Travelling 101; #9: Change

Another one to baffle first time travellers is the inability of shop owners to provide change to customers.
Now, I'm not talking about paying for a pack of chewing gum with a 100 dollar note, i'm talking purchasing products totalling 4 spondulux and handing over a 10 spondulux note. The look of pure fear that passes over a shopkeep's face is a delight. They will first ask you if you have nothing smaller, you reply "no". They will then look even more worried and start to fluster, perhaps rooting in a drawer underneath the counter. They will then check their pockets, shout into the backroom where granny is watching the TV and perhaps shout at a friend on the street. Eventually after a massive combined effort and perhaps a 10 minute wait (when all you wanted was a bottle of water) you will receive your correct change. Actually sometimes you will not be allowed purchase a product due to lack of correct funds. In Ecuador I once tried to buy a bar of chocolate in a supermarket (no less) with a 10 dollar note. She had no change and wasn't budging, so I left the supermarket sans chocolate.

On a mildly related note mathematical ability is quite lacking in most of latin america. You buy an apple for 2.5 thingemebobs and a pear for 1.5 thingemebobs and the shopkeep will normally get the calculator out. Any more than 2 items and it is for certain. You then hand over a 10 thingemebob note and the calculator is once more called for to work out the correct change.

One boat ticket vendor in Brazil was also a shooting star in the maths realm. Although all the man sold on a day to day basis was a single boat ticket to the value of 170 reals he would still have to break out the calculator for more than one ticket. I mean honestly could he not have learned his 170 times tables?? Worse still is when the people in front of me ordered 4 tickets. He typed in 170 + 170 = + 170 = + 170 =... I nearly rammed the calculator down his throat. Maybe his multiply key was broken...

And GOD help you if you decide to aid a shopkeeper by providing them with an amount which will ensure a single note of change. If the bill comes to 6 whatchamacallits and you hand them a 10 whatchamacallit note and a 1 whatchamacallit coin they will look at you like you have 42 heads and have just eaten their new born grandchild. I once had a girl in Colombia almost in tears by doing such a nasty thing. Once her lip started to quiver I had to tell her it was OK and to just give me 5000 pesos.

Jericoacoara

Getting to Jericoacoara (or just simply "Jeri" as all the cool kids call it) proved to be one last slog. The final part of the journey being in a open sided truck with benches on it. We made our way down dusty tracks, which decreased in width until we were eventually driving along the beach. It was like sitting on a washing machine and I lost count the number of times I bashed my head off the roof while suspended in mid air. Just as sunset was kicking in we rounded a corner and Jeri appeared oasis like before us. I'd heard lots of good things about the place and they all proved to be true minutes after clambering out of the truck. There were no real streets, just paths covered in sand. Horses roamed the main "street" which was littered with restaurants, bars and little Caipirinha stands which sold cachaca or vodka mixed with every imaginable fruit. Just out of the truck I was approached by a tout offering a place to stay in a pousada. Being tired and easy going I just said "sure" and followed him. This proved to be an extremely wise decision as the tout in question was called Itamar and from what I have seen and heard since, owns the best pousada in Jeri. A small house with a big communal dinner table, 2 comfy sofas, loads of board games, a big TV with lots of DVDs and hammocks were liberally sprinkled everywhere to ensure you didn't have to walk too far before falling into one.

I stayed 10 days with Itamar and various Slovenians, Estonians, Canadians, Italians, Germans & Americans and must say that it was definitely the most relaxing time since perhaps the Little Corn Islands. My days consisted of getting up late, having some coffee (made by Itamar), retiring to my hammock for a read and a snooze, down to the beach, sunset from atop the massive sand dune, followed by dinner (also normally made by Itamar or one of his friends) and Cocktails (once again served up by Itamar before we hit the town. His favourite being cachaca, pineapple and mint).

So as not to atrophy I decided to learn to Kitesurf. With my Slovenian sidekick we persuaded Cale, a chilled Canadian to show us the ropes. So for 3 days we sat in a lagoon and let ourselves be dragged around by a 7 meter square kite which would fly around the place like a banshee due to the extremely high winds found in Jeri from August to January. In all other "extreme" sports (I hate that expression, but let's face it there is an inherent difference between badminton and snowboarding) you can drop the method of propulsion (windsurfing, wakeboarding) or just fall over (snowboarding, mountain biking, surfing), but in Kitesurfing you are actually physically attached to the kite and letting go won't do too much good (depending on the kite). Controlling the kite is easy enough - pull the bar right, kite goes right. The only tricky part is if you turn right and the kite goes from being on your left side to your right side, you will effectively be putting the kite in the full force of the wind for a couple of seconds. This lead to hillarious (for the bystander) and decidely painful consequences as Slovenian and I did 3 meter backflips in the air as the kite yanked us out of the water and tossed us into the air. After 3 days of battering and brusing we finally managed to get the hang of it and I was up on the board for at least half a second. This is not a sport for instant successes.

But after all this excitement and relaxation it was time for something else, so one afternoon slightly bored I booked a flight to Rio for the next day. Nothing like improvising.

Travel madness: Cayenne - St George - Oiapoque - Macapa

The trip from Cayenne to St. George on the border with Brazil was quick, or at least seemed to be as I spent most of it asleep, banging my head against the window of the Hiace like a death metal fan. I arrived with a headache and jumped in another canoe to get the hell of dodge. Across the river I landed in Oiapoque and was extremely happy to be back in Brazil, even if being able to communicate more or less fluently was one of the highlights of the Guianas.

Oiapoque is a typical border town - dusty, dishevelled and a bit seedy, but I managed to get a bus ticket for 6pm that night, meaning that it would be yet another night without a bed. After a fantastic lunch at a by-the-kilo restaurant (oh how I love these places) I settled in for an afternoon nap before taking the night bus to Macapa.

The bus arrived right on time (quite a change from the Guianas) and we set off down the unpaved road to Macapa, which meant that for most of the trip we were all hopping up and down like kids in a bouncy castle. I managed to get a couple of minutes sleep here & there and we arrived into Macapa just before 4am. A motorcycle taxi took me to a hotel, which I was never so happy to see. Finally a shower and a bed, but my delight was soon to be dispelled by the night porter telling me it was full. He was kind enough to recommend another place so I hiked through the deserted streets of Macapa before finally being successful and checking in to the Hollyday Inn (sic). I showered, shaved and delighted at the creamy airconditioned goodness of it all. But my 10 second revellery was soon interrupted by the arms of morpheus.

The next day I rambled around Macapa, which has 2 exiting things. A fort and a football stadium where the equator forms the halfway line. So the games there are like the northern hemisphere against the southern. Macapa has also no roads anywhere, well except back to Oiapoque which was not high on my list of priorities. In fact the only route out was a 24 hr boat ride to Belem. At this stage long rides are non negotiable, so I got myself a flight to Fortaleza, with the intention of learning to Kitesurf and getting some serious beach time in Jericoacoara...

Cayenne: Just one of those days

Departing from Parbo I had no inkling that this day would be slightly different. The taxi journey to the river forming the border between Suriname and French Guyana went swimmingly, taking only 2 hours in a comfy Japanese import. The driver was obviously so chuffed with his new acquistion that he was trying all the buttons out. He even had the a/c on full blast even though all the windows were open.

Stamp out of Suriname, hop in a waiting canoe and over we go to French Guyana. My first footstep on dry land is accompanied by a little whoop, as now I have been to every country in the continental Americas. So it is Bonjour St. Laurence and another hike to the gendarme. The first impression of F.G. was amusing - posh new cars on dirt roads, black natives speaking accented French and a can of coke costing 2 Euros... Yes, we were back in Europe with prices to match. The police didn't endear themselves to me either, their first words being "Aha, oho, baguette, biciclette, fawfefawfe [insert supercilious French accent here], from le Irlande! We beat you in football!". The chap that said it had as much in common with France as I have with Germany. Another hot hike back to town and I find the bus stop after much asking around town. The natives all seem to have cars and public transport seems to be more or less non existent. The shared hiace already had 4 passengers waiting - 2 Brazilians, a chap from Haiti and a woman from Guyana. Obviously all us lowly foreigners were the only ones having to resort to busses. We still needed 2 people for the driver to set off, so we all lounged about the sweltering bus stop trying to get comfy on round park benches, something which proved rather impossible.

Some time later (time is now irrelevant) 2 dudes show up and we set off seconds later at 400 miles an hour. My plan was to fly out of Cayenne that evening or at latest the next day, so I needed to be in Cayenne early enough to catch a travel agency still open. But with only 200km to go and the sun still shining brightly over head, it seemed it would be no problem. F.G. rolled by, the roads being up the standards of mainland France.

We eventually arrive into Cayenne a couple of minutes before 6. So I jog to main travel agency to find they already have the shutters down. It is 6.01. Oh my fucking god, they are worse than the Germans for time keeping. Try another agency, closed since 5.30. In my short time in Cayenne I come to discover that F.G. has the shortest opening hours known to mankind. It is a wonder they even open at all. They have adopted the South American siesta but have retained old world early closing times. Typical opening hours were something like 8-11.30 and 15.00-17.30. The country is already starting to annoy me. Also in part due to the fact that in the 5 hours I have been in the country all I have done is hydrated, had a schwarma, treated myself to an ice cream, taken a bus and I am already 60 Euros lighter.

So, plan B is to look for a hotel. The first recommendation I have (45 EUR, nearly twice as expensive as the most expensive place I have stayed in the last 8 months) is a bit of a walk out of town. Arrive very sweaty and tired only to find "Complet" written on the door. That is "full" for all you Francophobes. Second recommendation (60 EUR, ouch) is basically where I started out from, so hike all the way back to the town centre. Ask for a "chambre" and the chap actually laughs at me... Was it my bad French? No, it was the fact that his place was also full and he thought finding a room in Cayenne tonight would be "pratiquement impossible" (I'll leave the translation as an exercise for the reader). Damn you I thought and stormed out. Actually I didn't so much storm as trickle out the door in a river of sweat.

OK, nothing for it, I have seen a Best Western and fuck it, I'll treat myself (I never thought I'd utter the words "treat" and "Best Western" in the same sentence but they say travel changes you). Stroll in proudly like I own the place, HSBC credit card in hand. I look at the rates - 90 bloody Euros?? Oh well, I am knackered, sweaty, smell like a yak and need a bed. I ask the receptionist for a room and he too laughs at me. "Full, right?" I ask. "Oui, Oui, the whole town is full because of a biomechanics conference.". I don't actually know what biomechanics is, but I suddenly hate anyone involved with it.

Never a man to be disheartened I look around for more hotels. Rien, nada, zilch. The entire capital citytown of Cayenne has 4 hotels. What a bag of shite. The airport has about 3 flights a day, so no point heading out. There is no long distance bus terminal, so that's a no-no too. Gradually it dawns on me that there are two possiblities - a) find a nice local girl, who despite my unshaven, unwashed appearance will want to take me home or b) find a comfy park bench. Decide that the chances of option A happening are so slim that I might as well go for the bench. Nothing to do with my charm mind, it was just that there was one bar in town and it had 4 people in it. All men.

It is now 7pm. The first bus out of town is at 7am.
T-12: First two hours are pleasant enough, spent in an air conditioned internet cafe. My T-shirt gradually dries out as I write some emails and read the news (Come on America, is Obama bowing to the Japanese Emperor really such a deal? It's called statesmanship and doesn't mean that you don't rule the world any more...).

T-10: Dinner time. Seen as how I am saving on accomodation I plump for a nice pizza joint, where pizza is "only" 12 Euros. A price that would buy you the pizzeria in Peru. The pizza was good though and the lady serving it was quite an eye opener. Her dress seemed to consist of purple crepe paper that just about reached her upper thighs, exposed her rather ample clevage and left her back completely open down to what seemed like her coccyx. Added to that she was mounted on high heels which made her look about 6ft4. I ordered one too many Kronembourg just for the pleasure of watching her teeter over to me. I think the French proprietor was aware of her effect on the male clientele as he sat with a vague grin on his face behind the bar. I throw in a [rather fantastic] coffee for good measure and am out on the streets again by 10pm.

T-9: The town ain't really offering much, so I head to another internet cafe to see if the world has changed in the last hour. I ask the Chinese staff what time they close - "10pm" is their answer. The clock reads 10.15. We are at a standoff. A chap finally intervenes and asks me how much time I need. "30mins" I reply. OK. So I hop on a computer and find out that the world hasn't changed. So instead I start randomly going through youtube finding various nuggets. The 30 mins is soon up and the place is still full. I ask for another 30mins, no problem, and carry on digging through the dregs of the interweb. I finally leave well after 11 and the place is still packed. God bless the enterprising Chinese and their moveable opening hours.

T-7.something: Booze time. The only bar in town has now got about 10 people in it, none of whom look like they would take me home for a cuddle. So I order a Heineken (I know... I'm sorry) for what it seemed would be a decent month's wages in Equador. I knock it back and order another. "Sorry, Ferme" came the answer. Wtf?? I ask "In the 2 minutes I have drank this beer you have closed". "Oui", he replied in a megasnooty way only the French can. Oh fuck off. Another reason Cayenne will not be featuring on any "Highlights of South America" lists any time soon.

T-7.a little bit: Head to the central park and look for a bench. Find one and lay on my backpack and rest my eyes. Shite. Not tired and too many crack heads asking for money. Roam around again and find two homeless chaps playing chess in front of a fast food caravan. Watch them play as they are quite good. Two games in they ask me if I want to play. So I jump in and play the reigning champion "Jazz" or "Jacque" or something. 10 minutes later I am defeated and relinquish the challenger's chair. Nothing like pissing on a multi-thousand pound education from one of the world's most reputable universities by being beaten in "the thinking man's game" by a chap with 2 teeth, no shoes and who sleeps under a sheet of cardboard. It is now 1.30am.

T-5.5: Sit in front of the Gendarme HQ hoping that I'll either get invited in to stay in a nice clean cell or at least that the ever present crack heads will leave me in peace. Neither. After 5 minutes another crack head (any lingering doubts as to this were dispelled by the massive tinfoil pipe he clutched in his hand) comes over and starts being annoying. Move on.

T-5.4: Whilst walking by the Best Western I notice a large group of people milling around outside and in the foyer. So I sneak in, drop my bag and plonk myself on the sofa looking like I belong. Apparently they are all part of a tour going to see the space centre. I busy myself with looking innocous and time progresses. All too soon a tour bus arrives and the assembled nerds head off to see the space centre. I am left on my own and the receptionist soon comes over to ask me if I am not going on the trip. I tell him that I am getting at taxi at 4. He seems happy with the answer and wanders off. I smile at my ability to lie on the spot. But at about 3.30 he comes over and says he has to close up shop (probably realising that my story doesn't quite add up... Why would I be in the foyer at 2 if my taxi is coming at 4?? Damn details). So I am turfed out once again on to the mean streets of Cayenne.

T-3.5: As I walk out I notice another gringo sitting down across the street. I saunter over and ask him if he's homeless too. He confirms this and we start chatting. Joel and myself get on famously and soon we are laughing our heads off at each others stories (one of his many stories was of getting stranded in Salvador as his bank cards were stolen and he had lost his passport (which he later found out he had posted back to the UK amongst other papers in a box)). Our conversation was briefly interrupted by another crack head, albeit a very peaceful one, who seemed to speak a dialect of Martian. It certainly contained no words of any language either of us understood. There was also a spell of excitement as 3 policemen and one very overweight policewoman ran out of the cop shop chasing a rasta who kept jumping in the air and laughing just like a stoned roadrunner. As the night seemed it could get no weirder 2 transvestites walked by and propositioned us. They couldn't quite seem to understand why we turned them down. "But there are 2 of you... And there are 2 of us!?!" was their flawed line of argumentation. We declined again and got back to our chats about life, travelling, work and women. It was nearly 6am.

T-1.1: We were both hungry so we decided we should hunt for a coffee shop. I wasn't optimistic, knowing the lousy opening hours in this poxy city, but I gave in and we started to walk. A couple of blocks later we both simultaneously decided to turn left and lo and behold there was "Cafe Creme", oasis like right before us. It was just being opened up and had a distinct smell of coffee and croissants coming from within. The lovely owner served up some magnificent coffee, some sex-in-the-form-of-a-bakery-product pan au chocolat & croissants and Joel and I toasted to our luck. Before I knew it it was 6.45 and I had to throw him some money, say my farewells and run for the bus.

Hard to believe that after 12 hours of killing time I didn't actually want to leave any more...

Not sold on Suriname

My bus from Georgetown arrived at 5am and I squeezed in beside some rather jolly (OK, fat) ladies. The road toward Suriname was paved and straight and we were at the river border in no time. All the Guyanas are in fact seperated by river: Guyana - Suriname, Suriname - French Guyana & French Guyana - Brazil. The river was only a couple of hundred meters wide, but of course no bridge, so we had to wait for the ferry of which only there was only one a day.

