A bumbling (but adorable) mess of a man ... whom for reasons of forgetfulness... and it just seemed to fit...Becca and I had dubbed "Roy".
Roy (...a rather youthful looking) 53, was wearing a leeds united jersey, denim jacket... jeans under lapping his socks... (...and...much like my very own writing style...
...init) supported a rather confused Middle/Working class accent...combined with (a rather cute) underbite...
We´d (Becca and I) had stumbled across him when we working our best "negoatation skillz" with (a self appointed) man of the Venezuelan Black Market...
(a system which would give you twice as much "bang for your buck" then the regular (but considerably safer) bank)..
...and...he (Roy that is) was informing us of his (rather elaborate) camping plans, booby traps and the many practical uses of his golfing umbrella
(...one of which I surprised to learn... was collecting rain water)...
(...to drink)
Having little more than a notepad with a couple of beaches scribbled on them... Roy (using my rather shoddy Spanish and the advice my book had given us about getting into town)...accompanied us to the (very unwelcoming) Hostel Nuestro (...an iron bar cladded dive in the Santa Babara district of Caracus)... where we would spend the night.
By morning (Not having left the Nuestro) Roy had decided that he´d seen enough (assuming feeling a little a hasty and under prepared for his 3 month trip camping in wilderness with little funds, his notepad, an umbrella (...for collecting rain water) and some sugar sachets which he had procured from his flight)...
... this is where we parted ways from Roy...heading for the North East coastal beaches of Chroni (...which...it turns out are pretty fucking nice)...
We (...Becca and I) still often ponder about Roy and his whereabouts...
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