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lady invited us into her living room and half an hour later we had the required insurance .
A random biker on a little red 125cc led us to the offices where our new TIP was processed . People were waving us welcome out of open car windows and we didn ’ t get far before a biker stopped us to find out where we were from . He had tips on where to get petrol , joined us up to a biker WhatsApp group and said to reach out if we needed anything at all .
Nature had begun reclaiming the road to San Cristobal and in places bits had simply broken off and cascaded down the slope , leaving a single lane for both directions to share . Dilapidated cars with ropes holding bags and suitcases precariously piled into the open boot and onto the roof bounced along the patched-up asphalt . Everyone was importing as much as they could carry .
We were welcomed to the Posada La Estancia de Bolivar in San Cristobal like old friends . They let us use their motorcycle workshop and everyone knows them as the people to call if you ’ re stranded with bike troubles .
From here we headed to Merida , a famously beautiful base camp to explore the surrounding mountains . Roadside shacks were selling the household goods we ’ d seen people cart across the border and Colombian petrol was for sale in soda bottles . Further from the border these gasolina sellers became fewer and we rolled into Merida on fumes . I had the canisters , but it seemed prudent to try and get some petrol as soon as we could , so we sent a call for help on the WhatsApp group and settled into our hotel .
Up until now Colombian pesos had been accepted everywhere and supermarkets here still took them , but shops and restaurants insisted on dollars . Locals simply paid by card , but we soon realised ours didn ’ t work . From now on our time in Venezuela was limited by how long we could make our dollars last .
The WhatsApp group knew of a petrol station and suggested that as
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