Across the water in Suriname things started badly. The queue for immigration was massive and there was only one man (in military fatigues) letting people through. An hour later we were out and sitting in a bus screaming its way to Paramaribo. The difference to Guyana was slight but noticiable. English became a minority language as Dutch took over, the houses were built differently and the food changed from Indian to Indonesian (Lots of Indonesians came to Suriname as it too was a former Dutch colony).

We arrived in Paramaribo, or Parbo as the locals call it around 8 and I headed for the only backpackers in town. It turned out to be full, which I think was the first time I haven't got a place in the last 8 months. Down the road there was another place and with amazing bureacracy the lady checked me in. Famished at this stage I found a Chinese restaurant. The staff were crap and everyone spoke Dutch to me. It seems like the only gringos in Suriname are Dutch, so of course all the locals automatically address you in Dutch. Even after going "Sorry", "Heh", "Excuse me" and finally "Look I don't speak fucking Dutch" they still carry on speaking Dutch to you. As if the thought of a non Dutch gringo visiting Suriname was too weird. The food was decent and the beer far too pricey, but I didn't care. My plan of staying in Suriname for a couple of days was being reassessed. IN fact so much so that I did an hour of sightseeing the next day (only vaguely touristy thing is the central market and a road where there is a synagogue, a mosque and a casino all in a row - it's meant to show how diverse and interesting Suriname is, it only proved to me that they don't have any fucking planning laws) , got pissed on, had a siesta, went out for some food, bed at 10pm and was on the next bus out at 9am the day after.

Yes, we can leave Suriname to the Dutch.

Kaieteur

Probably the biggest attraction in the Guyanas (apart from the jungles) are the Kaieteur falls. Situated in a remote part of the Guyana shield forest, the only way to get there (apart from a 5 day hike which I didn't fancy) is by light aircraft. So I booked my flight, the next plane being in 3 days, and killed some time in Georgetown. The days flew by as it is a very mellow place to chill out, have some beers and generally not do anything more stressful than enter and exit a hammock (Aside: If you are to believe Lonely Planet you will be robbed, raped, disembowled 10 minutes after arriving in town AND then you will contract malaria & dengue). And so it was on on Saturday morning that I was sitting in a tiny Cessna with some Americans and we were flying over more Brocolli towards Kaieteur.

One of my fellow passengers was a vet (Americans: Vet = veterinarian, Englanders: Vet = Veteran) in his 30s. He had been travelling for the last 3 years and now had been to over 100 countries. In fact he was probably the most travelled person I have ever met. The fecker had been all through the 'stans and also through most of Africa and the Carribean. Even in my "need to get cosy in one place for a while" state, his descriptions of Ethopia made me want to hop in a plane and go. Just before touching down in Kaieteur, the captain did a shit-your-pants scary roll and gave us a full view of the falls, which were spectacular. Not nearly as high as the Angel, they were instead extremely wide and just as impressive.

We landed and headed out on a stroll through the jungle toward the falls. Our "guide" for the day was a funny rasta who wore baggy pants, pristine white Nikes and a baseball cap perfectly tilted to 45 degrees on his head. His tour consisted of many well rehearsed stops with mini-speeches. Difficult questions were not tolerated. Thank god there were no Germans on the tour asking him how many layers of sedimentary rock had been folded under how much pressure to form the tectonic rift we were standing on.

We made our way though the thicket, spotting a couple of [extremely posionous] Golden Frogs on the way, to finally emerge and see the falls. They really are quite amazing.

We headed back to Georgetown via a hotel resort near Bartica. Quite decadent actually making a stop in a plane just for lunch. We were greeted by staff with umbrellas and shown to our delicous lunch. Back in Georgetown that night it was a couple of beers at Windies bar before hitting the sack early.

Suriname tomorrow.

Georgetown

Georgetown is a great place. The buildings are either in lovely colonial style or completely dilapadated, held together with duct tape and rosary beads. The people are extremely friendly, their English is either a sing song creole or like it was stuck in the 50s. They all seemed to be amused at my gringoness walking around town.
"How de sun be treatin ye today" was one comment from a rasta cycling by. My general whiteness seemed a neverending source of amusement to the locals.

One night a large black chap stopped me and said "I want a white dick". I was about to break into tears and offer him thousands of dollars not to hurt me when he interrupted. "I want two dicks, me black one and a white one". Flattering him I said that I was sure his black one was enough to keep the ladies happy. "Sure it is man, I just want de white one to tickle dem with". We both burst out laughing and he gave me a beer from his sixpack.
Another highlight was the turning on of the Christmas lights outside Courts supermarket. The prime minister was there, models in black leather catsuits too and to cap it all of a black Santa Claus that was gyrating his hips so lewdly and generally bumping and grinding like it was an olympic sport, that I'm sure in the USA childrens' eyes would have had to be covered by concerned parents. All he was missing was a bottle of rum in his hand.

Grooving into Guyana

The first impressions of Guyana were slightly amusing. Lots of stuffy looking black chaps in immigration, dressed as if the Brits had never left. But on the plus side the language was English. If with a slightly weird creole lilt. I was asked how long I wanted to stay. I said a week and the nice chap gave me a whole 10 days. Obviously they don't want people overstaying their welcome. Then a bored customs lady wanted to inspect my backpack. She had a quick look in and was obviously repelled by the odours eminating from within as she said ¨Thank you, that's enough¨ seconds after opening it.

In Lethem I sat around a minibus office for about an hour before being told that the bus had actually left... Did it not strike them to tell me this earlier? Or were they just reluctant to upset me after my 18 bus ride from Venezuela? I asked them were there any other busses. ¨No¨. She said I could sleep in the office, I politely declined and asked if there was a hotel in town. ¨No¨ she said. Perhaps an ATM? ¨No¨. She was a right bundle of laughs. I asked her which way the town centre was (we were sitting in a field with a couple of houses around us). She said ¨This is the town centre¨ . Guyana and me were off to a troubled start. Reassesing her office floor I finally got a ¨yes¨ when I asked if there was internet access somewhere.

I logged on and googled ¨Lethem Bus¨ and ¨Lethem hotel¨. There were indeed 2 hotels and apparently a night bus at 9. Fantastic! I nearly went back to minibus lady and blew a raspberry in her face. I found my way to the bus ¨terminal¨ at 6 only to be told that the ticket seller was closed. I riposted with ultimate logic that the bus wasn't leaving till 9, a whole 3 hours of time for me to obtain a ticket. ¨No, it's closed¨ explained the lady as if I were an imbicile. So despite the fact that the bus was probably half empty I left sans ticket and checked into the Kakuru hotel which proved quite decent.

Things started looking up even more over dinner where my hostess with the mostess kept taking the mickey out of me at every opportunity. She was laughing to herself as she told me my white face glowed in the dark. It was good clean banter and I had a couple of beers and laughed away with her. Guyana and myself were geting to know and like each other.

The next morning I managed to get my ticket and waited for the bus which turned up only an hour or so late. The journey was 12 hours long and was quite spectacular - from the pampa like plains to the south of Guyana we gradually transgressed into the deepest, darkest rainforest you have ever seen. The main ¨road¨ to Georgetown was a mud track cut right through the middle of the forest. At most the road was 4 meters wide. At one stage the bus had to get on a ferry to cross a river. Whilst we were waiting for the ferry (which was obviously in no hurry) macaws flew by and even a Toucan made an appearance. It was just like you picture a rainforest, complete with weird sounds coming from deep within the trees. We drove for at least 5 hours through the forest, which just got more and more dense. Ocassionaly we would pass by a military check point where we would all have to leave the bus, show our passports and get back on again. The whole day we passed a sum total of 6 cars and finally around 10pm we exited the jungle and soon hit a main road and were in Georgetown in jig time, where I crashed into bed in the lovely Rima Guesthouse.

Yes, Guyana and myself were definitely now getting it on.

Angel Falls

Back in Manaus late at night, I got a room in what appeared to be the Bates motel. It was also probably the only hotel I have ever been to that had a bible AND a condom beside each other on the night stand. Some kinky scenarious came to mind though... The next morning it was a 12 hour journey to Boa Vista. Another night another motel, this time with TV but no remote. But the room was so small I could operate the TV controls with my toes. The next morning I got on the internet, did my research on Venezuela, got some US Dollars and took a bus to Santa Elena, Venezuela.

The first thing that struck me as I entered Venezuela, was how run down it was - especially in comparison to Brazil. Dogs roamed the streets, the cars were all big old American jalopies and Santa Elena had a general run down feel about it. But as usual the people were friendly and I found a place to book a tour to the Angel Falls - the highest waterfalls in the world and my reason for the quick diversion into Venezuela.

Another night bus, this time with 4 military check points along the way. Nothing like being woken up by an armed po faced soldier asking for your passport at 4am to start your day. I arrived in Ciudad Bolivar bright and chirpy at 5. Luis, the tour company owner with perfect English picked me up in his bashed up car and we had a good old blether about Venezuela. I must admit I had been initially captivated by Chavez and all his bluster about standing up to Dubya Bush.

On further inspection it turns out the man is an idiot. His foreign minister is a bus driver, his "security" minister was shot by criminals, there are power outages all the time, hospitals lack security and are falling apart (apparently if a hit man doesn't kill his target the first time he can just stroll into the hospital and shoot him again while he lies in intensive care), the official exchange rate is 2.15 Bolivars to a dollar (when using an ATM), the black market rate is 5 to 1, causing unsuspecting tourists no end of misery when arriving with no cash. Not to mention he is on the verge of starting a war with Colombia. But hey, at least the price of petrol in Venezuela is cheap. Actually it is cheaper than WATER. 1 dollar to fill a tank up. No joke.

I waited around C.B. airport for a while as legions of tourists were packed into 6 seater Cessnas and flown to Canaima, the nearest airstrip to the falls. I was lucky enough to get a seat up front and really had to resist the urge to take hold of the controls in front of me. I played some flight sims as a kid, how hard can it be? The scenery below us was fantastic - the Orinoco flowed peacfully along, followed by some lakes with millions of islands and finally rainforest appeared, which looks uncannily like Broccoli from above.

Midway into the flight the fuel gauge in front of my nose started to blink. I looked at the pilot who seemed not to notice or was supremely unconcerned. The gauge read 5. A couple of minutes later it read 3. I could see where this was headed. The pilot had still not studied the dial. By the time it was at 2 I was trying to use Jedi mind tricks to force the pilot into looking at the gauge. Of course I wasn't going to actually SAY anything to him. That would have been _totally_ uncool (god forbid). So instead I watched it go down to 1 and finally 0, at which the pilot, with minimal effort, reached a hand out and switched a level. Fucker. But at least neither of us looked like a newbie.

We landed at the beautfiul Canaima lagoon and stepped out into the opressive heat. The lagoon itself is filled by 3 waterfalls which are impressive in their own right. To complete things the lagoon is fringed by the whitest sand this side of the Carribean. We took a bit of a tour of the area, which involved walking under some of the waterfalls. No gold unfortunately.

On the second day we fell out of bed early and got in a dug out canoe. It was to be a 4 hour upstream motor to the basecamp from which we would hike to the Angel Falls. The ride was nice enough, if not hard on the arse - only 2 inches of wood between my precious flesh and the river below. After about an hour it turned spectacular as the Auyantepui from which the Angel plummets, loomed out of the distance. We kept heading towards it and the tepuy got larger and larger till it was nearly a block of rock a kilometer high in front of our noses. We docked on the lovely isla raton and strolled up to our camp and put on out hiking boots for the final ascent to the falls.

Despite the Angel Falls being famous as the highest in the world, the trek up to the base is still completely undeveloped. No signs, no warnings, no railings, no asphalt path. Instead we scrambled over tree roots, swung tarzan like on vines over mini-lakes and generally swashbuckled our way till the climb started. An hour later we turned a corner and there they were.

I use a lot of superlatives, but the Angel Falls deserve every one. Stick ¨amazing¨ in a thesaurus and see what comes out. They are certainly one of the few things that I have seen (along with the Taj Mahal) that are just as good if not better in real life. After shooting dozens of photos we hiked down to the base and had a good old swim. Nothing like a kilometer of water to give you the power shower feeling.

Travelling 101; #7: Sleeping Policemen

I'm going to have to take a tranquilizer before I write this as this topic can cause me to have tourettes like outbreaks. Indeed few things whilst travelling can make me seethe as much and cause the cursing of all gods known to Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Buddism and Hinduism (eh, 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 49 million = 49,000,004 gods).

A sleeping policeman may be know to you as a speed ramp, speed bump, traffic calming device (well only if you are a town planner) or simply a "hump", a term which caused me endless thighslapping moments whilst living in London. Despite my thirtysomething years I cannot walk by a sign saying "humps for 450 yards" without sniggering like a teenager.

Whatever it may be called it is an obstacle in the middle of the road to slow traffic down. Fine, wonderful, dandy. Stick them outside schools or in residential areas to make sure reckless drivers don't mow down unsuspecting kids.

The problem is that in South America the drivers obey no signage known to man so the authorities stick humps literally ANYWHERE, including fucking main roads. In Brazil, where a short hop down the road means a 24 hour drive, speed bumps are even laid out in the middle of super straight, Euclid would have come in his pants, highways. You might be sleeping on a leather seats, in-drive refreshments and blowjob included super-deluxe bus (more on this later), but no matter how comfy you may get you will still be jarred out of your sleep every ten minutes as a bus enters yet another mini-hamlet with 14 speed bumps.

Travelling 101; #6: The TP bin

The scatological theme continues...

Despite being a continent of rainforests, glaciers and the biggest river in the world, South America (and most of Asia for that matter) does not seem to possess enough water to propel toilet paper down a flush toilet. Yes despite the native toilet paper's flimsy nature (some people would rant about that too), most toilets seem incapable of getting enough water up to such a velocity that 4 grammes of paper would be successfully carried to the sewerage system/hole out the back of the house.

So to combat such hydrologically challenged toilets, the owners of establishments containing WCs have thoughtfully provided clients with a bin for the used toilet paper. A TP bin if you will. The bin comes in many shapes and sizes and normally possess a lid, but unfortunately not always. It is by and large also situated near the WC, but again can sometimes be found in random other locations.

In communal toilets in large restaurants or hostels the bin can become rather overflowing and there is nothing quite like a hungover early morning trip to the toilet (which can be rather often as you will have read in Travelling 101; #3) only to find a big open garbage can of brownish TP staring right back at you...

Manaus

After the tight quarters on the Amazon it was time to chill out in Manaus before heading down to Rio to meet Erick for a couple of weeks holiday (and yes the irony of taking a holiday from travelling is well aware to me).

Chilling out proved to be quite difficult as the temperature hovered around 30 degrees both night & day and the humidity must have been at least 120%. Despite this I managed to move myself from in front of the fan to see the famous opera house. It is indeed extremely impressive and the whole idea of building an opera house in the middle of the jungle, thousands of miles from civilization was definitely visionary.

The other fun happening in Manaus was a bit of a laundry disaster. Up until now all laundry outings had gone spiffingly (well except one time in Colombia when I had to leave the town and my clothes weren't completely dry, so I had to stuff wet clothes into my backpack...), but Manaus was to prove different. When I arrived my laundry wasn't ready, so I headed round the corner for a refreshing cerveja. An hour later she was flustered, but just about putting everything in a plastic bag. She handed it to me and I checked the contents. Two pairs of foreign underwear - old briefs in purple and navy blue and one missing T-Shirt. We solved this with a couple of laughs and a bit of pointing in the laundry room and off I toddled home.

That night though whilst putting on lovely new and lovely smelling jocks I noticed that the fair lady from the laundry had written my name on the labels of all my clothes. Not a huge problem you say, but on the jock I was wearing she had actually written on the white waistband of my otherwise super sexy pulling pants.


Yes, I have my name and to add insult to injury it is spelled wrong on my pants. I feel like a 5 year old. The "Back" scribble was put on to try and make it humorous if ever spotted by a member of the general public.

Iquitos to Manaus: Sailing the Amazon

Iquitos to Tabatinga (Brazil) was achieved in a high speed boat which was so high speed that it broke down after 2 hours and we had to wait on the banks of the Amazon until a replacement arrived from Iquitos. The new boat was slightly smaller than the first, so with typical south american ingenuity some plastic chairs were procured and the luckless seatless souls were given pride of place in the aisles. Causing a somewhat tricky obstacle to be tackled whilst going for a pee.

The supposed 9 hour journey turned into 15 and we arrived in Santa Rosa at 9pm where the Peruvian border guards had pissed off home. So I became an illegal immigrant and took a motor canoe over to Tabatinga in Brazil. Within 10 minutes of arriving I had been offered 90% of all drugs known to man and been propositioned by two elderly prostitutes. Whilst there is nothing wrong per se with these gracious offerings by the locals I was not quite in the mood after a day bouncing down the Amazon.

