Manizales and Nevado del Ruiz

Manizales is a student town and you can tell - everyone on the streets seems to be between 18 and 26. There is also quite a disproportionate amount of girls. Not to mention a very obvious tendency for the girls to be very attractive.

I immediately liked Manizales. It is also set in a unique location - the main street follows the ridge of a hill, so that you can stand on the street and look at two different valleys.

It was time for some more action so I decided to take a trip up to Nevado del Ruiz, a 5300m high mountain a couple of hours away from Manizales.

The guide turned out to be either very funny or very strange. He started off by introducing the driver and saying that the Manizalians were the best drivers in the whole of Colombia. We then passed the airport and he mentioned that Manizales had the 2nd most dangerous airport in Colombia. I could see a trend. Further information:
* Manizales has the 4th purest drinking water in the world
* Manizales is one of only a handful of cities across the world with multiple microclimates
* The road to NdR is the most dangerous (for landslides) in Colombia
* The road to NdR is the 2nd highest in South America
* Nevado del Ruiz is one of the 5 highest mountains in Colombia (true unfortunately)

The man was a walking statistics machine. Everytime he opened his mouth I started to cringe in fear of another fact assault.

Eventually he shut up and we drove up to 4500m where we parked. At this stage StatistoGuide donned ski googgles, mountaineering boots the size of small children and put on about 15 layers of North Face. He looked as if he was ready to attack K2. I stared at him, wearing a fleece and a pair of trainers.

The climb was technically simple, but due to the altitude bloody tiring. On the way I befriended two East Germans who were also poking fun at our UeberGuide. We made it up in just over an hour and true to form the Ossies cracked open and shared some beers and had some bananas to celebrate.

Villa de Leyva

Villa de Leyva is a small colonial town up in the hills close to Bogota, so I holed up there for a night. I checked into a hotel on the gigantic main square and immediately regretted it. This place was The Shining part 2. Incredibly long halls, mountain wind blowing in and out of the rooms and a creepy old manager shuffling around on her zimmerframe. I had a hot shower for the first time in months, but my sleep was intermittant as I was expecting an ax through the door at any stage.

San Gil

San Gil was just a stop to break up the journey on the road to Bogota. A fairly unimpressive town famous for its whitewater rafting. I declined the offer as after having rafted grade 5s in Nepal I wasn't to be enthused by paltry grade 3s. Instead I headed up to Barichara, a quaint (sorry, I hate that word, but it is the most appropriate) town a couple of kilometers uphill from San Gil. It was a most relaxing day, just spent moseying around, eating ice cream & Hormigas Culonas (Big assed ants (and no, not at the same time)) and generally enjoying the stunning view of the surrounding mountains. Although I did have quite an extremely spiritual moment in the cathedral. Walking in it was completely deserted and quite spooky. I sat down up the front and started to hear a very faint voice. Straining my ears I could definitely make out someone speaking to me. Thinking I was getting instructions from God I stood up and moved closer to the altar whereupon I see a tiny radio which has been left on.

Mompox

I laid up in lovely Taganga for another couple of days. Walking was kept to an absolute minimum, eating and drinking to a maximum. So after a day's decent diving it was with a vague limp and a heavy heart that I left Taganga, destination Mompox.

Mompox was described as being beautiful, but off the beaten track. Little did I realise that this was a slight understatement. Taganga to Santa Martha bus station was fairly easy, but took longer than expected. 10 minutes to spare before next bus, so I shovelled in a coffee and a bunuelo (Colombia doughnut) for brekkie.

My bus to Bosconia became delayed by a "couple" of hours, so by the time I arrived in sensational Bosconia my connecting bus to Mompox had departed. But this being South America it proved to be no problem as no sooner than I had left the bus some chap was shouting "El Banco" at me, I had read somewhere that this was close(ish) to Mompox. So I give him a quick nod and follow him down a road to a people carrier that was already packed with 8 people. My seat was back left, right over the rear wheel. Fantastic. I took my seat beside a nice man with a rooster in his lap. I petted the rooster and off we set, the driver switching on the radio and turning it up to 11.

2 hours later we arrived in El Banco, a sweltering town on the banks of the Magdalena River. Mompox was still 80kms away and it was already 4pm. I found a boat captain and asked him if he would take me. He didn't look too pushed and said he'd [unwillingly] take me for 20 dollars. Twilight robbery. But as luck would have it, a motorbike taxi driver (common enough in parts of Colombia) dawdles by and says he'll do it for 10 bucks. Deal.

On I jump with backpack strapped tight and we head off into the impending sunset. The road is nice, the view beautiful, the wind in my hair refreshing. I hum "born to be wild". Life is great.

