night conversation was over.

I sat down in my seat and thought about the rodeo. A big question mark. There had been many question marks and oddities lately. The Swiss couple (see the Kourou entries) had travelled this road in the opposite direction and their first comment was to make sure I had water and snacks as the bus was famous for breaking down. The Danish traveller I met on the ferry to Guyana also said that the bus was famous for breaking down. I had my snacks but why was everyone repeating this? Was it from Lying Planet? A question mark. I had therefore expected to see a bus in quite bad condition but this one took the price. A big piece of the chassis was missing at the front. Why? And the driving was very peculiar; when it zoomed down the highway it was swinging from the left to the right. Like a ship in side-wind. Why? Too many question marks already. And now the rodeo in Lethem. The book said nothing about such an event. A freaking mystery.

We arrived early to Lethem. Before 11 am I jumped off at the border where I could do my paperwork and continue to Brazil, while the bus continued the last five kilometers into the centre of Lethem. I was walking on steady ground. Thank God for that, and I was leaving the bus behind me. It didn’t break down except from a 30-minute stop an hour or so before the border, just after the gear box sounded like it was about to give up. I think they used some improvised gear box jungle-first aid, which sounds both impossible and bizarre, but that’s the only explanation I could come up with. It seemed to work and we arrived.

But most important; it was not a mystery anymore. No more question marks. Last night’s experience had puzzled all pieces together and it fitted. There was no rodeo, neither a holiday nor a grand event. The bus-ride itself is simply called the Rodeo amongst locals.

The bus travels on a narrow road, surrounded by thick rainforest and often the trees touches the bus’ windows on both sides at the same time. We are talking narrow. It’s bumpy too. I imagined I could get some sleep during the ride but this was probably limited to 15 minutes in total. The bus driving with an amazing speed over all jungle-bumps and its “ship-like” swinging movement is hardly enough to soften even the smaller holes in the road.

Imagine you lean your head against the bus seat and behind you, there is a golf course. An aged Colin Montgomery forgets his glasses to his tee-off, swings but misses the ball and runs the driver directly into the back of your seat. Your head bounces with an incredible force and your teeth shakes as they readjust to the skull and cheek bone. Your limbs make jumps, they vibrate and quiver. After a few hours you think you know how it is to be a heavy-weight boxer about to start the 10th round. And in the morning you believe to know how it feels like when the doctors jump-start your heart with an electricity shock. If you against expectations were asleep at the moment of the Colin Montgomery-blast, you will not fall asleep again for a long time. The bus ride was like that. All night long.

In conclusion: the single bumpiest, most uncomfortable, most horrendous and in every other manner, worst bus ride I have ever been on, on any continent. And I paid for it.

This was THE Rodeo.

Georgetown

Apart from the previous entertaining story, this place is a complete and total shit-hole with few attractions and no value-for-money. The most famous building in town is a not-so-special wooden church in the middle of a roundabout. Lying Planet states that it may be the tallest wooden building in the world but this is obviously not true. It’s 41 m tower doesn’t even beat the Zenchov Cathedral in Almaty, Kazakkstan (around 50 m) and certainly not the 60 m Millennium Tower (containing exhibitions) in Mageburg, Germany, which would be the highest wooden construction in the world if you don't count a radio tower in Gliwice, Poland. The Japanese temple Daihatsu-den is also a massive wooden construction, easily beating the Georgetown cathedral.

In Georgetown there is little except from what you bring with you and the best moment you will have here is when you leave.

I was (finally!) robbed!

After all these months on the road, surrounded by pure luck, I was robbed. It happened in Georgetown, Guyana, a Sunday when few people were out on the street. Some guy sneaked up and stole my wallet from my back-pocket in broad daylight. It was only about 5 pm and I was very surprised as it didn’t even seem like a dodgy area (hence not alert enough). It wasn’t one of these skilful pickpockets who steals things without you noticing either. Here it was just to dig in, grab the wallet and run for your life. Just as discreet as Santa Claus is blue.

I am now quite entertained by finally have been robbed on the street. At least it generates some stories to tell on the road.