Along the way we had formed a little group - a Chilean couple and an English couple, so as first world refugees we stuck together and found a hotel. A little on the shabby side, there was a pile of sand and a toilet seat in the reception area, watermelon pips all down the hall, no toilet light and no sheets provided (actually not a problem in the jungle heat).

The next day we dutifully put-putted back to Santa Rosa to get checked out of Peru and hiked the streets of Tabatinga to find the Brazilian immigration. That done, it was time to buy a hammock and a boat ticket for the journey to Manaus. All was successfully acomplished in record time so we jumped in a souped up VW camper van taxi and headed 1km down the road to Leticia, Colombia to complete the breakfast in Peru, Lunch in Brazil and Dinner in Colombia grand slam. Leticia was actually nice, a feck lot more salubrious than Tabatinga at any rate.

The boat was leaving the next day at 5pm, so we arrived around lunch to make sure we were in the queue for the best hammock space. We weren´t the first but had a decent position. Around 3pm ¨boarding¨ commenced which meant that the queue kind of disintegrated as people barged through and women and children were called to the front. But we eventually got on, slung our hammocks and readied ourselves for 4 days on the high seas. Well actually we went upstairs to find the bar which served ice cold Skol.

The 4 days and 3 nights passed quickly, a familiar rhythm developing quickly - Wake (normally due to the chap swinging beside me putting on some tunes at 6am), go back to sleep, wake, back to sleep, too hot to sleep, swing in hammock mind refreshingly blank, read, lunch (which was served military style in 15 person sittings from 10.30 to 12.00), doze, read, look forward to dinner, crack open first beer, dinner (strictly 16.30 to 18.00), sunset, more beer... And repeat. The scenery changed little, just a vast expanse of trees bordering the river, the banks becoming further and further apart as we progressed downstream. Every dozen kilometers or so we would pass by a small hamlet, Amazonians doing whatever they do (largely fishing and sitting around doing nothing by the looks of it)

Our little group of 5 was widened with the remaining 5 gringos on the boat. 2 English lads, a Spaniard and two American girls. Time passed slowly like the Amazon, giving us ample time to play every game under the sun - from Shithead to Dominoes, Poker to Checkers. We even threw in a game of eyespy, but the letters A and J just came up far too often. The sunsets were sublime though, a real highlight to every day. The sun going down directly behind the boat, causing the Amazon to turn almost mercurial.

Day 4 came along and the expected ETA of midday was revised to 7pm. So just as the sun was setting we finally got our way and had the barman put on one of our iPods, the English lad sticking on some exquisite house music. So with the sounds of Northern Exposure, the sun going down once again and the fires coming from the Manaus oil refineries raging into the sky we had rather a memorable entry to Manaus.

Iquitos

A wall of heat hit me as I de fecking planed the flight from Tarapoto. Guns and Roses were shouting "Welcome to the Jungle" in my head. Yep, Iquitos is in the Amazon and is hotter and sweatier than satan's crotch in tight undies.
But it is a pleasant enough place to spend some time, moto taxis fly everywhere and there are practically no cars (Fact o'the day: Iquitos is the largest town in the world that is not connected to anywhere else via road).

I had heard that the only golf course in the entire Amazon was near Iquitos, so on the first morning I flagged down a Moto taxi and told the driver to take me out to it, slightly worried that my lack of golf shoes and a collared t-shirt might cause a problem.

I signed in, picked up some ancient clubs, some third hand balls and some tees that resembled toothpicks and walked out to the driving range for a couple of swings. One or two mishits at the beginning, but soon after the balls were flying straight and far. Off to the first tee, where Guido my taxi driver suddenly appears and takes my clubs. Obviously Guido moonlights as a caddy in his spare time. His knowledge was a little lacking and he would offer me a Pitching Wedge for tee off and a driver on the fairway, but he did know when the putter was to be used.
We sweated our way round the 9 holes, having chosen just before midday to tee off. There were turtles in the water hazzard on the 7th and a load of chickens scratching around the 9th green. The greens were like fairways back home and the fairways were like jungle. The rough, was exactly that, very rough. Although the golf bag did come equipped with a machette, but I wasn't willing to destroy more of the Amazon whilst searching for the balls I lost.

After an hour or so we dripped into the club and I handed in my score card, a quite embarassing 70 on a par 38. I blame Guido...

Tarapoto

Four seperate cars got me from Chachapoyas to Tarapoto, the highlight being having to share a front seat with a large Peruvian who had obviously just had a nice and oniony Ceviche lunch.
After a mere 9 hours, I got into Tarapoto and took a moto taxi to the Plaza de Armas. Just like with people it is easy to take an instant like or dislike to a place and with Tarapoto it was a definite "like". Warm, clean, easy going, families out in the streets, women grilling up a storm on the side of the alleyways, in fact it reminded me of Asia. So I spent a very pleasant evening having some street food and a couple of beers, before retiring to my room to get a quick TV fix. Have become a big fan of Anthony Bourdain in his "No Reservations" show. If chefs were rock and roll stars, Jamie Oliver would be a boy band (like thousands of others, no particular talent), Ramsey would be Oasis (loud and showy, but not much substance) and Bourdain would definitely be The Ramones.

After a leisurely start the next morning (i.e. getting up 10 minutes before check out), I had some lunch and made my way to the bustling Tarapoto airport for my flight to Iquitos.

Chachapoyas & Kuelap

After the hiking and general clean living of Huaraz I was once again read to tackle back to back night busses. Huaraz - Trujillo one night and then at 3pm Trujillo - Chachapoyas, capital of the Amazonas district and gateway to Kuelap - a famous pre-inca fortress.

The journey from Trujillo was lovely for the first 4 hours - straight roads, lovely sunset view and a Peruvian girl beside me who started chatting me up. Once the darkness decended though the journey became tortous to say the least. The road became less paved, started ascending, and had more hairpins than your granny in the hairdresser. Oh, and the Peruvian fell asleep, leaving me alone to contemplate the draw of travelling. Eventually I nodded off only to be woken at 5am by the conductress saying we had arrived. I found my way to the central square and to a hostal where the night watchman was quite chirpy to see me.

After a couple more hours sleep I had a look round Chacha, which turns out to be a lovely, clean and very friendly wee town. Quite obviously not on the main Lima-Cusco backpacker route, the people still have time for a chat and are very corteous.


The next morning it was up to Kuelap, which was hyped my many guidebooks as the alternative Macchu Picchu. Now I wasn't a huge fan of M.P. due to the inordinate amount of tourists, but Kuelap really ain't a competitor. It is set in a lovely location, on the top of a hill overlooking many others, but then again so is M.P. It was certainly impressive and the lack of tourists was refreshing but it reminded me of Copan in Honduras. "Oh yeah, another ruin".

I know I'm a Phillistine, or a Palestine or a Filipino or something...

High on Huaraz

I spend my second night in a row on a bus, jostling for prime position with my lovely neighbour's shoulder and arrive in Huaraz at 6am. This time without coffee I brave the mean streets where the sun is just getting its act together. And out of the blue we have one of those jaw dropping, this is why I travel moments. One by one the Cordillera Blanca range of mountains become visible in the background as they become encased in a warm orange glow. With 33 mountains over 5500m, the C.B. is the 2nd highest mountain range after the Himalayas. I walked around for a least half an hour, mouth open, shooting pictures before realising that I was about to fall over out of tiredness and/or hunger. By now it is around 7, so I ring the door of a hostel to be greeted by an extremely sleepy Canadian. I say "Room". He says "Yes". I say "How much". He says "45". I say "OK". He says "Key". I say "Thanks". And with that Shakesperian encounter I climb the stairs to my room and fall asleep until 4pm.

Upon awakening I take a look around town, which proves to be another Thamel/Cusco/Banos, tourist agents everywhere and every person on the street trying to sell you something. But the Peruvians aren't hard enough to be pushy so you just smile at them and walk on.

I found some food and dared have a beer and was back in bed by 10pm.



The next day it was out to Lake Llanganuco, which deserves the word "breathtaking" in every sense. Situated around 3800 meters, it is the most vivid turquoise colour and is surrounded by 6000m peaks (including Peru's highest mountain - Huscaran).






From Llanganuco it was up to the trailhead for a hike up to Lake 69, which was meant to be even more beautiful than Llanganuco. I was dubious, but started up the valley anyway. On the way I had encountered a young Israeli software engineer who was obviously gay (or so my gaydar told me). We hiked fo 4 hours together and the above sentence is all I got out of him. e.g. he was Israeli and a software engineer. I might have caught his name at some stage but it was one of those weird ones so in one ear and out the other. The weather had turned a little bleak, but we hiked at some speed ever upwards, each step revealing more snowy peaks. After about 2 hours I saw a sliver of blue over a ridge and we clambered up to the lake. And by fuck they were right, Lake 69 is simply stunning. The pure definition of blue, with icy peaks all around it and a waterfall cascading down the rocks to fill it. I was tempted to go for a swim, but held myself back after dipping a little finger in. Any closer to 0 degrees and it would have been ice. The hike down was just as chatty, but thank god the scenery did enough talking and I just stared around the valley taking pictures till my battery ran out.

All in all I think the Huascaran National Park (including the 2 lakes) might actually be the most beautiful place I have every seen. Certainly giving the Milford Sound a run for its money.

Photos here

Travelling 101; #5: Mosquitoes

Much like pigeons, who I wholeheartedly believe are the Microsoft of the animal world - no one likes them but they are bloody successful at what they do, mosquitoes inhabit pretty much every square inch of the places travellers like to roam. From Nicaragua to Nepal, Lima to Luang Prabang & Stockholm to Santiago you will find them, or rather they will find you.
And find you they do with amazing accuracy and speed. It seems like only seconds go by after you turn the lights off at night before that unmerciful and rage/fear-inducing ZzzzzzzzzzzZzzzzMzzzzMzzzzzzZZZZZZZZ sound approaches your ear. Then you do the extremely intelligent and wince provoking "slapping yourself on the side of the head" manouever. Then it is normally lights on and the mosquito hunt begins. But mosquitos are masters at hide and seek and there might have been 42 buzzing around your head, but by the time you reach the light switch they have all hidden under the bed, behind the light bulb or are pretending to be a speck of dust in the corner.

As if that sound weren't enough, it seems like nature gave the mosquito the ability to transmit EVERY FUCKING nasty disease known to mankind. Malaria, Dengue Fever, Yellow Fever, Japanese Encephalitis, West Nile Virus and if you are really lucky, the Rift Valley Fever too. It's fucking amazing that they can't transmit HIV or Rabies, but I'm sure the mosquito council are working on it.

I mean they are so nasty & evil, that if the mosquito were a human it would be Ghengis Khan, Hitler, Pol Pot, Stalin, Bruce Lee, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Chuck Norris and George Bush rolled into one. In the Olympics of bad-ass animals the tiger, lion, polar bear and great white shark would all be cowering behing each other as the mosquito took the gold medal.
Thus your average traveller applies about 16 gallons of repellent each evening. This makes backpacker romance an unsavoury option, as any body part other than the mouth is going to taste like licking vinegar off a dead slug. Well, OK, not EVERY body part.

Travelling 101; #4: Pringles

Some foodstuffs seem universal but after travelling for a while you realise every country has its own beer, soft drinks and chocolate bars. But by in large there are two exceptions to this rule - Coca Cola (and maybe Fanta at a push) & Pringles. The latter seems to be purpose designed for all those travellers who don't trust the native cuisine. So on any long bus journey you will hear that familiar "once you've popped you can't stop" sound of multiple gringos getting their dinner in a metal cylinder ready.

Dr. Evil vs. the Pyramids in Trujillo

The Mancora DTs broke somewhere around 4am leaving me enough time to remove my neighbour´s elbow from my ear and enjoy the sunrise view from the bus. I stumbled
off the bus in Trujillo and found somewhere to imbibe a litre of coffee and half a meter of sandwich. I was planning on staying here for a day or two, but after half an hour walking around re-decided and bought a ticket for that night to Huaraz.

So with 14 LONG hours to kill and feeling like an extra in a Joy Division video I set about doing the tourist thing, which is quite tricky when you are into your 2nd day of hangover. Before embarking on it I went to the central market and got a pint of carrot juice. It must be bad for me to drink carrot juice. But the trip proved to be worthwhile, Chan Chan and especially the Huaca del Luna (and Sol) being very impressive. The Huacas are stuck in the suburbs of Trujillo they come at you out of nowhere. A couple of hundred meters to the left a man is watering his back garden, to the right there is a hundred meter high 1000 year old pyramid. Odd. I started enjoying the whole thing but the enjoyment was short lived as one of the people on the tour was a rather fat, loud, and obviously gay Belgian. I mean how many disadvantages can one man have? He resembled a fat Dr. Evil with hair and thought his funny comments about dusty walls were side splitting. My evil eye trick didn't work either so I just grinned pleasantly like a perfume counter girl.



That done and Belgian lost, I withdrew to an internet cafe for a couple of hours before going for a Chinese. Strange as it may seem, Chinese cuisine is big in Peru, with a large Chinese community cooking up a storm. I wasn't to be disappointed and was served up a chicken stir fry that resembled the dimensions of the Huaca del Sol. It was literally a mountain of food on a plate. I hadn't eaten all day and gave it my very best, but left defeated, with half of it still on the plate staring lewdly at me.

So, without having seen a bed since yesterday morning, I board the bus to Huaraz.

Mental in Mancora

I finally made it to Mancora after a long day with at least 3 busses in Ecuador and a brief night's sleep in the border town of Tumbes.

The town seemed quite grubby and dusty at first, situated directly along the Panamerican highway, but with a decent beach and some waves going on. I wandered around looking for a place to stay (thinking I would only stay a day or two) and finally happened upon Loki. I had heard legendary things from my cousin Allanah who had stayed in the Loki in Cusco, so decided to chance my luck and check in.

5 days later I stumbled out and crawled on to a night bus heading somewhere as far away as possible before my liver left me.

Yes, Loki is one of those hostels that parties 24/7, a bar tab system ensuring that you need no cash, an inhouse restaurant ensuring you need not leave the place for food and a swimming pool to ensure that you don't have to brave the chilly waves. They have thought of everything. The owners mainly being a group of Irish lads and an Israeli who set up the first one in Cusco in 2005. They now own 4 - Cusco, Lima, La Paz and Mancora and they are definitely on to a winning recipe.

Travelling 101; #3: Diarrhea

They say there are only 2 absolute certanties in life - paying taxes and death. I would like another one to the lis - travellers diarrhea. Yes Delhi Belly, Gyppy Tummy, Montezumas revenge, the trots, the squirts, etc. Just like an Irish winter they are wet, unpleasant, long and unpredictable. At one time you can have a piece of bread and get it, at other times you can down raw seafood and be fine.

My weirdest experience was arriving off the plane in Thailand and having imbibed NOTHING but a bottle of coke all day and I still got Bangkok Belly. It varies in viscosity (which I believe is the correct term) from slightly soft ice cream to full on "I am actually peeing from my arse". Its duration is also a mystery - sometimes it passes quickly (in one sitting, so to speak), sometimes it plagues you for weeks - in fact the entire 4 weeks I was in Cambodia it followed me round like a stray dog.

But like a slight bodily imparement, you soon get used to it. The only time it is mildly worrying is when you have a 12 hour bus journey ahead of you and your stomach is already gurgling as you board the bus, but then again it just ads to the excitement - Delhi Routlette if you will.

Watching the whales in Puerto Lopez

Back from the Galapagos I made it to Puerto Lopez late at night and checked into a very nice hostel called the Sol Inn.
The next morning it was up early to hop in a small boat and check for some whales. They were definitely there but they weren't doing the whole jumping out of the water thing. Instead they just lurked and came up for a squizz and a purge of the blow hole every so often.
But here's a picture of what it should like, you'd swear they were trained to do it at sunset. But despite the lack of playful whales we motored on out to the Isla de la Plata which is like a mini Galapagos, replete with boobies and other marine life.

And that brought Ecuador to a very pleasant close, all pictures here

Galapagos TV

Rather than describe how wonderful this place was I decided to do it David Attenborough stylee and make some videos...








But some highlights in brief:
* Walking to the beautiful Tortuga bay on Santa Cruz and discovering that marine iguanas come in large too. A real live dinosaur just slithering and grunting down the beach.
* Minutes later walking around a cliff to see my first booby (blue) just sitting there looking at me. Even at a meter away he didn't budge.
* Arriving in Isabella harbour to see penguins, Manta rays and white tipped sharks just swimming around the boats in crystal clear waters.
* Snorkelling in a lagoon on Isabella and meeting a lone seal. Extremely playful we swam abou together for ages before he picked up a seashell from the sea bed, swam up to the surface and let it drop. It took me a while to get what he was doing but it was nothing more than a game of fetch. I would swim down and get the shell and drop it for him, where he would catch it just before it reached the bottom.
* The omnipresence of seals on San Cristobal. Having to tip toe over a beach filled with seals to get home at night was always fun.
* The beaches of Isabela - just gorgeous.
* Meeting a real live giant[ish] tortoise on Isabela just walking down the road.