But then 5km outside of El Banco, 75km to go, the lovely paved road turns into a dirt track the likes of which I haven't seen since backcountry Cambodia. Holes, bumps, rocks, streams, trees, pigs and the finest dust I have ever seen. You name it the road threw it at us. I bounced on the back of the bike like a jack in the box. After about an hour when I thought I could feel no longer we arrived at a river. I thought it was all over, but no, the driver rides onto a canoe ferry (a novel invention) and we are paddled across the river for 50 cents.

On the other side the road got worse, impossible I thought, but true. We ride on for another hour. At this stage I am so numb that I don't even notice when we enter Mompox. So after just over two hours we ride up to the only hostel in town (the lovely Casa Amarilla) and I clamber off the bike. I feel like I have been raped by an elephant. I walk into the hostel and the owner (a nice English chap) greets me incredously with "Gosh, you obviously had to take a motorbike???". He shows me a room, gives me a beer and I finally get a look in a mirror. I look like a schnitzel. I am literally caked in dust.

The trip in the end was worth it, as Mompox is lovely. Full of history (Simón Bolívar, liberator of much of Spanish South America, said "If to Caracas I owe my life, then to Mompox I owe my glory.") and people that are still shocked to see foreigners (great to have schoolkids giggle and point when they see you). It is a small town and one of the hottest places I have been to (4 showers a day), so after a day and a half it was time to head up to the highlands and get away from the heat for some weeks.

Granada

You can see the connections to Spain in Nica. Two of their biggest towns are called Leon and Granada and their currency is called a Cordoba.

Granada is as close to Europe as you are going to get in Central America. Cobblestone streets, shady parks and even cafes and bars with outside seating, something otherwise unheard of down here. Even in oh-so-touristy Antigua.

All this of course encourages masses of tourists. I don't really know why, as it is basically like any mid sized town in southern Europe. Something a group of Spanish doctors brought home to me whilst diving on little corn. They were only on holidays for two weeks in Nica and I asked them had they been to Leon or Granada. They replied with humour that if they wanted cobblestones, churches and parks then they would have stayed at home.

Nonetheless Granada is undoubtedly lovely, situated on Lago de Nicaragua, which is the largest lake in Central America and one of the 20 largest in the world. The pace is slow and it is fantastic to see as the evening breaks families sitting in chairs outside their houses, kids playing contentedly with each other till the wee small hours. Something which apparently shocks Americans.

But again the curse of tourism is evident. Prices are high and begging quite prevalent.

Oh well, nowhere is perfect.

Alegria

Meaning happiness in Spanish, Alegria is El Salvador's highest town and a little gem. Situated on the side of a volcano (shocker), the fertile soils are perfect for growing flowers and the town is veritably in bloom. Also like most of El Salvador it is wonderfully lacking in gringos. In fact I went 2 days without seeing another tourist.
The highlight of the town is the crater lake, a leisurely walk uphill. It is a eerie green colour and as I made it there the clouds descended to create an even spookier mood. Nevertheless it is a stunning place and one of the highlights of fantastic El Salvador, which treated me to a little earthquake (well not so little when it hit 7.1 on the Richter in Honduras) on my last night, gently rocking my bed at 2am.

Time to move on to Nicaragua.

Photos of Alegria

Complete set of photos from El Salvador

Suchitoto

More relaxed than a stoned sloth on valium, the "nothing to do with Japan" colonial village of Suchitoto is what travelling is all about. A beautiful town with extremely friendly natives, good cheap restaurants, enough things to keep you busy during the day (including the lake and the local Los Tercios waterfalls) and one single ex-rebel owned bar, replete with 54 photos of Che on the wall to meet everyone for a couple of Pilseners later on.

It has "future tourist mecca" written all over the place and I really hope for its sake it remains unfulfilled for as long as possible. The locals are happy & genuinely friendly and those tourists that make it here are rewarded with an unforgettable experience.

Photos here

Atitlan

Large lake with emerald green waters up in Guatemalan Highlands? Check.
Surrounded by 3 massive volcanos? Check.
Indigenous villages dotted in between? Check.
Virgin forest intersperses with banana trees and coffee plantations? Check.
Famous person raving about its beauty? Check. (Aldous Huxley called Lake Atitlan "the most beautiful lake in the world")

Yes, it is hard not to fall in love with Atilan. Even in the rainy season (which seemed to break out overnight on the way from Utila to Copan) Atitlan is stunning. The volcanoes playing strip tease with clouds as clothes, only fully exposing their peaks for about 2 minutes a day.

Villages are named after the saints - San Pedro, San Pablo, San Marcus, San Juan - each having their own vibe. San Marcus is as chilled out as a polar bear's toenails. With more Yoga studios than you could shake an upward facing dog at. San Pedro being one of the larger towns has a nice mix of hammocks and bars, so of course was the place I chose to sling my rucksack, climb some hills, swim around and generally relax (not that I need any more relaxing, but you know).

