With its beautiful beaches and palm trees backed by its good surf, or pier, where you can sit and watch the pelicans diving, Choroni is the place to put them back and find out the authentic and original Caribbean in May as it was years ago.

We knew we had arrived on the scene as soon as we left the bus. Choroni also known as Puerto Colombia, is a fishing village on the central coast of Venezuela is famous for its parties and dances. (Drums).

During colonial times this was a large plantation of slaves and its geographic isolation has helped to maintain important elements of Afro-Caribbean culture.

The first adventure is to Choroni. Is about 3 hours by bus from the capital city of Caracas to Choroni and the road that winds up in the city of Maracay in the cool cloud forest of Henri Pittier National Park is not for the faint of heart.

The road was built in the 1930s by the dictator Juan Vicente Gómez as an escape route to the sea, but today its main use is for the applicants moved Sunday, surfers, bird watchers and foreign tourists who flock here every Friday.

The hair pin curves are truly hair-raising and the driver is an expert or have entrusted our lives to the Virgin Mary light stuck on the dashboard. Although I say a little prayer, which happily on the bus swings around the curve in time to the erotic salsa blaring from the speakers. Far from being concerned about the pace crazy, my fellow passengers seem happy to sing along.

The biggest thrill comes along to pass the highest point, about 2000 meters above sea level when the bus suddenly screaming, shuddering halt. The whole world is out to see what happened only to find a sloth of three fingers in the middle of the road with a little baby sloth on the back. It was a miracle that does not stick. Perhaps Madonna is looking down on us after all.

Our first stop is the beautiful colonial town of Choroni, a retreat of the sea, the protection of the marauding English pirates that once scoured the coasts for loot. A few more miles bring us to Puerto Colombia, right on the sea.

Perhaps it is early, but the music is everywhere. A small stall juice is playing reggae, the liquor store it blasting salsa and reggaeton festival passes are pie in the place where the fishermen go out and drink beer. There is a distinct African atmosphere here is that unlike the rest of Venezuela.

After a wash and brush on the cheap and cheerful Posada de los Guanches (less than $ 40 per night) we set out to explore. It is a five minutes walk to the beach with palm trees, which is surrounded by high cliffs. The sea is warm and frisky, perfect for body surfing, but with an undertow in some places that are best avoided.

The first friend we do is Pablo, a former guard who now sells life "guarapita" a cocktail of sweet taste of passion fruit, sugar cane and alcohol. Palomino is also less traditional "chocopita" from cocoa powder that falls surprisingly easy. In fact, swinging in the hammock under a palm tree, drinking guarapita and watching the waves lap the sand, its easy to see why everyone seems so relaxed.

A child comes past with a bucket on his head. He is selling dodgy seafood aphrodisiac aspect called "Seven Powers", or "Seven Powers." That "brings you back to life," he says with a smile. In case you miss the point that says it is also called "Rompe Mattress or Bed Breaker."

That night, after dinner in a glorious red snapper and fried plantains we head towards the pier, the promenade wall, dance.

There is no definite start time. As soon as people gather sufficient and enough has been consumed guarapita only begins.

A couple of boys to drag out two big drums cumaco and put in the statue of Saint John the Baptist. "He's the saint of the blacks, our saint," says Palomino, who has put on the other side of the statue.

Made from a hollow trunk of avocado, the cumaco is almost two meters long. The leather is played the head with his hands by a drummer seated astride the trunk, while another hits a fast pace on the sides with two sticks or chopsticks called Lauren.

As soon as the first bat to break a furious couple begins to dance and forms a circle around them. This is what we came for and not disappoint.

Extremely athletic men, dripping with sweat from the effort, moving the hips like a washing machine turning quickly, trying to get as close as humanly possible to turn the woman in front of them.

At any time another dancer, man or woman, cut in between the two dancers moving and separating them, so the energy never flags.
The crowd in the eggs, applause and cheering the best dancers and laugh at those who have no idea (I fear).

Do so in their local street and someone calls the police.

Meanwhile, a singer, or singer, steps to take forward the call and response vocals.

The song is drowned out by the battery - even stronger now with the arrival of three congas - but around the world merges with the simple chorus of "Dale" ( "do it"), and at the same time for all as a alone. Some four hours later the drums come to put an end to an amazing drink and be exhausted. As they have a whip round for more rum, that walk to the beach for a swim stimulating the moonlight, the drums a distant echo of an unforgettable night swim naked in the warm water.