Travelling 101; #2: The Chicken Bus

Millions of American and Canadian children have no idea that one day the bus seats they occupy on their way to school will probably be graced by chickens, pigs, motorbikes and lots of women in bowler hats. As the humble yellow school bus (normally made by bluebird I have come to learn) comes to the end of its natural life in North America it is shipped or driven down by the busload to Central America where it is stripped of any useful electronics, painted in psychadelic colours, given some go faster spoilers and liberally decorated with pictures of the Virgin Mary, Jesus, Che & the entire Barcelona football team (in that order of popularity). Sometimes the drivers go for slogans such as "Solo Dios sabe mi destino" which can either be translated as "Only God knows my destiny" or the much cooler "Only God knows my destination". Love a bus driver that relies on divine intervention to get to the right bus stop.

These busses then roll out and connect the tiniest of Central American villages. They really are the lifeblood of many a C. American town - without them nobody would be going anywhere in countries where car ownership is still a privelege only the upper classes can contemplate.

These chariots stop anywhere - all you do is stick your arm out somewhere vaguely near the road (or even up a side street where the conductors with eyes in the sides of their heads will spolt people legging it from miles away). This can be slightly frustrating though as the lack of bus stops means that 5 people standing all seperately 10 meters away from each other will all halt the bus, in fact moseying towards a bus that is slowing down is most definitely frowned upon. Customer is definitely king here and the conductor is a legend. I have seen them lift on a pack of children at the same time, take 10 shopping bags off a women and even seen one conductor lift an old granny on by lifting her up under her arms. The concept that a bus wouldn't stop and let somebody on is unimaginable here, space will always been made (normally by women putting all 6 children on their lap, Chinese acrobatic displays don't even get close) and there is always time. Not like the German tram drivers that I have seen close the door on many a huffing and puffing grandmother's face.



The busses also transport any item imagineable, it is funny to read the old school signs prohibiting food when the man beside you has 3 chickens tied up between his legs. In my time I have seen, besides the obligatory chickens, ducks, dogs,a couple of goats, a moped, a plasma TV, a monkey, a pig and quite recently 2 armchairs, a 2 seater sofa and a three seater being transported.



In many countries, El Salvador being the one to come most to mind, the chicken bus is the favourite target of street vendors who hop on and off plying their wares to a captive audience. Anything from cold drinks to fruit, from doughnuts to chicken on a stick are offered (screamed) at the passengers. Even if the bus is completely packed with people, standing choc-a-block in the aisle, the vendors will still weave & dodge their way down the aisle and black. Slightly more annoying than the common or garden vendor is the snake oil salesman who you can spot a mile away. They get on with a large backpack / suitcase and stand at the front. They then clear their throats loudly and start off by wishing everybody a most wonderful trip on this perfect day and that this little interruption will only last a minute before everybody can return to their fantastic journey.

They then kick off a 20 minute rehearsed speech selling their wares, whether they be CDs, DVDs, health books or even fucking etch a sketches (still the rage over here).

But all in all the chicken bus is an institution and there is never a dull moment on one. The tube will never be the same again.

Travelling 101; #1: The Electric Shower

Herewith a new series of posts to introduce you to some of the finer elements of travelling. Today we shall start with an old traveller's favourite.

The electric shower, aka "the suicide shower" or "the hippy killer" is an implement of torture well known to any traveller in Latin America. It being a continent not known for cold (except for the extreme south and the altiplano), South America has not really had a long love affair with hot water. Correspondingly the idea of having a ready supply of hot water to purge the gringo body of all sorts of dust and detrius is foreign to most households down here. The hostals that have realised that hot water is a valuable competitive advantage have resorted to installing the cheapest option available - the dreaded electric shower.

You do not require a degree in engineering nor nuclear physics to understand the electric shower. A source of electricity is attached to a box over the shower head which is, in turn, attached to a supply of cold water. The cold water passing through this form of short circuit is heated and then pours down on to dirty gringo body. That electricity and water don't readily mix is obviously not readily known down here, so the ubiquity of the hippy killer increases.

In fairness the system works fine, but on occassion when the shower isn't grounded properly or the solar system's alignment is all wrong one can stand under the shower and receive a series of electric shocks. The closer one's hand to the box, the more intense the shock. So the habitual raising of the arm to wash the oxter can cause slightly more than expected. All in all it actually makes showering that bit more fun, nothing like waking up at 6am and not knowing if you will come out of the shower alive or with your hair still attached.

Jurrasic Park in Guayaquil

Wasn't expecting much from Guayaquil and as usual Scaryplanet had done a good job of warning you not to leave your room after 7pm. But it turned out to be a fine city with lots of interesting parts, including the Malecon (seafront boulevard), the beautiful colonial hill overlooking the town - Las Peñas and the Parque Simon Bolivar in downtown Guayaquil. The park is seemingly normal - grass, benches, grannies chatting, playing children, pigeons and squirrels... And lots of massive wild Iguanas slinking around the place...

Absolutely weird.

Photos here

Balalalla Riobamba

Next up, Riobamba a bustling town in the middle of Ecuador.

I woke up a bit late due to a bit of a hangover which was accomplished by drinking with some Ecuadorian tourists who were on holiday from New York. Two of them were actually building the new World Trade Centre and had an Irish foreman. They seemed to think the Irish were great and insisted on buying me beer. So who was I to say no?
So the lovely journey to Riobamba was spent with my head knocking against the window, trying but failing miserably to sleep.
Into sunny Riobamba and down to ProBici where I decided I wanted to get on a mountain bike (again) the next day to be driven close to the top of Chimbarazo (Ecuador's highest mountain) and descend at high velocity.

Otherwise it was a case of wandering around getting a flavour for the town, which unlike Banos is quite untouristy and therefore all the more enjoyable to walk around without hearing shrill exclamations like "Hey Hank look at this pair of castanets"...

Sometime when it was dark, hunger called and I headed into San Valentin, apparently the in-spot for locals. Got a good seat at the bar and watched Nadal pummel an unfortunate German in the tennis. Some food and a couple of beers later, the chap next to me strikes up a conversation. Turns out he is a local business man (Carlos) and his girlfriend beside him a Colombian (Anna) from Bogota. We start chatting and get on famously. He starts buying me beers. I tell him I have to descend Chimbarazo on a mountain bike tomorrow at 7am. He buys me more beers. As a twist of fate Colombia and Ecuador were playing football the next day, I told him Ecuador had a good chance. He bought me some Tequila.
After enough alcohol to sink the Ecuadorian navy I eventually manage to stand up and make my apologies. I go to pay for my pizza and pre-Carlos beers but he will not let me. I bow down and thank him, stagger home and eat some pillow.

I actually wake up on time, not feeling the may west, but make my way down to the pick up. We drive out of town and for the first time Chimborazo becomes visible and it is absolutely stunning. All 6310 meters of it. Just towering over everything else the eye can see. We drive onwards and ever upwards, the vegetation gradually thinning out until it was just a barren moonscape. We stopped at 4800 meters and I strapped the bike to myself. I still wasn't feeling too hot but nothing for it now, so head down and on with it. Within seconds I was doing well over 50kmh, probably not the best thing for a wildly hungover Irishman with mild altitude sickness. To hell with it, I was enjoying myself. So on I screamed, past bemused tourists, vaguely unsettled Vicuñas.

I rolled on, the landscape once again becoming more lush. Passing ancient Inca settlements and farming communities and in a few short hours it was all over. The driver told me I was extremely quick. I told him I wanted to see the football game at 3pm. He nearly kissed me. It had been on his mind all day and was rather grateful that he could get home in time to see it.

Delighted to help, but Ecuador lost 2-0...

Photos of Banos and its fantastic waterfalls

Photos of Chimbarazo

Baddest English of the week competition #17

Where naughty schoolkids with weak bladders go...

It's not what you're thinking in Baños

Most people who have picked up a rudimentary knowledge of Spanish probably know the basics, like "cerveza", "si", "no" and Baños? Optionally prefixed by "Donde son los"... Indeed Baños means "toilets", or more correctly "baths" and due to lots of volcanic activity in the neighbourhood and a plethora of water, Baños is the place to do the hot spring thing in Ecuador.

I decided not to immerse myself in the waters as it was school holidays and the idea of trying to relax in hot water with lots of excited kids is right up there with being placed in a padded room and having to listen to Celine Dion's greatest hits played on the pan pipes.

Instead I sauntered round the town, which is very pretty, situated in a valley with steep hills on all sides. Unfortunately due to all its good attributes (location, hot water, activities etc.) Baños has also become a little tourist mecca. Much like Thamel in Kathmandu, Nepal and Cusco, Peru the town is overrun with multi coloured Gore-Tex, hiking boots and hat-even -though-its-fucking-20-degrees-outside wearing, ski pole carrying tourists. The town is also very accommodating in that every second shop offers tours, flights, laundry, internet, mountain bikes, massages, potpourri, pot noodles, pots & pans or just pot.

OK, I made the last one up.

Still it is pleasant enough and the locals are good natured and very friendly. I ate most days at the central market where I could get lunch for 2 dollars. It was always quite depressing walking by the tourist restaurants where heaps of gringos were squashed in, eating mediocre food for at least 5 times the price. I always wonder is it fear of the unknown that stops them eating with the locals? Or that they actively like travelling to another country to eat food from Italy and sit & talk English with people from home?

Some chaps who broke this mould were two Australians I met whilst having a beer on the roof of the hostel. Quiet a first, we did the usual "how long you travelling", "where you been", "where you going" blah blah chit chat. They had been on the road for 14 months, which was rather impressive and had come from Alaska, which was even more so. But it only transpired after about 10 minutes that they were actually CYCLING the whole way, trying to camp in most places. They were headed for Patagonia which they reckoned would take another 8 months. I left them drinking and went to bed quietly in awe.


The next morning I awoke inspired by my two wheeled Aussie heroes, so I hired a mountain bike and descended down the valley towards Rio Negro. Along the way there are 7 waterfalls, one more impressive than the next. The ultimate being the pailon del diablo, an astounding cascade which makes more noise than ten 747s taking off simultaneously. There is also a tiny tunnel they have made which allows you to climb in behind the back of the waterfall. It think it was made for the Smurfs as it was mainly about 3ft high, but I managed to get through and peek out from behind the waterfall. No crock of gold though.

On my way back to Baños (horribly sweat inducing and curse outbreakingly uphill all the way) I bumped/wheezed into my two Aussies mates. They had apparently been drinking until quite late and hadn't managed to surface with giant hangovers until midday.



20000km and still pissheads. Legends. Godspeed gentlemen.

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Blogs are a two way thing, I write, YOU comment!
Don't be scared, click on the "0 comments" link at the bottom of a post and just write something. I love the sound of my own voice and all that, but if I get the feeling noone's reading I might just stop this lark and go for a pint instead...

To get you going, the BBC's list of 50 places to see before you die.

I'm gutted to only have seen 19. How are you doing?

Crazy about Quilotoa

The Quilotoa circuit is a rough trail of roads (mostly unpaved) leading from Latacunga and winding its way through middle Ecuador.

It was early on a Sunday morning and things didn't start too well as the bus terminal I went to had been closed for what looked like a long time. Eventually found the new one and got on the Latacunga bus, which was departing in 3 minutes - a standard reply in Ecuador where every bus is departing in exactly 3 minutes. 20 minutes later we left and we motored down the ugly Panamerican highway.

In Latacunga it was time for breakfast, so I walked into the nearest place that looked like I could acquire some food. I was promptly greeted by a 10 year old girl. I asked for some eggs and she skipped away into the kitchen. A couple of minutes later a 6 year old boy brought me a tray with my eggs, a coffee, a glass of papaya juice and a bread roll with cheese. I scoffed them down and asked the little lady how much. 1 dollar. More daylight robbery I tell you.

The next bus was to Chugchilán, a tiny village half way round the loop. There are only 2 direct busses a day, so the bus was packed and 90% of the people were wearing traditional dress. For the women it was felt halts with peacock feathers, skirts and colourful tops the men had black trousers and a poncho. The bus chugged along, ever uphill, stopping anytime somebody wanted to get on or off. No such things as bus stops here. We reached a small village and there was this most unmerciful scream. It sounded like 20 babies being murdered simultaneouly. It turned out to be rather a large black big, who was being hauled up onto the roof of the bus. Chickens can ride inside. Pigs stay on the outside. Animal racism. The were sounds of hooves on the roof but they soon died down as the pig obviously decided to settle down and enjoy the ride.

The weather was shite, clouds and fog everywhere so the world famous view was well hidden. Just as dusk was decending we arrived into Chugchilán and I made my way to one of the 3 lodging options. The main other one being a horribly right-on yoga, rice & vegetables and composting toilets "ecolodge", which charges 33 dollars for a dorm room. It was nippy up at 3200 meters, so it was on with the fleece and I took a look around town. That lasted 15 minutes and I ended up in the town's only "bar". A small room with a fridge and some stools. Met a nice couple from Colorado and we knocked back some beers before heading back to our hostel for dinner.

The next day I was up early and one look out the window made me cheer up - blue skies and sunshine. I took some form of truck back up to Quilotoa. Sitting on the roof with the Colorado-couple (sounds like a crime gang) and a German girl. This time we were able to appreciate the views. Canyons, mountains, rivers, waterfalls... All there and very lovely.

In Quilotoa there is a famous crater lake, so I hiked down with the German girl. I didn't think it would be much but as we hiked over the crater's edge and caught a first glimpse of the lake I was proved VERY wrong. Yep, the Quilotoa crater lake is just one of those absolutely breathtaking places (picture above). We walked around for hours taking photos before heading back to the road for the decent to Latacunga.

On to Baños next.

Fear and loathing in Quito

One funny thing about travelling is that people who are sitting back home generally have the wrong impression security wise about various countries.

Good examples are El Salvador, Nicaragua and Colombia. All of which have had bad reputations at one stage but are now, apart from certain areas in the big cities (like any country), very safe and extremely pleasant to travel in. The Scary Planet type guidebooks generally take 3 or 4 years to reflect the general vibe on the street, so Colombia is still one of those places where we are told to be extremely careful. To be honest I would be more worried walking round north inner city Dublin than I would in Medellin.

Likewise there are some places that have a decent reputation, even in guide books, but are black spots when you talk to other travellers. My informal straw poll amongst fellow backpackers gave the ranking:
1. Caracas & most of Venezuela
2. Quito & the east of Ecuador
3. Guatemala City
as contenders in the "Most likely to get mugged" competition.

So it was with a vague uneasy feeling that I arrived into a dark and windy Quito (2800m) with an Australian bloke I had met at the Colombian border.

The uneasy feeling was alleviated about 4 hours later as I was dancing with aforementioned Aussie and a Dutch girl in a club absolutely jam packed with friendly Ecuadorians.

It was a Tuesday night.

Yes, Quito likes to party. Every night of the week the streets of the La Mariscal are packed with people either drinking (despite draconian laws against street drinking; none of that stuff in Colombia!) or queuing up to get into packed pubs and clubs. The Reina Victoria pub was a great place to get things going. It had a good mixture of locals, travellers and ex-pats and it had a lovely big fire going in the fireplace. It is actually a strong candidate for the next entry in Quietpubs.com

Other than its fun loving people, the Old Town of Quito is a veritable treasure trove of churches, monasteries and leafy Plazas and well deserves it UNESCO status. So between ambling about the old town, visiting the equator and putting one leg in the Northern hemisphere and one in the south (had to be done), getting the cable car up to 4000m and looking down over the city and enjoying the nightlife & not enjoying the morning after (I am sure hangovers disimprove with altitude) it took me a week to leave Quito.

Colombia in Review

Well except for the last night, Colombia was just one big box of fantastic chocolates.
From the beaches of Cartagena to the ruins in the Lost City & Tierradentro, from the rainforests of Salento to the 5000+ meter summits near Manizales and from the isolated and steeped in history Mompox to the party mad Medellin, Colombia is just peppered with the most sensational scenery and places. But at end of the day it is the people that make the place: open, friendly, funny and generally just a race that like to have a good time.

Minus points? Well the food just ain't the greatest and certainly can't compete with somewhere like Mexico. But coming from Ireland that is hardly a reason to fault a country, is it? :)

As Arnie said, "I'll be back"...

Photos here

Pasto: Or travelling ain't all sunshine

Just in case you think this is all just beers, beaches and sunshine my trip to Pasto was a case of "mammy can I come home now?".

Wake at 5am. Ant bites hurt like hell. Neck looks like I could win the Mid-Western all comers Redneck championship.
Yeah, Yeah, pain is transient.