Now, this Guyanese fellow managed to steal my old wallet with holes in it, containing a VISA card issued by SEB that expired in July 2006, almost £1 worth of various Peruvian coins in small denominations, some receipts from a Peruvian supermarket called Metro, one folded A4 sheet of paper where it was written “HaHa!” and finally, one US dollar bill. It may have contained a few Brazilian coins too, I don’t remember.

Now you probably understand that this wasn’t really my real wallet but my “decoy” that I always carry with me and that lives in my back pocket. Due to all the skilful (real) pickpockets who operate in crowded areas, I would never carry my real wallet in the back pocket anyway. But I figured it would be good to have something easy to hand over in case being robbed the normal way. In that case I would give them the useless wallet and run away while they are busy escaping. Later they would find that the contents are completely useless while I have disappeared with my real wallet, my cellphone and my camera and my large stashes of cash ($$$). As an additional cream upon the mash, they would find my jolly “message”. I am still smiling when I’m thinking about the guy, risking being caught and imprisoned for a few useless Peruvian coins.

However, the only thing that disturbs me a little is that I actually put some money in there deliberately. I was thinking that the symbolic sum of 1 USD should emphasise the scam, but now thinking about it, I have actually lost one dollar. He can actually go and buy a sandwich or a cup of coffee for that. Why would I do that?

Now I’m off to buy a new cheap wallet in the market to make another decoy. I have another expired VISA-card with me but I am certainly not filling the next one with any free give-away dollar bills. 

Ash-cloud

This is not fair! I also want to see an ash-cloud. Couldn't that volcano have waited a month or so? What's a month in relationship to the lifetime of a volcano? Like a fart in space.

Paramaribo

I quite like Paramaribo, the capital city of Suriname. The country today occupies land that has been colonised by Spain, England and France during its short but dramatic history but the last ones here were the Dutch. Hence, Paramaribo has a lot of northern European influenced architecture and you can actually understand what it says on streetsigns. There will be no long essay about Paramaribo; I just wanted to post a few pictures.

The racing-talent

If you are setting up a go-kart team, is short of folks and aiming for victory, you may be interested in flying in this guy for the event. His name is Moti, around 25 years old, of rasta-culture and drives a taxi between Albina and Paramaribo in Suriname. He is a real talent. I just wished that he had a bit different music taste. He was playing, in loud volume, tunes like “Rasta people going forward”, “Love your (rasta-) brother” and “My Babylon” for almost two hours.

Lying Planet says the route will take four hours but Moti managed it in only 1:45. The road is everything but good; there are big holes and gaps in the pavement. Sometimes you have to drive on the left side, sometimes on the middle and sometimes on the right (providing there are no meeting traffic). It seemed just that he had memorised the best paths for the whole stretch as he constantly managed to average 120-130 km/h on a very bumpy road, narrowly avoiding holes that would have made all the passengers bump their heads in the roof and changing “lanes” in a speed similar to the last level on an old 8-bit arcade video game. He took over countless number of vehicles, both lorries, buses and fast taxis but himself was not overtaken by anyone on the way to Cayenne (except from when he stopped for dropping off passengers; but he almost instantly took revenge). I was relieved when I, alive, was dropped off in front of a guesthouse in Paramaribo after some kind of a ride. Next time I go in a roller coaster I think I will do a Mr Bean and fall asleep. Who needs roller coasters anyway?

100s of ways to waste €10

Have you ever tried to waste €10? There are hundreds of ways you could do it. Flush it down the toilet, roll it so it looks like a cigarette and set fire to it, send it through a document shredder, give it to the Millennium Project or why not buy a €10 lottery ticket. My friend Kenny Liew is good at wasting money and he occasionally does it via the lottery ticket-tactic (although I have pointed out that it’s both quicker and less frustrating to flush it down the toilet).

Anyway, whichever style you prefer, I have invented a new one which may interest you. This is how you do it:

You cross the Fleuve Maroni river, which separates St Laurent (French Guyana) from Albina (Suriname) and pay the boatsman €5 for the passage. This is the standard price after you have bargained it down from the “white-guy-price of €10”. You walk up to the Suriname immigration office and try to get into the country. Then the officer tell you that even though you are a European citizen, you need some kind of a stupid exit stamp from the French authorities on the other side (which you probably haven’t even seen because they are almost invisible). He will tell you that you cannot enter Suriname at this moment. Instead, you have to go back to the boats, bargain hard again, pay €5 to return to the French side, get the idiotic stamp and pay another €5 to have the pleasure to meet the Surinamese border official again. If you are clever, you have already agreed with the same boatsman to take you back in five minutes for same price. He will probably think you are stupid but happily agree and it at least saves you from some bargaining.

