Los Roques by Marc S

Los Roques, 1999
Author: Marc S

I just got back from diving the Los Roques islands. Here's a report, if you're interested.

Los Roques is the name of a series of mostly uninhabited rocks, sandbars and islands rising out of the southeast part of the Caribbean Sea, about 90 miles north of Venezuela. The islands form an oblong atoll, with the archipelago surrounding a shallow lagoon. The atoll is about 18 miles wide from east-to-west and 6 miles long from north-to-south.

The area is a national park, and claims to be the oldest marine park in the world. "Los Roques" means "the Rooks" (as in chess pieces), and I don't know why the islands are named that. But I just spent a week on the Antares Dancer, diving all around the area.

Part 1 - Getting to Caracas: The easiest way to get to Los Roques is to fly into Caracas, and then fly out to Gran Roque. I flew American Airlines to Caracas. On the way, I bought some Venezuelan money at the Thomas Cook booth in Dallas, which turned out to be a fantastic rip off; they gave me 519 "Bolivares" for each of my dollars. I later found out the exchange rate was 600 to the dollar.

When I arrived at the Caracas airport, the rip offs increased. After I cleared customs, I pushed my luggage cart out the glass doors, with my carry-on strapped to my back. A guy in a white shirt with epaulettes stopped me, and explained in Spanish that the carts were to go no further. I'm sort of handicapped, so I don't like lugging my big dive bag long distances. I looked a little perplexed, as a readied my cane in one hand and tried to lift both my two bags with the other. Instead, the official-looking guy handed my bags to two swarthy looking fellows, one of which he said was a "taxista." These guys offered me a cab ride into my hotel, and I limped after them with my cane as they carried my bags up an escalator to a darkened parking area. I tipped one of the guys, who complained it wasn't enough, and so I tipped him more, as the other guy got his "taxi."

The "taxista" rumbled towards me in a beat-up Ford sedan with darkened windows and a bad muffler. I piled in the back, feeling pretty nervous about the situation. I mean, this looked bad.

As we drove into the sweltering equatorial night, I envisioned problems that could occur in this unmarked "taxi." I began to run scenarios through my mind. Would the guy turn around with a gun? Would he stop in a remote area of the jungle, with his friends surrounding the car? How would I even know where the heck he was going?

I sat behind him, and craned my head over his back, watching his hands and the road in front. I folded my aluminum cane in half so I'd have a weapon, if needed. I mean, the light metal wouldn't make a very effective bludgeon, but any port in a storm, as they say...

We went through a tunnel in the dark, tropical hillside, and finally came out to see the lights of a big city before us. At least he seemed to be heading into Caracas.

But Caracas looked pretty rough, as we got closer. Concrete pilings were covered with grafitti, and buildings looked pretty decrepit. Tenement housing was apparent, with laundry hanging from the flimsy hillside residences. We toured through the old part of town, as we headed for "Parque Central."

To my great relief, he asked for directions, and pulled up before the Hilton. I opened the door, and jumped out. The cab driver began demanding $70 US money, which I thought was crazy. I asked how much it would be in Bolivares, and he demanded 35,000. As I began peeling 5,000 Bolivar notes from my wallet, the doorman for the Hilton finally arrived, and told me the fare should be 19,000. I had already given the guy 25,000 and I started to ask for it back, when I figured I'd let him have the balance, and leave well enough alone. I mean, I was alive, I was there, and so things could have been much worse.

Part 2, Cruising around Caracas, and searching for the flight:

Once into the Hilton hotel, I began to feel comfortable. I opened the curtains in my 8th floor room and peered out to see people walking on the street in the warm summer night. I wanted to go out, but having seen the city of Caracas from the window of a darkened sedan, I didn't dare venture into the streets alone with my flimsy folding cane, on a Venezuelan midnight. Instead, I had sushi in the Hilton's lobby and conversed in broken Spanish with the Japanese chef regarding his friends in San Francisco, who owned a restaurant I did not know. "San Francisco es muy grande," I explained. It seemed far away.

The following morning, with daylight to protect me, I taxied down to the Plaza Bolivar and walked along streets teeming with an ethnically mixed population. If you visualize a crowded third world city, you'll get the feeling of Caracas on a Saturday. The streets looked as if they were out of a movie; dirty storefronts with large signs advertised to shoppers that bustled along in foreign clothes. Mothers guided children by the hand and street hawkers called out. One man preached salvation before the end of the world, with a loudspeaker. When I listened to him, I reflected that people down here take the Y2K problem seriously, while in Godless California, we're only worried about our computer chips.

Cars and buses crowded every corner and spewed dirty black powder with a vigor that made me think that local drivers weren't familiar with concepts like "emission standards" or "annual smog checks." No one looked American, nor did anyone but me walk in white tennis shoes and blue jeans. I clearly was not in the Bay Area anymore.