Bus arrives nicely late. Only a couple of seats left. Squeeze myself in beside dribbling local (not a toddler).

5 hours of rock, roll and dust surfing and we arrive in Popayan. I look like a grey Frosty the fecking snowman.

Next bus, Popayan - Pasto. Only back seats left. It looks all good as all the seats are leather. Forget that leather is slippy and that the ride is a curvy, bumpy uphill and downhill roller coaster special. Spend next 2 hours squirming in the seat as every time the driver brakes my arse flies forward and I practically end up on the floor. Added to this is the attractive young lady beside me with a toddler (not dribbling) in her lap. The kid choose to use my elbow as a headrest. I never realised that kids had such hard heads. My elbow definitely came away the worse for wear after being constantly head-butted by dangling kiddo. Next the mother starts to fall asleep on my shoulder, so here I am seat surfing with a headbutting toddler and a Colombian chick sawing some logs on my shoulder.

It all ends at 7pm. Only 13 hours on the road. Piece of piss, but at this stage the small of my back has gone into spasms. Taxi downtown and check in to only vaguely hostel-looking place. Massive building over 3 floors. Room on the top floor looks decent enough so I check in. When I get back in I throw myself on the bed. Might as well have thrown myself out the window. The mattress was only slightly softer than concrete. Oh well, I can sleep on anything, probably good for my sore back etc. etc. Then I notice a sound coming from the ceiling, I am on the top floor so I reckon it is pigeons. There is definitely some cooing going on to support this theory. Then a slightly louder sound starts emanating from up there. Is that the sound of 4 legs?? No, no, it's just a very large pigeon. Honestly.

I decide to brave the outside world as I haven't had anything to eat all day except a sugary cup of coffee at 6am. I am immediately accosted by a beggar outside the door. I dodge him only to be accosted by another. Pasto appears to be poorer than a blind door mouse. I play hide and seek between beggars and dodgy looking gentlemen who I am sure would love to relieve me of my last pesos and make it to a restaurant. Needless to say the food was not the may west, but the highlight of the day was of course a nice frothy beer. I paid the bill and legged it back to the hostel, turned the light off, ignored the noises and had my last night in Colombia.

All just rock 'n' roll...

Tierradentro: Moonshine, drunk rebels, empty tombs & big assed butterflies.

Cali to Popayan was a mercifully short bus ride and the city itself very pleasant especially as I treated myself to a room in the Casona del Virrey, an old colonial hotel situated on the main town square.

Up early the next day I set off for Tierradentro, a remote area with some old tombs. It was to be one of those bus rides that has 30 minutes on a paved road and 5 and a half unpaved. The scenery was stunning as usual - a mixture of rain forest and paramo but the road took its toll on my arse and my lungs (air-conditioning was provided in the form of windows that opened and let it the beautiful fine Colombian road dust).

We eventually arrived in the tiny town of San Andres de Pisimbala and I got a room in the "swanky" new La Portada, owned by a cool chap called Leonardo. Who within minutes of meeting me handed me a beer and started drawing a map of the region with all the tombs etc. He even included walking times between places. Very impressive. I thanked him and set off for a walk around town, which was as close as idyllic as you can get. Surrounded on all sides by mountains, there is a football pitch in the middle where there were at least 3 simultaneous games going on. Up beside the thatched church I was whistled at (in a non-sexual way) and a Colombian standing in the doorway of the local bar/shop/hairdressers was waving at me. I mosied over and was handed a shot of the local moonshine. Ignoring all ScaryLonely Planet warnings I knocked it back. I was poured another. I knocked it back too. The assembled locals inside gave me a loud cheer.

So what else to do, but sit down and shoot the breeze. A couple of beers were passed around and the conversation turned political. San Andres had been up until recently a little bit active in the guerilla scene. The locals took pains to explain that it was all over and now it was all just peace, love and alcohol. I was inclined to believe them. Well at least by looking at the state at some of the Indios who were in various stages of inebriation. Hard to imagine them bearing arms, well at least without dropping them.

I was starving by now so I big my farewells and rolled back to La Portada where with a school-kid look of guilt on my face I ordered "whatever is on" (forget menus in much of Colombia. You just take what you are given). The lady of the house knocked up some great grub which I polished off in 4 seconds flat. The only other table was occupied by a German couple with their 2 kids. We got chatting and it turns out it was their third trip to Colombia (the first with kids). They were the perfect antidote to the legions of coke tourists (Warren, a sound English bloke I met in Medellin puts it best). They loved the country and had literally been everywhere. Even back in 1991, when your average backpacker was still wary of going anywhere outside Thailand.



Bed was an ungodly 9pm and so was the 4am wake up call from the legions of Roosters around my room. I dozed on and eventually escaped the very strong gravitational pull of the bed a couple of hours later. A quick breakfast was knocked up by Eva, who I couldn't work out if she was Leonardo's wife or employee and I headed off into the mountains. It was all uphill for the first hour, but the views were compensation enough. I eventually reached the first tomb, called Aguacate, which means avocado and I have no idea what the significance of it all is. It is situated on the top of a hill and has magnificent 360 degree views. The tombs looked like massive rabbit burrows, but in a couple of them there were vague drawings to be seen. Graverobbers has stolen the rest many years ago. I took my shirt off and had a lie down and I'm not sure if it was revenge from the dead or not, but I was bitten all over my back by some massive ants. Oh well, pain is transient as my father always said.

Back downhill towards the other tombs, fording streams (where I saw the most ginormous Blue Morpho I have ever seen) and avoiding bulls I make it up to tomb complex 2. There are 30 tombs here and each is at the bottom of some fucking massive steps. I mean even Andre the Giant couldn't have walked down these comfortably. Each tomb is under lock and key so the gatekeeper (Ghostbusters anyone?) has to let you into each one. After 3 such tombs and very little to see I told the 'keeper that was quite enough thank you. He looked a bit insulted (I would have thought he'd be happy to return to his radio and fags) but I wasn't having any of it and headed on to tomb complex 3 and 4 which I flew through as at this stage I was turning a nice shade of pink and all I wanted was a Coke (black) and a sit down.

That evening just as the sun was setting, I was down by the soccer pitch watching a big game and out of nowhere a herd? flock? pack? of wild horses came and ran through the middle of the pitch. Nobody batted an eye lid.

Special place.

Cali

An overnighter from Medellin, Cali is famous for Salsa and more partying but at this stage I'd had too much of a good thing so I went to the zoo and read a book instead.

Who said this travelling stuff is all just rock and roll?

Medellin

Enough hiking, it was time to head downhill to Medelin and party (the week's breather after Bogota was enough). That is what Medellin is famous for (well other than a public transport cable car & Botero) and by God do they enjoy themselves.

The main entertainment area (Zona Rosa) is based around the Parque de Lleras and it is a non-stop conveyor belt of entertainment. Bars, Pubs, Restaurants, Karaoke, Clubs, Salsa joints. You name it they got it.

And never one to shirk a challenge I tried them all and loved every minute. Only problem is I have to decide when to go back...

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.

Salento & The Cocora Valley

After the craziness of Bogota I decided for a bit of R&R in the countryside. Salento was the destination of choice, a hilly town in the middle of the "coffee zone". I arrived latish on a Sunday afternoon to find a fiesta in full swing in the main square. Kids were running around, beers were being swigged and trout were a fryin' (town speciality).

So not to be rude I had some beers and a fantastic trout in mushrooms before checking into the beautiful Plantation house, a cool hostel up on a hill where my room offered a magnificent view over the adjoining valley.

Up bright, breezy and unhungover the next morning I jumped in a packed jeep and took the bumpy road down to the Cocora Valley. A place famous for its massive wax palms - fact overload warning: The wax palm is Colombia´s national tree and the tallest palm in the world. From the moment we entered the valley it was picture postcard - rolling hills, rainforests and the infamous gangly wax palms everywhere. There was a marked hike which in hindsight was one of the most beautiful I have ever done (giving New Zealand a run for its money) and I mosied for a couple of hours up hills and over rivers, before arriving at the rangers station. The nice chap and his wife prepared hot chocolate and cheese (Colombian speciality) whilst 3 different types of hummingbird buzzed by my ear.

On the way back I bumped into a lovely Croatian couple and we hiked back to the jeep together. This time it was standing room only and I had to stand on the rear bumper and hang on for dear life.

Other super duper fact of the day: Sláinte pronounced in Croatian means "little elephants".

Photos of the cocora valley

Bogota

At 2850 meters, Bogota is higher than a stoned kitten and I only planned to stay a couple of days.


7 days later and a couple of hundred dollars lighter I had to drag myself to the bus station to leave.


Bogota is just one of those cities that has everything - interesting sights like the museum of Gold (no freebies), taking the funicular up to Monserrate and looking down over the urban sprawl or just strolling round the old town in the Candelaria.
It also boasts more nightlife than a sane man can handle and to boot the people of Bogota are some of the friendliest out there. After only a couple of weeks, I was developing a massive soft spot for Colombia.

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.

Hiking to the Lost City, Hopping homeward bound

It was to be a 6am and I awoke groggily to the guide swinging my hammock.
My first lucid thought was "Ow". The ow was eminating from my ankle which I tried to move and like a stubborn horse in showjumping, it refused. I dismounted from the hammock and put some weight on it. Owfeckingoucharseowowouch. I cursed like a silesian prostitue and hopped down to the toilet to do my ablutions. The guide saw me and looked rather concerned as this was the big day, we were covering all the ground we had hiked on day one and two. He called over an old Kogi woman who proceeded to do some weird massaging of the ankle. Like the X-Files, I really wanted to believe but all she brought me was a whole world of pain. I tried to smile at her but it was hard with gritted teeth and teared up eyes. She then applied a bandage that the guide had given her. Whatever about ancient massages, this old lady had no ideas how to strap an ankle. She just wound the whole bandage around the ankle. Luckily an Israeli chap who had just got out of the army jumped in as soon as she had scuffled off and reapplied the bandage in a very professional manner. Next it was the Irish lass who gave me some Neurofen - I swallowed 3. After that I put on two pairs of socks and forced myself into my shoes.

After some coffee (no rum unfortunately) and food we set off and surprisingly the ankle didn't feel too bad. It was all mainly uphill at the start which was good as it meant little weight on the ankle. I started to feel elated and a spring developed in my step. The kilometers flew by and then it was time for the last downhill before home.

Whether it was the Neurofen or the Indian's black magic wearing off or the fact that the downhill was extremely steep I don't know, but after a couple of steps the pain was intense and increasing with every step. I had to stop every couple of steps for a pain break. Then I tried walking sideways - not bad. Then backwards - great! But unfortunately my vision was slightly impared and I fell on my arse. The minutes went by slowly and I descended like the hunchback of Notre Damn. Miraculously flat ground appeared again, but at this stage even flat was painful. But it was only for another kilometer or so and then the village where we started came in to sight. At this stage I was only thinking of sitting down so I plowed through some rivers and arrived at the bar where we started. Before even sitting down I ordered two beers and drank them within about 7.2 seconds.

After a face wash, some food and some more beers I felt vaguely (OK, very vaguely) normal again. We hopped into the jeep and cruised back to Taganga. I had the most fantastic shower of my life and a lie down (the bed felt like it had been made for the pea princess) but the trek demanded celebrating. So somehow I arose, had dinner with all of the crew and to this day I cannot explain how I was hopping around the dance floor at 3am... Indian magic?

Hiking to the Lost City, The found city, born slippy and a twist in the tale

It was indeed to be chocolate and toasties and not the low fat AK-47 option. Standing up was tricky as my muscles hurt like bugger, my blisters had popped & were looking rather nasty and the back of my legs looked like a dart board. Dozens of big red marks from mosquitos, and hundreds of little red ones from the sandflies. So now I was probably suffering from tetanus, a mild strain of frog poisoning, late onset rabies and now malaria & dengue fever to boot. Oh well musn't grumble.

In the morning we looked around the lost city, which to be honest is not much of a city but rather a collection of stone circles and steps. Some Koji still live around the city so we paid a little visit to the shaman who stumbled stoned (the joys of Coca) out of his hut and gave a speech about acid rain, deforestation and the ills of society. To be honest I reckon his hut is fully air conditioned and he has CNN on 24/7.

Tour done it was time to slip slide down the steps back to the river. It proved to be a hair raising experience as most people slipped at some stage or another, but no broken bones only some mossy asses. The rest of the day was spent retracing yesteday's steps, so to alleviate the boredom we started singing various songs to keep us going. We belted out the Beatles "Help", roared to the Rolling Stones "Sympathy for the Devil" and I was halfway through a fantastic rendition of the chorus in Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" when I decided to vault over a gate in the path. I hadn't taken a couple of things into account:
1. I am carrying at 15kg backpack on my back
2. My legs are pretty much like jelly after hiking for the last 4 hours
3. The ground on other side of the gate is very uneven

So rather than landing like Nadia Komenich I landed like a drunken sailor on my ankle, which made some funny noises. I stood still and time passed. I waited for some screaming pain, but it was only mild. A lucky break (no pun intended)? I decided not to wait around and shifted up a gear covering the last few KM in no time whatsoever.

Back in camp 2 it was down to the river for some sweat removal and a cooling of the ankle, which was still fairly useable. Dinner was great as usual and we played some more games to fill the time and bed was extremely late at 10pm.

Hiking to the Lost City, River Crossings, Kidnappings, Sandflies and The Lost Beer

Day 3 was the day to finally see the lost city. The guide called us at 6am upon which I dismounted the hammock like a drunken gymnast and fell on my arse. Breakfast was extra strong Colombian coffee and 2 toasted cheese sandwiches accompanied by advice from the guide to eat up as today would be a toughie. Great.

It was all action straight from the start. As dawn was cracking we were already clambering over a slippery ledge with a 20 meter drop. Minutes later we were being ferried over the river in a very rickety lift contraption and then it was all uphill for at least an hour. But at the top and out of the blue there is a mini tuck shop with an Indian lady (not Apoo's wife) selling coke (black) for 3000 pesos (1 dollar 50), quite a few people cracked but I remained firm.

A tricky downhill section was then successfully navigated and at that point we could hear a roaring sound in the background. This was apparently the raging river that we were going to have to wade across 9 times in the coming hour. We survived and only one person was nearly washed away. Feet soaking and more blisters preparing themselves to appear on blisters we emerged at the beginning of the 1500 steps up to the lost city.

The steps were mossy, wet, broken, tiny (made for Indian feet) and bloody steep - a perfect combination for breaking one's snot. The fun was increased by attack mosquitos which would clamp themselves on to your leg by the dozen as soon as you stopped to catch your breath. Which given the steepness of the climb was every couple of seconds. 1478 steps afterwards (I counted) we emerged at the top to find a lost city but also a piece of very modern technology - a military helicopter perched on one of the stone circles. The army was everywhere and so was a film crew. It gradually emerged that Channel 4 was filming a documentary about the last group to be kidnapped from the lost city in 2003. A group of Israelis, Germans and English were woken up at 5am and were marched deeper into the jungle at gunpoint where they were held hostage for just over 3 months.

We hung around and watched the "hostages" jump in the helicopter and watch it take off, which was quite incredible as even though we were sitting 50 meters away, the force of the blades was like a hurricane. We marched on and finally made it teary eyed to camp around 2pm where myself and the Irish girl could stand it no longer and dived into the beers that the porters had brought for "special ocassions" and at $2.50 a pop they were worth every penny.

The afternoon was killed by drinking beer and rum and playing charades (what one does to pass time). At one stage some of the ex-hostages came by to revisit the camp. The German girl went up to the "bedroom" (a room covered in matrasses and mosquito nets) and came back minutes later crying and quite visibly shaken. The English man seemed to take it all in his stride. It was another early night and a little bit of an uneasy sleep, wondering if it would be a 6am wake-up call with hot chocolate and toasties or an AK-47 in the face.

Hiking to the Lost City, The revenge of the blister

I woke up on day two. Which was a complete surprise. Tetanus, Rabies and Poison dart frogs had all failed to dispatch me. On the other had I was stiff as a board and I had two sizeable blisters on the sides of my feet. But today was the "easy" day, so into my pounded hiking shoes I climbed and set off down the trail with a spring in my step. Twas indeed an easy day as after visiting a Kogi (the natives of the area who dressy in natty white) village and having a pineapple and mango pitstop by the side of a beautiful river where a massive owl moth was resting, we arrived at camp two just in time for lunch.

The cooks rustled up another feat, a fantastic vegetable soup with corn, yucca, potato and much other floating vegetation. After that it was down to the crystal clear fast flowing river beside the camp, complete with 2 meter mini-beach. The stress of the first two days were quickly washed away and the day buzzed by quitely with some hammock time, more food, a game of cards and again lights off by 9pm.

This was going to be quite the detox trip.