Back in the immigration office, the officer will smile, notice your wet trousers that were hit by several waves during the bumpy boat ride, wonder if its river water or sweat, and finally ask if you are tired. That is the moment when you think:

“It’s not so much being tired but those blood-sucking boat drivers eat euros just as it was a Big Mac. Now I am €10 lighter only because of you, you son-of-a-bitch!”

You must only think this but not actually say it aloud. Or you may lose more than €10.

The bloodsuckers' boats

The hitchhiker's guide to French Guiana

I was in Kourou. It was just after mid-day and I wanted to go west to St Laurent du Maroni on the border to Suriname. I looked for the tourist office in order to collect information on how to find the shared taxis. The information point had moved from where it was placed in Lying Planet and although I accidently found a streetsign pointing towards the tourist information in a completely different place, I didn’t find it. I had to improvise and try to talk to the French people. Damn.

A white guy I met on a supermarket parking could speak some Spanish and a group of black people hanging around outside a tobacco kiosk knew some English. The combined information I managed to collect was that 1) there is no taxi rank in Kourou, the taxis just pass on the street; 2) to go to St Laurent, one have to go back (!!!) to Cayenne and take one from there, if not 3) there is a taxi going to St Laurent at 4-5 in the morning (it circulates the streets until its full). I was not happy about much in my conclusion.

I was therefore going to try hitch-hiking. I liked my new plan because if it would work, it would also save me the €55 taxi fare. I had earlier picked up some info about hitchhiking from the French guy Nicolas and I knew it was possible. I walked out to the main road (it was quite far!) and there, just after the Kourou junction along the big road, I saw other hitchhikers. There was a black lady closest to the junction, after followed a black man with a guitar and at the far end, two younger teenagers. The teenagers were being picked up just as I came and I walked past the other ones to take the position at the far end. By the time I had arrived, put my bag down, taken a few breaths and written my destination on a board I picked up along the way, the first lady was gone. Only the guitar-man and myself left.

It didn’t take long, less than ten minutes, to find someone going all the way to St Laurent. It was an old lady in a large SUV. I made some space in the back-seat and enjoyed a free two-hour ride all the way to my destination. Behind me stood the guitar-man still waiting for a lift. I wondered how long he had been there.

Now, if you are going to hitchhike in French Guyana, follow the below advice that I have collected from a couple of local sources:

1.       Don’t hitchhike around Cayenne. French Guyana is perfectly “hitchhikable” but it’s always best to leave Cayenne in taxis. Go a bit and continue hitchhiking from some village outside.
2.       Never try hitchhiking on the road between Régina and St Georges on the Brazilian border. This road is notorious for drug smuggling and you want to avoid getting involved in that.
3.       In French Guyana lots of people hitchhike (as public transport is really expensive; there are no intercity buses, only shared taxis) and in general, black people stop for black hitchhikers and white people stop for white hitchhikers. If you are tourist, don’t know much French and carry bags, be extra careful which car you choose to get into.
4.      French Guyana has practically only one road (numbered RN1 west of Cayenne and RN2 east of Cayenne) and goes from east to west along the coast. For safety, never try to hitchhike to the interior of French Guyana but only along this main road.
5.      Stand on the main road when you hitchhike rather than some local road inside a town or city for better result.
6.       If you are more than one person it will be more difficult but still possible as many people in French Guyana drive around with pick-up trucks, which can carry all your bags. Just don’t hitchhike in big groups; then you are probably better off renting a car or something.

If it looks like this, it's a good hichhiking-place

Mattias and the satellite launch

The French guy had another French-guy friend in Kourou. They were called Nicolas and Rafael. This is typical French. Staying in the hammock-shed was also a mystic black man. They said he didn’t talk, they had never heard him utter a word but he always left early in the morning after shower and came back late to sleep. There were also a Swiss couple who were very interested in space and had now waited for this launch two weeks, travelling to all various parts of French Guyana trying to kill time. They had rented a car and were invited to watch the launch from inside the space centre. It was obviously too late to get such an invitation (you have to email them well in advance) but they told me I could probably watch it here on the beach. If it was not cloudy, one would probably see the rocket like a falling star (but going upwards!), as it was to be launched in the evening darkness at 19:03.