But, Caracas had something in common with my home town. You see, when the area was first settled, Spanish adventurers named the South American City "San Francisco," and the name would have stuck if the local Indians hadn't twice overrun the settlement and killed all the Europeans. When they rebuilt, the Spaniards finally settled on the name of Caracas, and that left the name "San Francisco" available for a town far to the north and west of the ancient streets where I strolled.

I grew hungry and stopped to ask for directions to a good restaurant. "Who would I ask?" I pondered. The guy preaching the end of the world didn't look like a good prospect; he probably wasn't anticipating many more meals. A guy hawking tennis shoes and radios directed me to Tasca La Atarraya, a busy restaurant at the Plaza La Venezolano.

I settled into a stiff wooden chair at the counter, ordered what looked like a papaya/melon smoothie, and wondered what microorganisms could be floating in the glass of ice cubes and fruit that was handed to me. "What the heck?" I thought, as I threw back the blended drink, "When in Caracas..."

I tried to order some healthy, low-fat, California-style cuisine, but it seemed that Venezuelans focused more on carbohydrates and cheese. So I ate what they called "Chachapas con queso," which was sweet-tasting corn meal fried in butter with cheese in the middle. It was pretty good, and I recommend Tasca La Atarraya, if you find ever find yourself in the neighborhood. (But don't bother to look for California food in Caracas. You'll feel like Steve Martin in the movie "LA Story" if you try to order a "double decaf nonfat latte.")

Satiated, I resumed my aimless stroll through this sophisticated foreign city. A guy played a lonely saxophone in Parque Central; cops stood in the middle of the street on Avenida Este. "Caracas is a trip," I thought to myself. "It's kinda like Haight-Ashbury was in the 60's, except the people are cleaner and you can't hear the Jefferson Airplane."

Soon I had to find my way to Los Roques, so I went back to the Hilton. I needed to get going, and my travel agent had only given me approximate flight times and instructions to meet the Peter Hughes group at the airport. The phone book gave no indication of the airline (LTA) nor "Peter," "Hughes," "Antares," or "Dancer." I asked the clerk at the front desk, and he called around. No one had ever heard of LTA airlines nor the Antares Dancer.

I packed off to the airport, and befriended a skycap. He led me to Aerotuy Airlines, which had small signs that said "Los Roques," and "LTA." The man checked my bags and directed me to a gate in the national terminal. I settled to wait with a group of Venezuelans, and looked for anyone with American shoes, diving T-shirts or clothing bearing emblems related to PADI, NAUI or Peter Hughes. A plane took off, and everyone left, but no Americans nor divers materialized. I pannicked: Had I missed the flight? Was I stranded in Caracas without my luggage? Would I have to endure another midnight taxi ride through the Venezuelan jungle?

Part 3 - Finding the boat and getting into the water

I sat at Gate 5B in Caracas' national terminal for two hours, waiting for some sign of Peter Hughes, the Antares Dancer, or the flight to Gran Roque. A group of stone faced Venezuelans waited impatiently with me. None of them looked like divers. When I called out the names "Antares Dancer" and "Peter Hughes," they simply looked at me with perplexed expressions, probably convinced I was a loud and crazy foreigner. An airplane came and the entire company boarded. But the plane was headed for a different island (Margarita Island), and was on a different airline (Air Venezuela). I was alone, confused and afraid that I had missed my flight.

Faced with the prospect of sitting longer at the deserted gate in the bottom of Caracas' national terminal, I decided to go back up to the Aerotuy ticket counter to ask whether the plane had left, and if not, if it would ever come. But I also wanted to stay at the gate, in case the plane came. I decided to make the trek back to the Aerotuy counter, and I set out as fast as I could, clumping up the defunct escalator with my cane in hand.

Of course, going up the track ahead of me was the only person in Caracas airport that could possibly have traveled more slowly. An old Venezuelan woman stiffly climbed the steps, with her son apparently carrying her bags. I heartlessly stepped to the left and deftly passed her, taking the steps one at a time.

Free of the obstacle, I shot to the Aerotuy counter, and shouted to the assembled passengers: "Peter Hughes? Antares Dancer?"

A group of Gringos looked at me hopefully and smiled. "Are you the trip leader?" They asked.

"No." I told them, "I'm just another passenger."

Glum expressions spread across their faces. They were apparently seeking salvation from the Dancer Fleet, as was I.

I turned to the man at the ticket counter. "A que hora va a salir el vuelo a Gran Roque?" I inquired. (When is the flight to Gran Roque going to leave?)

"A las cinco." (Five O'Clock.) He responded.

"En sala Cinco B?" I asked. (At gate 5b?)

"Si." He confirmed. (Yes, stupid. I already told you once.)

