Relearning patience - Rachel

I realise I haven’t embraced the fast pace of London as much as I could have done over the last few years, but I’ve still gone up a few notches for me in terms of how fast I expect things to happen. Venezuela’s reminding me that for the most part, my concept of time and a schedule should be fluid. Several days ago, we caught a coach from Caracas to Cumaná, a sweaty port town east of the capital. The journey was scheduled to take 7 hours. It took 10. Half way there, a truck a few miles ahead of us toppled over and dumped its load of sand all over the road. And so we all stopped. The driver got out, threw his arms in the air and then got back in again. He did this several times over the next few hours. As is customary I think in Latin America, a few drivers got fed up of waiting in the queue, and so decided to drive past everyone to the front of the accident in the other lane. Much hooting and arm gesturing followed them but that was about it. Nobody complained on our bus or even looked put out by our delay. There’s a much greater degree of acceptance for things happening when they happen over here I think.