Hiking to the Lost City, Dead on the road

The alarm goes and my heart sinks. I am not rested. I have a hangover. My fingers hurt. Did Rover survive?
Fall in to the shower and try to make myself human again. Fail miserably and instead stagger down to the trekking office to meet my fellow hikers, who by God are a chirpy bunch - English, Irish, Dutch, 2 Germans, an American, an Israeli and a Colombian man with his daughter. All bright and perky in their GoreTex and hiking boots. I am quiet obviously the only one who went anywhere remotely near a beer last night.

Two jeeps are there to take us to the trail head. One for people and one for the provisions. I make my excuses and head to the food truck to sleep on a sack of rice with some mango pillows. 2 hours later and we arrive. I am not sure if it is possible but I feel worse. Logic tells me it is scientifically called a hangover. But the other part of me is feeling the onset of rabies. Get a bottle of water, no adverse reaction. I feel confident for a while. Lunch is laid out and we are told to eat up as it is a tough 4 hour uphill hike. I eat a piece of cucumber.

2 hours later I do not care about rabies, I have forgotten I have a hangover. Rover is a distant memory. I am climbing a never ending steep incline which is covered in dust and have been doing so for the last hour. People get sweat patches when they exercise. My t-shirt had inversely a tiny dry patch in the center. The rest was so drenched that I could literally wring it out like it had been freshly immersed in water. Hiking in 35 degree heat and near 100% humidity is not for everyone. In fact it was not for me either, but at this stage I had no choice.

Head down and up we go. My ego wasn't helped by some local in a pair of rubber boots breezing by me and smiling just where I was convinced I was going to throw myself to the ground, cover myself with dust and get it all over with.

The body is an amazing thing and a couple of hours later my hangover was gone, probably left somewhere near the top of the last hill in a pool of water, my rabies was getting better and we are at our camp. "Camp" might be a bit grand, it was a long shack with a tin roof. Hammocks were slung and mosquito nets errected and the guides got cracking in the "kitchen". Meanwhile we headed down to a local waterfall which fell into a natural swimming pool. So in we jumped and washed the liters of sweat and grime from our bodies. Then I felt a nip, thought I imagined it at first but then came another one. My zoology ain´t that great but I was quite sure there are no piranhas in this part of Colombia. I felt another one and looked down to find a swarm of likkle tiny fishes who were munching on my dead skin. I am not having a good animal day. People pay good money for this treatment, but I was not having any Nemo munch on my toes so it was back to camp for some surprisingly good food. A couple of rounds of cards and it was off to bed. 9pm.

On my way to the "toilet" for a preslumber pee I put my hand on the wall to search for a light switch but instead connected with a medium sized slimy mass of jumpiness. I dropped my torch, but got the light on and saw the culprit kermit staring at me. He was quite colourful, so undoubtably poisonous. I bend down to pick up my torch and in the process scrape my head off a rusty nail in the wall. So there I stand in the middle of a Colombian rainforest poisoned by a frog and dying of simultaneous rabies and tetanus.

I go to bed and see if I wake up in the morning...

Hiking to the Lost City, Part 1

A misnomer if ever there was one, the Lost City is indeed not lost. Perhaps it was mislaid at some stage or even temporarily forgotten, but it is now certainly found. A better name would be "The really remote and bloody hard to get to city", but that might put people off.
After booking the trek for the next day I did the sensible thing and went out drinking till 4.30am. But still in fine form I teetered back home to a chorus of roosters. On my merry way I heard a little yelp by the side of the road. I peered down and discovered to my bemusement a puppy, barely 3 days old, rolling on his back with his eyes still scrunched closed. I look around and see no sign of mother dog. Wait a bit. Still no mother dog. Trek leaves at 8am. Conundrum. The Gods doth test me once again...

Nothing else to do but pick him up and bring him home. After carefully negotiating the barking stray dogs (could they not see I was helping one of their kind?) on my way back to the hostel I stagger in and contemplate the next step. Sleep I decide and think about it in 2 hours. So being mr. nice, I fashion a bed for Homeless Rover out of the only thing to hand - toilet paper. So there it is a lovely bed of TP on my bedroom floor, a water bowl made from the wastepaper basket lid and the little bugger won't settle down. Yipping like a chipmunk. 5am. Feck.

Pick him up and hold him in my palm (he fits perfectly), instant quiet. So I have the choice of staying up and holding him in my hand or go search for the mother. Need sleep, so it's option 2. Put my clothes back on and whilst pulling my t-shirt over my head, forget that the ceiling fan is about 8ft off the ground, so my pinkies go straight between the blades of the fan (and dog lovers, no, Rover was not still in my hand). I am surprised that my fingers are still attached when I look at them. Only a small gash and some up and coming bruising. Find Rover under the bed and storm out the door. Growl back at stray dogs, I am in no mood to be trifled with. Walk down the road and next it is a group of drunken Colombians who make all kinds of belittling remarks about a Gringo taking his puppy for a walk at 5am. Make a face at them that somehow infers that I am not in the best of moods. Jeers stop.

Back to the scene of the crime and at this stage Rover is sucking my fingers. Heart wrenching stuff, that is until I realise that he is sucking my bloody finger. Make mental note, must google rabies transmission mother to child. Look around and finally see a likely candidate close to the spot - a female dog with a six pack of milk hanging down. Put Homeless Rover down on the ground near her. Visibly grateful she launches into a headlong attack which I narrowly avoid by doing some Matrix like ducking and weaving. Do the manly thing and run for my life, leaving Rover to his destiny with his crazy mother. Walk back up road, past my drunken Colombians, who have a common question mark above their heads as to the location of the puppy. I do not stop to explain.

Back to my room. 5.30am. Bright outside. Nothing better than an hour and a half's sleep and hey it's only an easy gringo hike tomorrow?

Taganga

Four hours away from Cartagena, Taganga is (or at least was) a small, sleepy fishing village. But in a lovely location and sporting a decent beach it was destined for tourism, so true to form the first hostels (including the incredibly professional and great Casa De Felipe) and internet cafes opened up a couple of years ago. It is still small and sleepy enough with a decent backpacking scene which means getting up late, going to the beach, siesta and going out late. When in Rome.

Cartagena

Cartagena is called the pearl of south america and it is easy to see why. The old town is picture book, replete with cobblestoned streets, leafy balconies and shaded squares. Colonial style on steriods.
It was a perfect place to regain the land legs, wash everything and get fed again.

Sailing to Colombia

Having breakfast on the Pacific in Panama City and onto Portobelo for dinner on the Carribean. Not many places you can do that. Our transport of choice to Cartagena was a beautiful 50 foot yacht skippered by Salvatore, an incredibly nice chap from Spain and his adopted first mate, an orphaned mongrel named Chilly.

Our motley crue comprised a couple from Italy, an English guy, two Swiss Germans, myself and my two Paddy bodyguards. We set off on Wednesday morning into a slack wind and made our way slowly towards the San Blas islands home to the Kuna people. We motored between Robison Crusoe like islands composing nothing but golden sand and palm trees. In fact at one stage there were dozens of such islands as far as the eye could see. On the first night we dropped anchor off yet another paradise island and as Salvatore prepared dinner we all jumped in and swam towards shore. The waters were so clear you could see down at least 10 meters. Just off shore there were starfish the size of dustbin (American translation: Garbage can) lids and sea slugs large enough to embarrass an elephant. Dinner was fantastic and accompanied by many a beer followed by the obligatory rum to finish off the night.

Day two was more islands, a bit of snorkelling followed by a BBQ on a tiny island (yes, with palm trees and golden sand) with some Kuna people. They cooked up a storm frying lobsters and dishing out some fabulous coconut rice. More beers and rums and a couple on insights into the Kuna culture and we were back in the moonlit dingy heading back to the mothership.

The next morning we weighed anchor late and headed out of the archipelago into the Caribean and true to form the waves increased in size and saw half the crew leaning over the side regreeting their breakfast. The rest of us made like Salvatore and cracked open a beer and just chilled topdeck waving every so often at passing oil tankers. To cap it all off at one stage we had an escort of dolphins racing us for a couple of kilometers. So after 5 days we arrived into Cartagena harbour at 3am, at little worse for wear but a lot of memories richer.

Panama City

Twas the night bus from hell - windy mountain road, lights off at 8pm and no iPod. So the Irish Trio were left betting on the outside temperature gauge (an ever present LED display at the front of the bus) and how low it would go. I won with a risky bet of 20c. For good measure we threw in a Mexican wave for every hour we completed. Then it was on to the name game and a couple of rounds of trivia. By the time we got sleepy at 2am the driver pulled in and decided it was time for dinner. Nothing for it so we procured a small bottle of rum to take the edge off and propel us into the arms of morpheus. The plan didn't work as by the time we were back on board we were giggling like school girls as we smuggled our contraband onboard in plastic cups. Another round or two of drunken trivia and we finally got to sleep around 4am.

Which was indeed perfect timing as the bus arrived in Panama City at 4.30am. We took a taxi to a recommended hostel only to find that reception didn't open till 8am. So we scoured the (very dodgy) vicinity to find anywhere open. As luck would have it there was a Panamanian version of KFC open so we huddled in, ordered some coffee and started to play shithead. What we didn't know was that this venerable establishment was also the central meeting point for all transvestites in the city. So by 5am it resembled a Thai disco, with more large adam's apples than you could shake a stick at. We managed to kill the 4 hours only to find that the hostel had no room when it opened up.

So into a taxi and onto hostel recommendation nummero dos. After a while finding the general area our hopes soared as we found the building. But they were soon to be dashed after finding that the hostel had closed down months ago. Slight aside: Avoid the Rough Guide to Central America like the plague. Next we just asked the taxi driver to take us somewhere cheap and central, which he did a fine job of.

Panama City is fun and the Panamanians are extremely friendly (even by high Central America standards), so we spent a couple of days here soaking up the atmosphere of the Calle Uruguay and the Casco Viejo which is definitely one of the most up and coming places I have seen, with nearly every building being renovated.

At the end of Central America with the impeneterable Darien Gap between Panama and Colombia we searched for a yacht that would take us to Cartagena. The search was quick and we found a lovely 50 footer that was leaving in 2 days. Onward ho.

Photos here

Bocas Del Toro

Bocas is one of those places that just lures you in from the start and you find yourself leaving days / weeks / months later, wondering what you did. In my case I did a fair bit of snorkelling, quite a bit of beaching and a healthy chunk drinking (the beers on Bocas are unfairly cheap). I was aided and abetted by 2 Irish chaps I had met in Livingston and Little Corn Island so there was no slacking allowed. But after about 10 days we decided we'd had enough and struggled back to the mainland on a night bus to Panama City.

Cahuita

Flying through Costa Rica due to its price level and the fact that it is absolutely filled with unfortunately loud people [OK, Americans] on 2 week holidays. Last stop Cahuita, which is on the Carribean coast and has a very mellow Rasta & Ganja vibe. It also sports a nifty national park filled to the gills with monkeys and crabs (not together). I also happened upon a lonely racoon and a timid Koati.
Whilst shuffling downtown on my final day someone taps me on the shoulder and says "Andrew". After about a second of unrecognition I finally realise it was an ex-school colleague who I hadn't seen in night on 22 years. Small world.

Photos of Costa Rica

Santa Elena / Monteverde, Costa Rica

Up in the cloud forest in the middle of Costa Rica, Monteverde is wetter than a waterpark and quite a bit of fun. Stayed in a great hostel called Pension Santa Elena, where everyone was a cool as a polar bears' toenails and liked to have a drink and chill out on the deck at night. Unfortunately Costa Rican prices induce stay at home drinking as the bars charge an extortinate 2 dollars a beer. Did the usual thing of flying through the canopy on a wire which was a lovely way of working off a mild hangover.
Also spent a couple of hours in the rain forest looking for wildlife, but other than a couple of Germans saw nada and got absolutely soaking wet.

San Juan Del Sur

San Juan is the Nicaraguan riveria. Beach, surfing and cheap booze. Just about everything your average tourist needs to keep them happy.
My stay was uneventful until the last night where I was accousted by a rather forthright tranny and then had to scale the walls and roof of my hostel, where the owner had decided to lock up and not answer my knocks. Teetering on a Nicarguan rooftop whilst being completely intoxicated is a great way to get sober...

Worn out

It's tough on the road.

3 dollar Mexican Flip Flops RIP.

Photies

Some shots of Little Corn Island
Granada
And some fantastic ones (if I do say so myself) of Isla Ometepe

Isla Ometepe

Volcanoes: Cool
Volcano in the middle of a lake: Supercool
Two volcanoes in the middle of a lake: Knock me over and call me Dr. Evil cool...

Yes, Isla Ometepe is actually two volcanoes joined by a smallish causeway in the middle of a lake. I would say the journey from Granada to Merida, Ometepe is about 70km as the crow flies, but the journey took at least 12 hours. The main reason being that the ferry over to the island chugs along like an asthmatic geriatric and the roads on the island are glorified dirt tracks. But after the long journey arriving at Hacienda Merida was priceless. Situated on the lake, with palm trees, monkeys and crocodiles I just managed to catch a sunset right in front of the volcano. Eat your heart out Mastercard.

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.

Quirks

For a small, relatively homogenous area with a common history, Central America has quite a few country specific quirks, for example:
* As opposed to most countries I know, Nicaraguan taxi drivers do not consider one passenger as a ride. They will stop and pick other people up who are going in [very] vaguely the same direction. Quite frustrating when you are going to the airport and the driver picks up a woman, does a u-turn on the airport road to drop her home with the shopping
* The supermarkets of coastal Belize & Panama are mainly owned by Chinese people. I believe they were "imported" 100 years ago to build the canal and hack down forest, but true to their industrious nature they have bought up the supermarkets. They still speak Chinese and there is Chinese music on the stereo, not to mention a great selection of noodles and exotic produce for sale in their stores. Their Spanish and English is rudimentary.
* There are indigenous people all over Central America, from Mexico down to Panama. But it is only in Guatemala where for some reason they are completely in the majority (outside the capital).
* Everyone loves their local music. From Reggaeton in Belize to Merengue in Mexico. But in El Salvador you are more likely to hear Bonnie Tyler (aside: if I hear "Total Eclipse of the Heart" one more time I will scream) and Tina Turner on the radio.
* Most of Central America, like their southern neighbours is soccer mad, but Nicaragua and Panama are more into baseball. In every dusty field in Honduras the local kids will be playing with a football. Cross the border to Nicaragua and they are all throwing baseballs at each other. Must look into the incidences of broken windows down here.
* Belize, Honduras and Guatemala are all gun toting. Every largish store and petrol station is protected by a guy with a shotgun. A lot of chaps stroll around with a pistol strapped to their side. In Nicaragua there are none or are at least invisible. Which is born out by the Bush mantra "arm 'em to ensure mutual safety" defeating homicide statistics on Wikipedia. El Salvador, Honduras & Guatemala high up, Nicaragua well down. [Mothers please do not read].
* Food is fairly standard here. Fried chicken, hamburgers, fish. But every county has their local fast food. In Mexico it is the ubiquitous Taco, filled with chicken, pork, tripe, or most commonly beef. In Honduras the national fast food is the Baleada. A bit like a large taco, covered in ground beef, fried beans, eggs and cheese. Or whatever the chef finds hanging around. Finally in El Salvador it is the ever present Pupusa. Either filled with cheese, pork rind or beans.

Little Corn Island

After the stresses and strains of drinking in Leon it was time to get airborn again and head out to the Corn Islands.
Departing from Managua's domestic terminal (Total number of gates: 1) one jumps on a propeller driven island hopper which chugs up into the air and flies along at cloud level for an hour or so. Then it rapidly descends into Bluefields (an old pirate town, where they still have a maypole celebration every May, true to their English heritage) to drop off a couple of people before stuggling down the runway again to head over to Big Corn Island.
The island slowly becomes visible and is surrounded by the most beautiful turquoise waters and massive coral reefs, which are also visible from the plane as dark splotches beneath the water. A brief taxi ride and a 20 minute boat ride and final destination: Little Corn Island is reached.
Little Corn has no bank, no roads, no cars, no electricity during the day and is if not entirely off the beaten track very close to the edge of it. Accomodation is rudimentary - beach side bungalow, bed, mosquito net, plastic chair. But Carlito runs a great place and cooks up a storm in the kitchen.
I spent a week there and apart from 5 dives and lots of beer I can't really tell you what I did. But whatever it was it was damn enjoyable.

