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tiny boat that was ferrying people and small local bikes across . It was getting dark ; we were almost out of petrol again and our stash of dollars had dwindled . So , we retreated to a hotel in a nearby town where the owner syphoned petrol from his motorbike for us in the morning so we could return to Merida to see if we could somehow get more cash .
We paid the hotel by credit card , but cash-back was not an option . Banks couldn ’ t pay out unless we had an account with them . The only cash machine to dispense anything gave us a thick wad of bolivars worth about seventy cents for a $ 5 withdrawal fee . And MoneyGram and Western Union could only pay out to Venezuelan residents .
Defeated , we decided to blow our last dollars on a celebratory meal . “ No beer ”, we were warned at the door as the referendum meant a three day ban on alcohol sales , but the cook was more than happy to rustle up one more meal for us . As we were tucking into scrumptiously spiced chicken and chips , we mused about our encounter with an exteacher earlier in the day . He used to be a bit of a moto-traveller himself and invited us to stay with him . When we told him we had to leave for Colombia , he said he wouldn ’ t go there anymore , because it had become too dangerous .
Determined to make the most of our time left here , we took the remote mountain route back to San Cristobal . It was a car day , but with no other petrol station nearby the attendant let us fill up . The winding road led into the picturesque patchwork farmland hills of Bailadores , where the matronly owner of a small restaurant ran out and hugged us , “ Welcome !”, before we ’ d managed to climb off our bikes . She ushered us in for a usual lunch of soup followed by rice and meat and shared her story . Her late husband used to take her on moto journeys and now she considers herself mother of travellers , welcoming them into her home . She wouldn ’ t let us pay a cent and sent us off with more hugs .
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