The French guy with his other French-guy friend had another plan, however. They were going to go up on a nearby hill with views over the space centre. They were about to take their hammocks as the walk was three to four hours and it didn’t seem like a good idea to walk back in the dark. They hoped to find a place to hang the hammock. I saw that things could go seriously bad as it was rain period (there had been showers every night since at least a week back) and it was not certain they would find a roof. But they hoped to “be lucky”. This is a typical French tactic. After thinking it all through several times, I decided to have a go at it anyway and join them. Sometimes I am so stupid.

When we were about to go it became evident that they had no clue of how to get there. The first thing in the plan was to go to a bar to have a morning coffee and to collect information from the bar-maids. They had no map, no evidence whatsoever that this hill even existed, only a vague idea of that there should be such place outside town. I realised that the three-hour walk may not be three hours at all. This is also typical French.

The bar-maids didn’t quite know but after asking around a little bit more two things emerged: 1) There was in fact a hill quite far outside town, maybe within walking distance although everyone recommended a car; and 2) the launch “maybe” was delayed. There were far too many “maybes” here to suit my personal taste but as the French-guy number two forgot a plastic cover in the Indian village (in case of rain) we had to go back anyway. The day was turning into a super-chaos and I was thinking to screw it all and leave.

Back in the Indian village we met the Swiss couple. They had got an email from the space centre (as they had an invitation) and they were informed that the launch had been delayed three or four days. They had encountered some problems and had to take the rocket back into the hangar, fix it and then take it out again. A couple of days work with other words. There was no way I was going to hang around for four more days in the company of these people only to maybe (if it didn’t disappear in the clouds) see a couple of seconds of light from a rocket launch. It was only around mid-day so I thanked for me and left the Indian village having wasted a whole morning of my holiday. Wasting time is also typical French. 

Kourou

My trip took a surprising turn at the taxi-stand in Cayenne. I was going to St Laurent du Maroni, on the Suriname border. It was however a bit late and I was unsure to make it all today. Meanwhile I was thinking of back-up plans, I met a French guy who had travelled into Cayenne for going to the hospital and now waited for a taxi to Kourou. He had catched some kind of sand insect, which digs holes in the skin to lay its eggs, and he had to go to hospital to get it removed. You normally get it when you are walking on the beach without shoes.

Apart from the place of the sand-insect, Kourou is also the place where the French space centre is located and the French guy was going to watch a satellite launch the day after. There are only about 7-9 satellite launches per year so you have to be lucky with the timing to see one. He told me that he was staying in an Indian village on the beach, where he put up the hammock in a shed, and had access to toilet/shower for six euro per day. It was also the place where he caught the insect. I was more tempted by the price of accommodation than the satellite launch but eventually I decided to join him.

Hello space centre. Hello Indian village. And hello sand-insects.

It's all sorted!

Forget my annoying entries yesterday. It didn’t matter. I arrived to the Consulate at 9:00 in the morning, at opening time. There was already a queue but after having filled in all relevant paperwork, it was my turn. I managed to explain to the lady that I intended to go to Suriname “tomorrow” and managed to get my application into today’s queue instead of tomorrow’s. I was going to come back at 14:30 and pick my visa up. It may have helped that I didn’t apply for the normal tourist visa but only a “transit visa”, allowing me three days in the country. It should be enough, two nights in Paramaribo (the capital) and some travelling. I mentioned something about that I had a flight to catch (which I have, only that it isn’t that urgent).
I went back to the hotel, checked out, put my bag in the storage and waited for 14:30.

SHIT POMMES-FRITES!

More bad news. Cayenne was more expensive than I thought. The only so-called “budget place” has now closed (or more correctly, converted from being a hotel-bar-restaurant to only being a bar-restaurant). The cheapest place in town is now an astronomic €43 per night. No wonder no-one comes here.