Leon, Nicaragua

Another herculian effort saw me visit 3 countries in one day, leaving Alegria at 7am and reaching Leon at 5pm after passing through Honduras on the way. Only four busses, one minivan and a cycle rickshaw were needed to complete the journey.
Leon is one of Nicaragua's colonial towns and has some great nightlife. It is a student town and quite touristy, but they manage to mix extremely well, which is quite uncommon. Normally bars are either full of gringos or locals but in Leon the two coexist peacefully, the wonders of alcohol making univeral understanding a piece of cake.
The other item of note in Leon is a volcano close to town with slopes covered in fine ash/rock, which makes it quite suitable for sliding down on your ass. Cerro Negro is also a new volcano, arising out of the ground only a hundred or so years ago. The hike up is tough, but the views are amazing. With all photos taken and sights absorbed it was time to suit up in a Beastie Boys ¨Intergalactic¨ painters outfit, complete with googles and locate my arse on a piece of plywood with some metal nailed to the base. Then all I had to do was point the contraption down the 41 degree slopes of the mountain and let gravity do the rest. 54 seconds later and covered in volcano bits I arrived at the bottom and promtly crashed harmlessly into a boulder.

Photos

The El Salvador 1 Degree of Seperation Project

You've all heard of the six degrees of separation theory, but in an unusual natural quirk, in El Savaldor it is actually one degree of seperation. Yes, that means everybody knows each other here. It's like when someone says "Oh, you are from Ireland, you MUST know Paddy Murphy". And you do.
It started off in San Salvador - Rudi the owner of the Irish pub El Arpa Irlandes recommended the hostal Escencia Natural in El Zonte where he often goes at the weekend. Whilst in Suchitoto, Richard the owner of the El Gringo, said to stay in Casa Frolaz in Santa Ana with Javier. While climbing Izalco, one of the tourist police used to work in Suchitoto and knew Richard and Rene, the owner of Vistaconga tours there. And Javier in Santa Ana knew everyone in the entire country. Probably on a first name basis.

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

Santa Ana

El Salvador's second city, Santa Ana is as quiet as a second city comes. It still has many dirt roads and the market is like something out of the Congo. But on a recommendation I settled into Casa Frolaz. It's a private house turned into 3 roomed hostel and the owner - Javier, is a famous Salvadorenan artist not to mention cook, historian, story teller and general all around nice guy.

In fact most evenings we just ended up in Javier's lovely back garden, drinking beer and discussing everything from Obama to the state of El Salvador's football team to the world economy to the price of property and gang warfare in San Salvador. The only thing to spoil the fun were Javier's mammoth (and I mean mammoth) Avocados that would fall intermittently from the tree above our heads.


Killer Avocado.

On the last day I took a bus up past the lovely Lake Coatepeque to Cerro Verde. At 11am they run a tour up either Volcano Santa Ana (the highest mountain in El Salvador), which is a leisurely 1 hour stroll or up Volcano Itzalco, a 4 hour clamber up one of the world's newest volcanoes. 250 years ago Itzalco did not even exist. Then it just shot up in the geological equivalent of teenage growing pains, grumbling, scaring people and spouting lava everywhere.

It was my lucky day and it was to be Itzalco. There had been some robberies on the volcanoes a couple of years back, so myself and an American couple had 2 policemen and a guide to accompany us. Struck me as odd though why bandidos would choose people hiking on a volcano to rob. Surely people don't carry the crown jewels and a 1000 dollars in cash whilst climbing? Whatever.

We started off, rather depressingly, descending 900 steps through a rainforest only to come out and stare up agog at this picture perfect gray volcano monster. We made the top slowly, where a mixture of clouds and fumeroles covered us in cold and hot steam. We surfed the way back down, followed all the time by 2 vultures who had their eyes on the rather chubby, looking like she was going to collapse American girl. Then it was the 900 steps back up again, where I lost the couple and hung on to the lead policeman who was as fit as a ferret at 37 years of age. We made it back up ridiculously quickly, and I found out the reason why. At 2pm on the dot the heaven's broke. But I was already tucked away in the comedor having some pupusas and drinking coffee. The couple arrived half an hour later, not looking too happy.

Photos

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

San Salvador

El Salvador fills many with visions of war, gangs and general chaos. But from the very first encounter with the border guards (female, she said the Spanish equivalent of "Hello Luv") onwards, El Salvador has been without doubt the friendliest place in Central America. Also in its favour it has the least amount of tourists in the region. In fact I spent Saturday afternoon moseying around San Salvador's bustling city center and did not see a single gringo. Which made me a bit of a novelty as when I chose a tiny comedor in the main plaza for a hamburger and a Pilsener (more plus points for El Salvador, the beer is great and it costs a dollar a bottle), I attracted a small, but fascinated crowd as the Matron D´ clucked around me and kept providing fresh refreshments any time I looked thirsty. I left a couple of hours later, sated and inebriated and 5 dollars lighter for the pleasure.

San S. also has some lovely suburbs (where I stayed), well tended and clean, with an array of bars and restaurants. I headed to El Arfa Irlandes ("The Irish Harp" for those with translation diffuckilties) in the evening, yet again to be the only Gringo there. Well, except for the owner that was. I expected to have the red carpet rolled out, but it turns out the owner is actually German. So there I was in the suburbs of San Salvador in an Irish bar chatting in German as salsa played in the background.

As Vinney would say, the needle on the "Oddometer" was definitely in the red zone that night.

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

Pacaya

2 hours from Antigua, Pacaya is one of Guatemala's three active volcanoes.
We started off in a beat-up Hiace van at 2pm and as soon as we neared the road up to Pacaya the heavens broke and a most unmerciful thunderstorm broke out (unsure at first if it was maybe the volcano errupting). The roads turned into rivers and I think the driver was using the force to navigate as there was nothing visible out the windscreen (windscreen wipers are optional in Guate).

Luckily by the time we reached the entrace to the national park the rain had subsided. Despite this the van was engulfed by 50 local kids all jostling to sell us rain macs for 5 Quetzales. I told them I was Irish so it was normal weather for me, but was met with unbelieving eyes and snotty noses. Once the mac kids were gone a second wave of kids homed in on us. These were the stick kids who tried to impress on me the importance of having a big stick whilst walking on a volcano. I declined, much to their indignation at neither having rain gear NOR a stick.

The hike up through the cloud forest was easy enough and after 90 minutes or so we came out of the forest and onto some scree. Traversing the side of a lower peak we rounded a corner and Pacaya stood before us, just like a child's drawing with a plume of smoke emitting from the crater at the summit. More impressive still was the lava river which was oozing from the side. Our jovial guide just hopped up onto the old lava rivers and marched across. Ever a believer in "the guide knows best" mantra I tagged along behind him and soon we were as close to the lava river as my eyebrows would allow without being singed off. The rest of the group followed very slowly behind us.

Some enterprising Aussies had actually brought along some sausages with them and ever a nation to "toss a shrimp on the barbie", they were soon attaching forks to the end of their walking sticks and fashioning extra long bbq equipment. Lava seems to be a fantastic replacement for charcol and within minutes we were all sharing some extremely tasty sausages.

Pictures of Pacaya here

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

The world beer review, Part #5

Belkin Beer: Belkin is owned by the Bowen family and have a beer monopoly in Belize. That said it's not bad.
Belkin Stout: They use the same bottles for Belkin lager and stout. In fact the only way you can distinguish them is the colour of the bottle cap. That said I had a couple of Belkin Stout one night and thought I was drinking the lager. Not going to challenge Guinness any time soon.
Belkin Lighthouse: Belkin goes Corona. Piss.
Salva Vida: Honduras's national beer. Any beer that means "Life Saver" (and has a picture of a life saving ring on the label) can only be fantastic in my books... and it is! Delicious.
Port Royal: Honduras's "posh" beer. More expensive than Salva and also delicious but it doesn't have the ring and doesn't save lives, so only a second choice. Brewed by Helmut Lutz, Brewmaster (retired)!
Barena: Honduras's Corona, only better. Well done Honduras. Quality.

Photos

Some photos of Flores, Tikal and Utila

Armed to the hilt

After witnessing 4 Soliders carrying assault rifles patrol the beach in Mexico you kind of become immune to the whole gun carrying thing. That is until you hit Guatemala and Honduras where civilians are allowed carry guns too. Whilst in a taxi in San Pedro Sula a moped pulled up alongside us. The driver had a rifle on his lap and his pillion passenger was embracing a shotgun. I smiled meekly at them and they waved back. I'm sure they were just off to a duck hunt. 10 minutes later a pickup truck whizzed by with 4 men in balaclavas all holding assault rifles. They were probably just the back up in case the ducks turned nasty...

How to learn English in Central America

Snapped on my TV in Copan...

Utila, Honduras

It was on from Livingston via San Pedro Sula to Utila, one of the Honduran bay islands. Utila is famous for one thing and that is diving, so with that in mind I set myself up in the pretty mango inn and signed up for the PADI Rescue Diver course. PADI (the world's largest diving organisation) is a bit like karate and has a hierarchy that would make your head spin. Starting off from snorkeling you progress to be an Open Water Diver, from there on to be an Advanced Open Water diver (which means you can go deeper and explore wrecks), to a Rescue Diver (saving people, finding bodies) which is the final amateur stage before becoming a Divemaster and progressing to being a Scuba Deity. Of course PADI charges for each course, so by the time you've made it to the top you've probably paid PADI well over $10,000.

The Rescue Diver course is useful as it teaches you first aid, using emergency oxygen, how to react to stressed and tired divers. hauling unconcious divers back to the boat to finaly searching for missing divers and recovering divers from underwater. To say the course was stressful is mildy understating it, as from the evening of day one, when we came out of the class room to find one divemaster lying on the dock under blocks of wood groaning whilst his Divemaster Trainee (DMT) buddy started to freak out and scream at me "Is he going to die??", "Do something, do something". As soon as I had settled that scene down there was another DMT at the end of the dock with ketchup all over his shoulder. Bandaging done, he suddenly fainted and it was on to CPR to keep him alive.

For the next 3 days these three DMTs and our instructor (Fernando a cool, tatooed up to the eyebrows, 5ft nothing Spanish bloke) made our lives hell. Every time myself and the 2 other participants turned around, one of the DMTs was in the water (or more likely, all of them were in the water) in various states of drowning, either with diving kit on or not. I must have jumped in the water at least 20 times. They would rip off your mask, push you underwater, in fact whatever - acting as panicked divers do. As soon as one was saved Fernando would tell us that there was a diver missing so we would don our gear, dive down and search for the missing body. Upon finding it, you wrap your legs around their tank and inflate their BCD, bringing the body to the surface. Once on the surface you would swim back to shore, whilst taking their gear off. All the time you are doing this you are giving them rescue breaths every 5 seconds. On arrival at shore you have to drag them onto the boat (tricky as one of our DMs was 100kg), give them emergency oxygen and CPR.

Well anyway, I passed and proceeded to find, rescue and empty copious amounts of rum and coke.

Livingston

Kind of on the way to Honduras, Livingston is a fairly popular stop off. Taking a boat from Rio Dulce down to the coast I found myself sitting beside two guys from Dublin, which is quite unusual this trip as it seems the Paddys are staying home this year. Normally I can't move without bumping into some.

We got soaked as the boat was a bit overladen, but the sun was shining and the vista breathtaking as we carved our way downstream in canyons surrounded by the thickest rainforest I have ever seen.

Livingston suddenly appears at the mouth of the river and is a cool little place. Just like Belize it is full of english speaking Garifuna. So it was back to chicken and rice and 24/7 reggae, but this time with cheap Guatemalan beer and some Paddys.

Perfect.

Flores & Tikal

Placencia to Flores was a simple 3 bus and 2 taxi number. Passing through Belize's capital - Belmopan on the way. Fact to impress your friends: Belmopan is the world's smallest capital (pop: 16,000). At the Belize border I met some other travelling folk and we shared a taxi to Flores for the princely sum of 30 dollars. The journey was fun, as the paved road stopped at the Belizian border and on the Guatemalan side it was an extremely dusty track. We had no aircon so with windows wide open we began to resemble fish-fingers after about 10 minutes. A puncture didn't help matters either.

Battered (literally) we arrived in Flores a couple of hours later. Flores is a cute town, on a peninsula in a lake which ensures drop dead sunrises and magnificent sunsets. But the main reason for coming to Flores is to visit Tikal, a mayan complex close by.

So after a lakeside sunset and accompanying beers with a Canadian vet (Banked story: Moose are dangerous), it was a 5am start to Tikal. The road climbs steadily out of Flores and the vegetation becomes denser. Dropped off the bus, it is a long hike through the rainforest into the complex itself and you begin to wonder if there are really any temples hiding out there. After a bit of detective work and figuring out the signposting, I finally hit the first temple - Temple V. It was really like an iceberg coming out of the mist as you are walking through dense foliage and then this 50m monolith appears in front of you. There are rickety wooden stairs on the side so you can climb up to the top and it really is a test of your faith in Guatemalean carpenters as it creaks and groans but somehow holds together. At the top the view is sensational - rainforest as far as the eye can see with 4 temples tops in various locations peaking out above the canopy.


Palenque was carved out in the middle of a rain forest, Tikal is carved into the rainforest. Absolutely stunning, I spent about 7 hours roaming around, playing Indiana Jones and scurrying up and down temples, jumping over iguanas and avoiding the 6 inch spiders.

Placencia

White beach, blue waters, general walking speed 1 mile and hour. Friendly natives.
And that completes Belize. Nice place, pity about the prices.

Photos of Belize here

Caye Caulker, Belize it or not

2 buses a taxi and a boat ride saw me make it from Tulum to Caye Caulker, Belize. Country number #60 for me. The 3rd English speaking country in the continental Americas, the difference to Mexico is immediately noticeable upon crossing the border. The signs change, the music changes from Mariachi to Reggae and the skin tone gets about 3 shades darker.

Caye Caulker is Belize on steroids. Non-stop reggae, dreadlocks is the hairstyle of choice and chicken, rice and beans is the staple diet. I had hooked up with some people on the way and we managed to get a cool apartment for 5. The days took on a familiar pattern involving beaches, beer and beans. Did a bit of diving which was a bit unspectacular except for our boat captain - "popeye" who was funnier than a bottle of crisps.

Good Friday was spent drinking beer and lying on the beach and I'm sure Jesus would have done the same if given the chance. Met a group of English people who had been out in the rainforests of Belize on volunteer work. They mentioned that most of them had been infected by botflys. I shouldn't have asked, but they showed me their scalps and indeed there were little bumps that were moving. Click here to read more (on an empty stomach please)

Easter Sunday involved no Easter eggs or bunnies for that matter, but did involve Captain Steve's magical sailing & snorkelling trip. First stop Shark Ray Alley, where we swam with stingrays the size of small cars (no joke) and nurse sharks the size of small sofas. Our dive guide (Steve preferred to stay on board and smoke ganja after the stressful sail out) took great pleasure in stroking the stingrays and hugging the sharks. It was a veritable underwater adult petting zoo.
The second stop was the marine reserve - Hol Chan. This time we discovered a 2m Moray Eel, which I saw outside a hole for the first time. Frightening creature with the sharpest teeth. Just before getting back on board a green turtle swam by and starting grazing on the seaweed on the sea floor.

Back on board it was time for some more reggae and Steve's famous rum punch. By the time we got back to dry land we were all half-cut. Truly unable seamen.

Tulum

Tulum sports some funky beach side ruins, some amazing turquoise water and white powdery beaches. It is also a fragmented place (beach being 3 km from the town), full of tourists and completely overpriced. So after 2 mosquito plagued nights it was time to head into Belize.

Photos

Complete photos of Mexico

Chichen Itza (not a Mexican KFC)

On the way to Tulum I stopped off at Chichen Itza, which was recently honoured with the title of one of the new 7 wonders of the world. It is unfortunately also only a short air-con bus ride away from the tourist meccas of Cancun and Playa del Carmen, which meant that by the time I arrived at 9am (2 hours late due to aforementioned shenanigans in Merida) the car park was full of buses and hoards of grossly dressed tour groups.

The temples are without doubt impressive, especially the main one - El Castillo. Unfortunately unlike Palenque you cannot climb the pyramids as some silly tourist had gone and killed themselves whilst climbing it a couple of years ago.
All in all a worthwhile excursion, but nowhere as breathtaking as Palenque.

Photos here

Merida and the Cenotes (not a pop group)

If Palenque was hot then Merida is satan's crotch, wearing tight y-fronts in a hot kitchen in summer.
Normally a breeze is something welcome but in Merida the breeze was actually hot. I'm not talking warm summer breeze (like all those pop songs go), I'm actually talking about someone holding a hair-dryer in your face hot. To cool off it was time to take a tour of some of the local centotes, which are basically ex-caves which due to a bit of tectonic disco dancing have come close to the surface and are filled with rainwater.
The guide took myself and an English girl out into the middle of nowhere and down a dusty lane. We got out and just when I thought we were going to be murdered he pointed to a hole in the ground and told us to climb in.
Ever the obedient one, I climbed down first and lo and behold there was this magnificently blue pool, illuminated only by a tiny hole in the roof of the cave. But it caused significant light to make it look otherworldly. We donned our masks and snorkels and jumped in for a fabulous swim in outer space.

