The beds and rooms in this hotel are more often rented by the hour than for the night. Many cockroaches keep me company but it is already late and pitch-dark, and this is the only "decent"hotel in "El Mojan", shortly before the northwestern border from Venezuela to Colombia.
It has been a long day, from Merida, crossing the Andes high mountains and later along the boiling Caribbean Coast.
A restless night because of mosquito's, whores with customers and worries about crossing the border the next day. Far before dawn the 660 comes to life for the last 70 kilometres to "La Frontera".
I don't have a single stamp for leaving Colombia and entering Venezuela in my passport and will try to cross the border the same way; otherwise there could be trouble.
The tanks are filled once more for 10 cents a litre and I decide to just not stop for anything and hit my horse on it's butt to spur it. Talking of butts…mine is at the moment nothing to be proud of, full of pimples after 4 long days and 2000 kilometres.

Normally a border crossing takes 4 steps. First you export your vehicle and than, at immigrations, you export yourself. Then you pass a small piece of no man's land, with sometimes tax-free knick-knacks, liquor and whores. On the other side, the first question usually is where you just come from and my standard answer is La Luna (the moon), stupid question, and stupid answer! You import yourself and then your moped. It sounds simpler than it is because this game can take many hours. The peak was 5 hours in El Salvador, where they needed 5 hours for the "red tape".
It all went very slowly and the officer, who helped me, didn't even finish his kindergarten according to the other drivers. But the atmosphere was friendly and everybody was laughing at the ridiculous routine. Many jokes were made and the formalities eventually took longer than crossing the country. It is not much different from Holland, where civil servants are often more busy with maintaining their job than with really doing something useful.

With the jitters in my butt I approach the frontier customhouse, and pay very well attention to the people, but keep the motor rolling. People are calling and pointing and I get a barrier on my back but do not stop and am half on my way from no man's land to Colombia. I see a group of sinister people that don't look like civil servants and I swing along the concrete and get ready for the ride to Cartagena.
After 5 kilometres there suddenly is a military customhouse and I can't drive on because I don't want to catch a bullet from their toys. With 6 men they stand there and I already see myself being put on bread and soap (that is what we thought you got in prison when we were young). They ask for my passport and other documents. With my passport in my hand I start talking about guerrilla's further down the road, and the chief tells me with a smile that it's all under control. For 15 minutes I sit there, talking about Gullit, van Basten, motorbikes and women, and cold sweat runs down my back. Suddenly the colossal captain pats me on the back and wishes me "suerte", what means good luck. With one thing less to worry about, I ride towards the horizon, new songs coming out of my helmet, together with a cockroach that walks right over my visor. I don't understand him, because my helmet is smellier than his entire cockroach family together….