I turned to the gringos and met stares of admiration at my facility with the Spanish language. (These people obviously spoke little of the local dialect. They were impressed by my brief display on bilingual abilities. They did not yet know that my language skills were only good when ordering beer and tequila.)

I turned to my prospective dive buddies. "You guys wanna walk down to the gate with me?" I asked. They agreed, and I then met some of the nicest folks I have ever had the good fortune to encounter on a dive trip. We set out together, back to gate 5B. Heck, it was OK if I was going to miserably wait another hour for the flight, which I had originally been told would leave at 3:30. At least I would have company!

Jim and Alberta, instructors extraordinaire, were traveling with their lovely daughter, Kristin. Brian and Carol, corporate exec and divemaster, were traveling with their lovely daughter. Greg and Alice, photo pro and video ace, rounded out this excellent group of Americans. And, to help us find our way in land as in the heavens, Alfredo and Angela, Venezuelan dance instructor and amateur astronomer, introduced themselves. This was a great group, and the difficulty we had at the airport was the last problem we had with Peter Hughes and the Dancer boat.

We crammed into a propeller plane, single file up the steps behind the wing. Just being polite, I waited until everyone else had entered the small craft before I climbed in, and there was only one seat left on the plane when I finally went to sit down. As fate would have it, the open seat was next to a ravishing and slender young Italian fashion model, who spoke fluent English. She complained that the seat next to her was wet from the dripping air conditioner, but the stewardess downplayed her concerns, and forced her to sit on the damp seat. Needless to say, it was a nice flight, chatting with the tanned European, while she sat on the wet spot.

At Gran Roque, we were met by the crew of the Antares Dancer. Our confused journey was over, and the diving was about to begin. Two divemasters and a Peter Hughes consultant carried our bags to a waiting skiff, and ferried us to the boat.

The Antares Dancer is a flat bottomed boat, perfect for cruising in the shallow reefs and lagoon at Los Roques. It is 85' long, and fits 12 passengers. The cabins are spacious, with private heads.

The Captain and crew of the Antares were among the best I have ever had the pleasure of diving with. Frank (Francisco), a veteran of the Venezuelan navy and coast guard, knew his way through the shallow lagoon, even when the necessary path seemed counterintuitive. Jose, the dancing Venezuelan divemaster, made everyone happy and safe. Juan Carlos, the Karate champion/divemaster/language expert, was simply one of the nicest, gentlest guys I've ever met.

The next morning, we climbed onto the Antares' skiff, and drove over to the lee side of Gran Roque, for a "check-out" dive. We dropped onto a site called "Female Diver," which had a shallow ridge underwater. We saw healthy and vibrant reefs. Water temperature was 84 degrees, and visibility was about 50'. As is my style, I followed the group underwater, slowly kicking along in my new Apollo Biofins. (Thumbs up for them.) Since I hadn't been diving in six months (gasp!) I stayed as long as I could. Once everyone else ran out of air, we surfaced.

Our second dive was at a place they called "the Pinnacles," farther off the tip of Gran Roque. Despite the name, it was not a pinnacle sticking straight up, such as the Eye of the Needle at Saba or Roca Partida in the Socorros. This was another underwater ridge, although more pronounced than the first dive. Above water the cliffs of the island form a pointed ridge, and directly off the point, underwater, is an identically shaped ridge, about 95' deep. We saw tarpons, jacks, and many smaller fish. Water temperature was again 84', and visibility was a little better, about 60'.

The next day, we drove all the was around the archipelago, to an island named Dos Mosquises. I was disappointed, though. The dives at Gran Roque had limited visibility, 50 to 60'. Had I flown all the way to Gran Roque for that? Would the water be clearer on the next dives?

Part 4 - Final part

The Los Roques Islands were originally charted by Englishmen, who named the islands with English words. The Northeast key was so named, for example. Spaniards then tried to pronounce the names and spell them with Spanish pronunciation. Thus, it was named "Nordiski."

How Dos Mosquises Island got its name is a bit unclear. I mean, we can figure it was named because of two mosquitos. But we don't know which language was the genesis of the title, since "mosquito" is a cognitive word, that is spelled the same in both languages. We also know, based on my dives there, that Dos Mosquises was not named for its water clarity and will not be famous for its underwater visibility. It is one of the few inhabited islands in the archipelago, with a pretty white sand beach and a turtle research station. But the water clarity was poor.

We anchored near the lee of the island and climbed onto the skiff. A reef lay nearby, Juan Carlos told us. We drove to the reef, and back-flipped off the skiff. This was a drift dive, along the reef.