Femton jävla minuter

If you read the title you will now be able to say “fifteen fucking minutes” in Swedish.

Sometimes you are lucky, sometimes you are not. I did everything right today. I took the early bus yesterday from Macapá so I would arrive to Oiapoque at 07:00 instead of 08:00, at 07:50 I had found the federal police station and was first in the queue for the opening at 08:00 (some morning issues made it take until 08:15 to have my exit stamp though), I hurried down the 10-minute walk to the river and managed to immediately get on a boat at 08:30. The passage to St George (French Guyana) took 10 minutes and at 08:45 departed a shared taxi for Cayenne.

Phew! Much faster than I could imagine. Lying Planet says the taxi ride is two hours so I was sure to make it. What I hadn’t counted with, however, is that the taxi doesn’t go straight. It takes all sorts of funny detours to drop passengers off. Farmers far out in the middle of nowhere. I think I was extremely unlucky because when we finally entered central Cayenne there were only two passengers left (of eight) and all had got off at some remote peculiar places). And the annoying driver, a Brazilian mid-aged woman, was more interested in chatting and gossiping with the passengers, kind of forgetting to put the foot on the gas pedal every time the mouth went too warm.

It felt like I had been in the taxi for four hours and wondered if I still had a chance. The battery in my mobile phone was running low and although I had rebooted it into flight mode, I had only 3% left and had now turned it off. I didn’t know exactly what time it was. I looked at the sun. “Zenit sort of”. Maybe there was still time.

Finally the taxi arrived to central Cayenne. I was thinking of taking my phone out to check the time but I thought that I was on the limit and could not waste any unnecessary time. I instead turned around with my bags and marched with steady steps, like Arnold Schwarzenegger in Terminator, to the Suriname consulate. The visa application time closes at 12:00.

It was closed. I took the phone up, turned it on, it still worked. 12:15.

I had looked forward to this opportunity to save a day in Cayenne and instead of two nights, only stay one and save money. I obviously took the wrong taxi.

Femton jävla minuter. Femton fucking jävla kuk-minuter.

I am in France (I think?!?)

Could I really be in France? I entered the French Guyana and in the immigration office they just waved me out mumbling something about European Union. No stamp. Just like home. I always thought French Guyana was some kind of old-time colony where the name means that they speak French, rather than actually BEING French.

Something like the Netherlands Antilles.

I am currently in a shared taxi on the way to Cayenne (the capital) from the border. At least roads and vehicles they look as were of French standard, unlike the rubbish on the other side of the Brazilian border. I travel in such style and with so much space that I can even write my blog as I go.

According to the only other guy in the taxi who appears to be able to utter some few words in English, this is a French territory that never gained independence. He says it is now held in check by the French government, who does little to actually develop business in the region and instead prefers to just pay out unemployment and pension benefits to its few citizens. “Making a loss” on French Guyana seems to be worthwhile as France then would be able to keep CNS (the French Space Centre), which since 1980 has launched two thirds of the world’s satellites from its superior location almost on the equator. But as long as Paris pay their checks every month, I guess independence is not a priority.

It seems like a bit of a controversial topic but I think it makes sense somehow. I quite like this guy. He is a patriot. But I will stay out of the politics for sure.

The idiot of Amazonia Hostel Belém

It’s likely to be the owner because I can’t imagine any living soul who actually would employ this fellow.  The guy with a beer-stomach twice as large as the t-shirt he is wearing together with his dirty waist drawstring-trousers, haunting the Amazonia Hostel, is a complete idiot. It is confirmed.

The webpage says that the hostel has internet. I was on a very tight schedule and needed to check if my flight had been confirmed before going to the airport next day. I asked and he said it didn’t work. “Will it work tomorrow?” I replied. No, it wouldn’t. Maybe on Friday they would come and fix it. I spent a couple of hours of my valuable time trying to find an internet cafe with my five-year old guidebook (I call it Lying Planet because nothing in it is correct anymore) but eventually I found one and I was relieved to see that all was OK and working fine so far. I spent the rest of the day visiting sights of Belém before sleeping, tired after the night bus.

