We are currently driving through the highest (altitude, not weed) village in Venezuela which sits at 3000 meters. Apparently the altitude has disgorged some blogworthy gems from the residual alcoholic goop in my head:
At the US-Argentina match, I took a picture with a Venezuelan solider with my flag sprawled across him. He was none too pleased. Sadly, you will not see this picture due to my aforementioned douchebaggery.
On the way back from paragliding, a car tried to lodge itself in the backend of our land cruiser so I started making kissy faces. Said faces elicited the expected response: the bird. Thinking we would taunt the bird flippers, we held up our beers. The driver's response, he held up not one, but 2 beers. It should be noted that the front seat passenger also had a baby in her lap. See, Britney is not the worst mom alive.
After dinner in Merida, we set off in search of a bar on a sunday night. Nothing was open so we sent Fabio and Roger in a cab to find a liquor store (because we didn't have to leave the next morning till 7 am) while the rest of us walked back to the posada. Bloody Knuckles continued to wage war against insects and stomped a cucaracha to a gooey death. We also passed a couple prostitutes on the street. Sweet.
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