The place is filled with Mayans all wearing their traditional dress and it is more common to hear the vaguely arabic, gutteral sounds of Tz'utujil Mayan than Spanish. The language is so tribal that a Mayan from San Pedro can only understand a tiny amount of Sipakapense Mayan spoken in San Marcus (8km away). They lead a very traditional life and you will still see the women of the village carrying bowls of corn on their head to the miller every morning. Queuing up waiting for their corn to be turned into paste, which will be used to make their tortillas.

Really a fantastic place and somewhere I´m sure I´ll return - probably to buy this place :)

Pictures of ridiculously photogenic Atitlan

Chichicastenango

Famed for it's Sunday markets, Chichicastenango or "Chichi" for short (thank God) is a quick ride up the Carretera Interamericana from Antigua. The Mayans from the local villages descend en-masse from the hills to pedal their wares. Much like San Cristobal, everything from Machettes to Mops and Chickens to Courgettes is for sale. Ever colourful, the Mayans wear their traditional dress and pop into the local church for a spot of benediction between matters more materialistic.

A few pics here

Antigua

Goodbye Honduras and back to Guatemala. Destination Antigua, ex-capital of Guatemala until in 1776 an earthquake flattened the place. It is a lovely spot, dominated by the Volcano Agua which is visible from every street and is extremely useful for navigating the city. The streets are cobbled and Antigua just exudes a dignified air. But of course all these features ensure that Antigua has a huge volume of tourists, so restaurants are geared towards gringos and every second shop is a travel agency. Not bad for a day or two.

Pictures here

Copan

Travelling is a mixed bag and for most of the time it is amazing. A constant sensory onslaught of sights, sounds and smells (or all 3 and more in India's case). But one thing that does set in after a while is travel blaise-ness (for want of a better term).
One can drink a 1997 Romane Conti, a 1982 Chateau Lafite or even a 1945 Mouton Rothschild and still get a kick out of a nice bottle of Pinot Noir in good company. One can have a Kobe Steak in NYC or Sushi in Nobu and still enjoy a sandwich by the side of the road. But after seeing Angkor Wat, Palenque, Chichen Itza and Tikal poor old Copan was in for a hard time.

Smaller than all the others, it boasts no massive f*ckoff pyramids nor an amazing rain forest location. In fact it is by the side of the road in western Honduras. Admittedly it has some fancy carving and some macaws flying around, but will not be winning any Pyramid of the year 646 competition.

Pictures here

San Cristobal de las Casas

Next stop was San Cristobal de las Casas, which is famous for being the centre of the Zapatista revolution in 1994. I will save you the gory details, but the indigenous people of Mexico, especially those in the southern state of Chiapas, the poorest state in Mexico, felt [rightly] that they were being hard done by by the government and started a mini-uprising on New Year's Day 1994.
Extremely long story short, their leader - Subcomandante Marcos, was an awfully nice pipe smoking, poetry writing chap. He proved to be very patient with the whole situation (and the various Mexican governments turned out to be lying ba*tards) but at the end of the day the Chiapans and the indigenous people are still, 15 years later, no better off. The only remnants of the uprising are the EZLN logo spray painted all over the place and Marcos t-shirts on sale in every shop.

Whilst in San Cristobal I took a trip up to Chamula, which is a town of about 50,000 indigenous Tzotzil people. The town looks fairly normal from the outside, but you soon realise that it ain't Kansas any more.

First of all everyone is speaking Tzotzil, which sounds unlike anything I have ever heard. Secondly 90% of the people wear native costume, which means fairly natty sheepskin pants for the men and black wool aprons for the ladies. The other interesting difference is that there is no "normal" police force. The locals nominate people to be police, normally ex-criminals (don't ask, it just works) who have to do community service. They carry BIG sticks around with them, but that is about it. Surprising really in this violent country, where the police patrol the highway in Hummers with gattling guns mounted to the roof.

The other interesting part of their lives is religion, which is practised in the local church (built by those nice Spanish chaps 300 years ago), but which is more like voodoo to the casual observer. First of all the marble floor is covered in pine needles which makes for a slippery entry and nearly had me skidding into the congregation. The next part is the abundance of candles - fairly standard you say, but these candles are actually affixed to the floor in little groups of 6. Cue westernised health and safety people worrying about the fire hazard posed by candles and pine needles in close proximity. The next quirk is that all the Mayans (who sit down on the floor around their Shaman of choice) are drinking coke or Fanta. Our guide explained that the ensuing burping was associated with a purging of bad spirits. This also explained the constant firecrackers around town, whose loud bang was also meant to ward off bad spirits. Finally when it couldn't get any more surreal the Shaman pulls a chicken out of a bag, wrings its neck (yes, choking a chicken in church) and starts slapping a person in need around the head and shoulders with it.

On a more sober note there is apparently a constant push by various American missionary groups to convert these pagans to a more sensible religion. Using downright nasty tactics - donating medical equipment to the village, on the precondition that they provide Jehovah Witness bibles to all patients.

Photos of San Cristobal here
Chamula here