The water was murky. At depth, it was possible to see (and count) the whole group when we first descended, but this due to the fact that these divers stayed close together. Since I could see everyone at once on the bottom, I estimate the visibility as about 30 feet. (Everyone was close together at the start of the dive, and then separated so that they weren't all visible for the rest of the dive.) The water temperature was even higher on this side of the atoll, 86 degrees on my thermometer. (Other people always show about 2 or 3 degrees lower, so the water may have been 83 or 84 degrees.) We saw a vibrant and healthy reef, in pristine condition, but the visibility was, by Caribbean standards, poor.

The next dive was even murkier, clarity about 20 feet or so. Still warm, but filled with some sort of green sediment that flowed out of the lagoon. The sediment was visible from the deck of the boat, when the tide was low. We named the green line of organic material, that would go out to sea with some currents, the "Yuck line."

"I'm from Louisiana," Greg told me, standing on the deck of the boat, looking at the water, "so I know a 'Yuck Line' when I see one." The green water was rising in the lagoon, and the line of sediment was headed out. It was late in the afternoon, and looking at that, we decided to skip the night dive (and drink the free wine and beer the Antares provided).

Frank, the Captain, explained that, on nights when the moon is not visible, the currents are stronger, and organic sediment in the bottom of the lagoon is stirred up. The green nutrients are carried out to sea, and the visibility is reduced. Should you dive Los Roques only when a moon is visible in the sky at night? I don't know. The Captain did indicate the visibility is better during other moon phases, but I cannot tell you how much better it gets.

On the following days, the visibility improved. Water clarity had hit it's nadir off Dos Mosquises Island, and we later got back to 50' visibility. On some dives, we got 70-75' vis. But we still had to endure some afternoon dives with 30 feet of clarity. (As in most places in the world, the visibility generally got worse through the day, and improved overnight.)

On the last full day of diving, we drove through the lagoon, to a site called La Boca de Cote. There, the visibility was better than 50 feet, even in the late afternoon. The reef system was lush, vibrant, and there was almost no evidence of coral bleaching. Tropical fish were very plentiful, and there was very little broken coral. We were told to hunt under coral heads for sleeping nurse sharks.

Sure enough, we found three nurse sharks, ranging from 5 to 6 feet in length, lying in the sand. They lay motionless in the crevices under large coral heads, and I was able to observe them from close range. (As close as I wanted to get!) I could have touched them, but I was sure they did not want that, so I did not. I held my breath as I got close to them, so that I would not scare them with bubbles. I was able to study them for as long as I wanted, and watch their eyes. When I wanted to breathe, I just stuck my head out of the cave, exhaled, inhaled, and held my breathe as I looked at the shark again. I could tell they were awake, because their eyes were opened and they looked at me. But they held still, and I did not molest them. They were beautiful animals!

The health of the reefs in the Los Roques archipelago was very, very good. The sleeping sharks were great. But the visibility was poor. Is the clarity always like that off Los Roques? I don't know. Perhaps one of the other posters knows.

Mind you, I don't believe in complaining about poor conditions. Diving is an outdoor sport, and you take the conditions the way you get them. (If you want it optimal all the time, you should go to an I-Max theater.) I've had my share of bad visibility and rough weather, which makes it all nicer when I happen to get great conditions.

There were good things about the diving. First of all, the advertising, which claims the conditions are "the way the Caribbean was 20 years ago," is true. At least, the reefs were in similar condition to the reefs I observed when I was first in the Caribbean, 17 years ago. These reefs were among the most virgin and unspoiled I have ever seen. The ecosystems appeared vibrant and healthy, which is more than I can say for a LOT of famous dive sites. Second, there are still "sleeping" sharks in Los Roques. This is another sign that the area is relatively pristine. The last time I saw a sleeping shark, close enough to touch, was 17 years ago, between Cancun and Cozumel, in the shallow water north of Barracuda reef. (Of course, the sharks presumably do not engage in "sleeping" behavior near Cancun, anymore. Presumably they have been scared off by hordes of divers, cruise ships and fishermen. Ten years ago, I was told by a Cozumel divemaster the sleeping sharks had never existed. Yeah, right.) It is rare that I get to see such animals for so long a time, at such close range, and it is great.

The Los Roques Islands were truly wonderful. Gran Roque is simply one of the nicest places I have ever been. It is a little fishing village, with only about 20 or 30 little houses. Some have been converted to Posadas and restaurants, to accommodate the tourist trade, which appears to be largely European. There are no paved roads, and only two motor vehicles: The water truck and the garbage truck. I would guess that, on most days, there are only about 100 people on the island. (Maybe less.) On Friday night, about half the people on the island gathered in the Plaza, with a DJ with a sound system. Everyone, including children, danced to salsa music and played bingo together. It was great!

My final words on the Antares Dancer and Los Roques trip:
(1) Captain and crew: Great.
(2) Boat: Nice.
(3) Diving: Fair.
(4) Gran Roque: One of the best places in the world.

Marc

PS - If anyone else had different diving conditions, I'd like to hear about it.