Before I would leave Santa Elena de Uairen I wanted to take the absolute last chance to find backpackers here. I drove towards the border and turned right at the sign board for the airport. I had never been at the airport before, had never considered this an option to find backpackers, I did not expect too much of an airport, did not expect a sufficient infrastructure. I arrived at the terminal which was built in the typical indigenous style; it was kind of a big copy of an indigenous home with the roof of palm leaves. Inside, the reception desk, the sign boards, the bathrooms, the snack bar, the restaurant, the waiting area, just everything was of a modern design and good and new quality material. I did not find backpackers just a small proud indigenous boy with two baby huskies with shiny blue eyes.

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I arrived at the border, left the car at the parking of the Venezuelan military post and walked to the Brazilian federal police office to have a look if any foreigners were in the queue to receive the stamp for leaving the country, this was not the case. I walked back and had a look now at the Venezuelan immigration office SAIME if any foreigners were in the queue to receive the stamp for entering the country, but this was not the case either. I drove back to Santa Elena, one more time to the main square, one more time to the Gringo street and one more time to the terminal, but nothing.

I had to leave, I had exactly enough petrol to get to Kamoiran. I passed the military control now for the third time and knew the staff and the procedure. I walked straight to the desk with my documents and was signed in at the big red book. We had a small talk, I explained my intentions, the sergeant asked for his present. I promised to bring an original stone back from Mount Roraima; the sergeant laughed but a stone was definitely not what he was expecting.

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I passed the sign board for Mount Roraima at the junction to Paraitepuy just a kilometer before Kumarakapay and an hour later I arrived at Kamoiran. I filled up the tank myself up to the limit where the petrol almost drops out of the opening. I went to the restaurant and met the friendly indigenous waiter for the third time. He had a tasty looking slice of ham and cheese pizza on display and I had to have one. Today I was sure to never see him again and I said good bye.

It was midday, I had the tank full and I could take it easy to drive the final 75 kilometers back to Kumarakapay. I stopped at several rivers to take a bath and refresh. I had passed Mount Roraima now four times and seen the mountain always in clouds from the distance. I was that close, less than 50 kilometers but in a certain way I had not really come closer. I hope this would change in the next days and I would find my group or negotiate a big discount just for myself.

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I arrived in Kumarakapay, the village that was home to the indigenous carriers who would take your luggage, your food or your technical equipment, just whatever you wanted them to take to Mount Roraima. The center of the village was the police station and opposite the bus stop underneath the tree. Along the road you had souvenir shops and several restaurants or snack bars. I had a small talk with the officer on duty to let him know that I would be staying for the next days to hopefully find my group.

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