In the morning next day, I tried to connect to the Internet just for fun while eating breakfast and IT WORKED!!! I asked the fat guy about it and he had no idea. It should not work. Maybe it worked all the time then. Well, everyone can do a mistake. I should not judge you by the look. I then asked how to get to the airport. “Yes it’s very easy”, he said. “Just take the bus outside the hostel, it takes just 30 minutes”. “Perfect. “I have time to see more of Belém”, I thought.  I came back later, packed my bag and took the bus he had indicated, just outside the hostel. He said it would go to the centre, turn around and, whoosh, all the way to the airport.

To the centre it went. Then out in the suburb. Then back into Belem following the outskirts. No sign of the airport. “Have I missed it?” I thought after a while. I was sure I hadn’t because you just don’t miss an airport. Missing an airport terminal isn’t like zooming past a McDonalds by accident. And I couldn’t have taken the wrong bus because it had “Aeroporto” written on it, and I even asked the ticket guy if it passed the airport. He said yes. This bus is definitely passing the airport.

I was giving it a little bit more time as traffic moved slowly. Many thoughts later, I had been on the bus for much more than an hour. It was packed and stopped everywhere. Every stop and every corner. I thought about Ryan Air flights; check-in closes 40 minutes before departure. It was now just 45 minutes before departure. I hoped it would be different on national Brazilian flights, but I wasn’t quite sure. And the bus just cruised on, in turtle-speed traffic. “I’m giving it five minutes more”, I thought.  “If I can’t see the airport, I get off!”  After five minutes, there were no sign of an airport. Still in the city even. Houses all around and no large roads, which normally surround airports. “Damn idiot” I thought. “Burn in Hell”.

I jumped off the packed bus in frustration, found a taxi within two minutes and asked for the airport. “And quickly please as it must be very close”(!) The old man in the taxi said, “Woo, it’s far. It will be at least £8” (With Brazilian taxi fares, that’s relatively far). “Shit!”. But as it was still almost 40 minutes to departure I thought of taking the chance. The taxi got through a couple of areas with road works with slow traffic but it must have taken only somewhere between 10-15 minutes in total to reach the airport, although it felt more like 25. I ran inside the terminal, found the TAM counters and queued up. It can’t have been much more than 20 minutes to departure and I was sure I was fried. My perfect plan spoiled. All fried, like a haddock on Kevin Kay’s barbeque.

But surprisingly, it was still possible to check-in. Even AFTER the boarding had started. Amazing that is. I thanked my good Lord and lucky star; I will not forget this.

I ran through the luggage checkpoints and joined the boarding queue. I sat down in the cabin and I could finally breathe when I spotted my bag in the luggage trolley outside (phew!). I relaxed and thought about the idiot of Amazonia Hostel. 30 minutes. Fucking idiot.

The perfect plan

I had my route in mind: I was going to pass through the “Guianas” before entering Venezuela. The Guianas are three small countries north of Brazil, which are a bit forgotten. They don’t see many tourists, it is difficult to get to them and they are not on any natural route (neither land nor air). In other words: if you purposely don’t travel to the Guyanas, you are likely to never pass by.

Now, I had checked around on the internet for places to stay in the three countries and had come to the conclusion that there were two things to consider when travelling on the route Brazil-French Guiana-Suriname-Guyana-Brazil.

1. The middle country, Suriname, is a pain in the arse and require visas for citizens if the European Union. This has to be obtained in any of the other two and the visa processing time is “next day service”.
2. In French Guiana, there doesn’t seem to be any hostel or cheap guesthouse. One therefore has to stay in the city hotels. And it was too late to coach surf.

In other words, key objective was to minimise the stay in Cayenne (capital of French Guyana) where I have to wait for the visa. That practically means that you can only arrive Monday-Thursday (also check for public holidays) due to the consulate opening times to guarantee not having to wait for the visa during the weekend (which could turn out to be expensive). Considering I arrived to Belém on a Monday, I quickly realised that in order to get to Cayenne in time, there was no time to wait for the hammock-boat to Macapá. I had to take a Tuesday flight (almost same price as the boat anyway) and in the evening take the night bus to the border (I had information that they depart daily), arrive there Wednesday and during the day travel to Cayenne, apply for visa Thursday and pick it up Friday and same day leave to some place where there were cheaper lodging. This was my worst case scenario. And my perfect plan.