Back to Merida for Saturday night, as Merida is famous for its all-weekend fiesta. The town square (Zocalo), was festooned in bunting and there were riots of colour everywhere. A rake of local musicians showed up with their guitar cases, in fact at one point I was sure I had gotten myself into a Mafia convention. The party was massive and I ended up dancing through the night with some Sri Lankans, an Australian and a gang of people from Tabasco. Hot stuff.

Photos

Palenque

Onwards into the rainforest. From a cool, temperate San Cristobal it was on to a refrigerated bus and out 10 hours later into tropical, sticky as a toffee apple Palenque.

Palenque sports some of the most famous Mayan ruins and is truly stunning. Hacked out in the middle of the rainforest replete with howler monkeys, Palenque sits calmly in the middle and its pyramids tower above the adjacent canopy.

Whilst scaling the various pyramids (great fun in 35 degree heat, Jane Fonda eat your heart out) I met an Irish girl who had travelled for two and a half years starting in 2003. Working her way back from Australia to Dublin overland. Various highlights included living with a tribe in Indonesia and hitchhiking through Siberia. My hardcoreometer had to be recalibrated.

On the way back we passed by the impressive Misol-Ha waterfalls and the gorgeously blue cascades at Aqua Azul.

Photos 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

Liberation of the Turtles

Whilst strolling down main street Pto. Escondido I saw a sign in the tourist office saying "Liberacion de Tortugas, 17.20". I had some wild visions of wearing my Che Guevara t-shirt, donning a PLO scarf and breaking into a turtle sweatshop and freeing some repressed turtles. It turned out to be slightly less dramatic, but all the more impressive.

A group of volunteers camp out on the beaches north of Pto. Escondido and every night when the turtles come ashore and deposit their eggs, the guys dig up the eggs and take them to a safe enclosed part of the beach. When the eggs hatch they put the ickle baby turtles together and release them all at the same time.

I got a truck down to the beach at sunset and found the camp. There were only a few other people present and there was literally a bucket of baby turtles on the sand. So we all picked up two handfuls of turtles and brought them down to within about 3 meters of the water's edge. It was like the grand national gone wrong as the little feckers used their not-suitable-for-the purpose flippers to tug themselves towards the water. When you are 3cm long, 3 meters is a long bloody way. Every so often a wave would come in and wash them back to where they had started. Sisyphus eat your heart out. A couple of the silly buggers even started frugging their way in the wrong direction, but luckily the hand of God (well I like to think that the turtles believe that) came down from above and pointed them in the right direction.

After about 20 minutes the first sprinters made it to the water's edge and started to disappear into the sunset. All very touching, until that is, one of the volunteers told us that only 5% survive...

Photos of puerto escondido and the turtles here

Lagunas de Chacahua

I left the Mayflower hotel (highly recommended) at 9am wearing my standard uniform - flip flops, t-shirt and board shorts. In my shoulder bag I had the equivalent of 20 dollars in pesos, sunscreen and a camera. I was heading off to the Chacahua lagoon which was famed for a nice beach, crocodiles and lots of [feathered] birds. I got a bit distracted on the internet after breakfast so started off a little late, but the lagoon was only about 90km away.

I found the bus stop for the Rio Grande bus, paid my extortionate 2 dollar fare and settled down for the trip. The landscape rolled by, I was lost in thought and after about 2 hours the driver says "Terminal". I say "Rio Grande" and in Spanish he says the equivalent of "Ha ha, that is about 70km back down the road mate" (my translation). Slightly down, but not out I cross the road and get a bus back telling the driver to kick me out at Rio Grande. We duly arrive and I jump on a "collectivo" (pick-up truck where the driver starts as soon as he has enough people to make a profit on the trip) to take me down to the lagoon. The trip is short and the we are dropped off beside the boats which take you out to the nice part in the lagoon. Unfortunately it is only me and a local lady who need a boat ride, so we sit down amongst the Boat Drivers of Chacahua. Our driver tells me it will be about 20mins and he offers me a Corona (shocker). 3 Coronas (both of us) and an hour later he decides it is time. So myself, the woman and a freshly arrived couple from Mexico city board the noticeably porous boat (the slightly tipsy "captain" bails out a couple of litres before we start). The woman is carrying an infant and a bag of melons so she looks at me for a second or two before asking me if I could hold her melons (honestly, no metaphors here). Obviously I was not trustworthy enough to be given the snotty child. The captain forgoes a safety drill and doesn't mention where the life jackets are and off we jet into the lagoon.

On the other side I start to realise that this lagoon is an epic adventure as to get to the final destination we STILL need another pick-up truck to the other side of the peninsula. So we bump, grind and rock & roll (all the while with melons on my lap) along the worst "road" I have seen since Cambodia. An hour later we arrive in downtown Chacahua and I ask the lady with the melons (stop giggling at the back) when the last boat back is. She calmly informs me that I had been on it. Seeing the mild discomfort in my eyes she asks would I like a cabaña for the night. I accept gladly and am shown my palatial, sand floored, holes the size of parrots in the walls, mosquito netted, 5 dollar beach bungalow.

I laugh at the dice life throws at us and jump in for a swim. The water is blissful and the waves huge, in fact there are a fair amount of surfers coasting around offshore. I explore the town, which takes all of 20 minutes and settle down at the nearest beach shack for a beer and some food (whole red snapper a la diabla). As soon as the sun starts to set the "waiter" (old dude with a cowboy hat on) hands me the bill and says they are closing. It is 6.30pm. Sunset watched, I walk down the beach looking for signs of life. Nada. So with that I manage to persuade a Japanese & Corsican dude who were speaking Spanish on the beach (very surreal) to part with two beers and head back to my shack. I never thought I could sleep, but by about 8pm I was snoring soundly in paradise.

The next morning I awoke at 6am to a cacophony of birds. The island has no running water, so it was into the sea for a quick scrub and a few minutes later I was sitting peacefully on the beach, drying off and watching the spectacular sunrise.

The place is truly Paradise.

Photos of Chacahua here

ps. from now on I will always have my toothbrush with me when I leave the house.
pps. the journey back took about 2 hours...

Normality, Puerto Escondido

Puerto Escondido is a lovely place with 4 beaches to choose from - one for surfing, one for swimming and two for snorkelling. Fresh seafood and an endless supply of Corona make it an easy place to stay. The days took on a familiar pace, awake early, breakfast (with some combination of eggs, tortillas and chilli), beach and swim, lunch (some combination of meat, tortillas and chilli), read, siesta, swim, beer, mosey about, beer, dinner (some combination of fish, tortillas and chilli), bed.

In fact the most challenging part of Puerto Escondido was on the first day trying to equip myself with the necessary beach ensemble of flip flops and board shorts. Size 11 is not that common here, neither is extra large. So after 2 hours of stressful shopping I was sorted. Well at least that was until I went for my first swim, which saw my shorts being skilfully whipped off me by a rogue wave. Trying to put shorts back on in less than a meter of water whilst waves are hitting you left right and centre is an art I have still to master. When I finally managed to stagger out of the sea I was astounded to see that my 3 dollar supermarket shorts had sustained serious collateral damage and in fact there was now a fairly large hole in the crotch and scuff marks everywhere. But now they have character.

My hostel even has a TV in the room and one guilty afternoon instead of snoozing I decided to watch some "Caja Tonta" ("idiot box" in Spanish). Two episodes of "Love Boat" and one of "Dynasty" later I was laughing my head off and heading to the beach. You have to love the 80s...

The Road to Puerto Escondido

Time to leave Oaxaca and head down to the Pacific. Puerto Escondido was the destination of choice as I had googled "Beach near Oaxaca", feck guidebooks. I had also read that the journey was to take 7 hours, so always one to learn quickly I arrived at the bus station at 9am with bags of crisps, chocolate bars, cake and even a red bull for good measure. I shared the bus station with a whole flock of Jehovah's Witnesses, which must have been on an annual retreat as they arrived en masse with guitars, banjos, 7 wives (sorry wrong sect) and irons (you gotta keep those short sleeved shirts neat and tidy). I joked fleetingly to no one in particular that knowing my luck I would end up sitting beside one. But they seemed all to be heading back to Mexico City.

Bus arrived punctually at 9.30 (the days of mañana, mañana are gone in modern Mexico) and I jumped on and got my seat. A couple of minutes later a lone Jehovah (complete with guitar) makes his way to the bus, says goodbye to his elder brethren and gets on. He checks his ticket and in a millisecond I realised my fate had been sealed. Yes, he grinned, walked up to me, shook my hand and sat down beside me. I was going to feign deafness, a sudden onset of Tourettes, or pretend only to speak Laotian but God (or Jehovah or Satan or whatever they worship) shone down on me and as the bus was quite empty he asked was it OK if he sat somewhere else. You have never heard such a relieved "Be my guest" in all your life.

The scenery en route was amazing as we wound our way down to the coast, more cacti than you can shake a stick at and lofty peaks reaching out as far as the eye could see. I kept myself nourished at regular intervals and was nicely stuffed when suddenly the driver pulls off the road and into this little roadside oasis of tranquillity. He then proudly announces that we have 40 minutes to eat. Sickened by this illogical twist of fate I sat down and helped myself to some ice cold Corona Mexican water. This proved to be misguided as 2 hours later when I could hold my well trained bladder no longer I had to go to the loo in the bus. The toilets themselves were fine, but imagine (well at least the men folk out there) trying to piss a litre of beer whilst a kamikaze Mexican bus driver is hurtling the bus left to right down a windy mountain road. I felt like a sock in a tumble dryer. It was not a pretty sight.

The 7 hours went by quickly and I expected to see idyllic seaside retreat at any minute. 8 hours went by and I put it down to starting late and our long lunch break. I can't remember the reason I made up for the 9th hour going by, but at this stage I was engrossed in "Sister Act" on the bus DVD player. 10 hours and I was guessing the driver had taken a wrong turn, so after 11 hours and 10 minutes (to be precise) when the bus pulled into Puerto Escondido I was passed any strong emotions and fell off the bus into a taxi and arrived at my lodgings soon after.

The world beer review, Part #4

Corona: You have had this. Say no more.
Modelo Lager: Corona in a different bottle
Victoria: Corona with less alcohol
Sol: Corona with a sun on it
Indio: Corona with a pissed off looking indian on it.
Dos Equis: Aah, finally something different. Very tasty and the choice of the discerning Mexican.

Oaxaca and beyond

The hostel of choice in Oaxaca was La Villada Inn, which just puts all other hostels to shame. Run by two extremely friendly brothers and their entire family (Dad was the maintenance man, mom was the chef de cuisine and cousins were the cleaners and cooks), it was spotless, had a large swimming pool, views to die for and my cabana was massive with a double bed and a hammock outside. All this for 15 dollars.

Oaxaca itself is beautiful, a shady Zocalo (town square) is surrounded by small streets and markets selling everything from whole chickens (alive or dead), the latest fashions (stonewashed denim), gold, silver, various unidentified fish, bags of grasshoppers or just a taco or two (grasshoppers optional).

On the second day I took a tour out to see some of the surrounding landscape, which has at least 57 different types of cactus, the tree (El Tule) with the widest trunk in the world (fact!), a petrified waterfall - Hierve el Agua (Actually I don´t know what it was scared of) with hot springs, some Mayan ruins at Mitla and a tour of a Mescal factory. For the second day in a row I was being deliberately starved and when we eventually stopped for lunch at 4pm I would have gladly had some more tripe tacos.

The Mescal (which is similar to Tequila but is made from a different Agave plant, but of course you knew this already) factory was of course the high point of the trip, as indeed there were lots of samples, which my 3 Australian cohorts and myself took liberal helpings of (a German couple were abstaining and a Swiss couple took 1 sip, say no more). I can highly recommend the "Mezcal nautral viagra", which is distilled with 14 types of herbs. I certainly woke up the next morning with a slight hangover and a smile on my face.

Some photos of Oaxaca here

Welcome to Oaxaca

The bus ride from Mexico City to Oaxaca was a measly 6 hours, which is truly local in the whole scheme of international bus travel. Seats reclined, air conditioning works. A veritable paradise. The only thing I didn´t figure on was that bus didn´t actually stop for lunch like most other long distance busses I have travelled on. So 4 hours in, the chap beside me was watching rather bemusedly as I stuck 4 pieces of chewing gum in my mouth at once, hoping to suck any kind of nutrional content out of them to stop me from fainting onto his shoulder. This torture by famine was not helped by the fact that the driver had stuck on a DVD called "The Orphanage", which for 2pm and on a bus packed with kids was rather a disasterous choice. Well actually the kids were all fine but I was curled up in a ball peeking out from behind my fingers.

I survived the "Starvation Bus" as I fondly call it and reeled downtown and into the nearest Taco stand where I proceeded to wolf down 10 of the old ladies finest tacos. I didn´t understand the word she used for the content (well she didn´t say pollo or carne) but it was something beginning with T. On my way to the hostel I was running through all possibilities and came to the slightly stomach bending conclusion, that yes indeed, I had just had some yummy Tripe Tacos...

Day 1: Mexico City

About to land in Mexico city, the on board map/information display goes 3000m, 2500m, 2200m and then bang, we land. Bit of a shock really when you are used to landing somewhere close to the 0m mark... Composure regained and fingers pried from the armrest I removed my rucksack from it´s resting place, slung it over my shoulder and wandered out to face Mexico.

I can´t deny I like Mexico City, sure it´s dirty, probably dangerous, vastly overpopulated (22 million and couting, actually I´m not sure if anyone is counting as the city sprawls that much), but you can´t deny the streets are alive with cooking, dancing, shouting and absolute liveliness. Music blares from all corners, the general kind of happy happy Mexican music which must obviate the need for Prozac here. I can imagine The Smiths and The Cure are not popular here.

During a stroll through the leafy Chapultepec Park, the small differences to "normality" start to appear.
* Big fat hairy blokes loafing about wearing t-shirts with "Bimbo" written on them: Bimbo makes bread and sponsors a local football team, but I prefer the dumb broad reference.
* Wrestling masks on sale everwhere: If you have seen Nacho Libre you´ll understand. I thought at first that Powerrangers were massive over here, but no, it is in fact one of Mexico´s national passions - Wrestling.
* An army band practising in the shade: Unfortunately for the orchestra, every time someone hit a bum note the culprit was called forward and whacked on the back by the conductor with a massive cane. Just would not happen in the oh-so-PC world we know.

Other than that the Mexican way of life is great. Corona is 70 cents, called "Mexican Water" (incidentally I discovered that Cockroaches are imaginatively called "Mexican Water Beetles") and is consumed liberally throughout the day. Food wise, it is paradise - as a chili fan the fact that every meal comes served with a bowl of green and red chili sauces is great. Even breakfast. Oh yes, scrambled eggs with tortillas and chili - the breakfast of champions.

Here we go again

Well 6 and a half years since I started this thing with the auspicious title of "A journey into sound" (which was actually more a nod to the seminal Marrs tune "Pump up the volume" (which incidentally was a sample from Eric B. and Rakim, but I digress)) it was time once again to pop in the iPod and pop off the career ladder and travel.

Long story short, company was bought, Ap made some money, economy shite, needed a new challenge, itchy feet etc. etc. So it came to pass that after a long and boozy White Christmas (in two ways) near Munich with my cousins (which included the traditional "White Christmas Day Cold Swim" in a Bavarian mountain lake), a detox first two weeks of Jan and two weeks at the new HQ in Princeton, I was sitting in the British Airways lounge in Philadelphia, champagne in hand emailing my letter of resignation. 4 weeks later I was a free man and all that was missing was a plan. Various trips to Cracow, Berlin and Frankfurt impeeded me from actually booking anything. So in a state of mild anxiety on Paddy´s night I bought some travel insurance and a one way ticket to Mexico city...

A wedding like no other

[brief interlude]
Where was I?

Yes, well those avid readers (all 4 of you) will remember back to Nepal where I was paddling down a babbling mountain brook for 10 days with 7 other people (A week in Nepal). The trilingual doctor couple from the states and I got on famously and met up afterwards in Kathmandu. They mentioned in passing that they would be getting married in central America the following summer. Ever the reluctant wallflower I said marvellous and I hinted that I would be expecting an invitation with a wry smile on my face.

Fast forward 6 months or so and an letter drops through my box with a strange stamp on it. On further inspection it is from the states and has a happy couple staring back at me from the stamp. On even closer inspection it turns out that the couple are indeed Geoffrey and Liisa, my intrepid rafting partners. Talk about land of the free - letting you print your own stamps?! Letter is ripped open and out plops a beautiful invitation asking for my presence in Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica on the 15th June 2008. I don't have to be asked twice, so upstairs I went and 14 clicks later I had my flights sorted.

Fast forward another couple of months and I am sitting in the lounge at sexy Newark airport sipping on a Bloody Mary when a beep beep on my Blackberry alerts me to the fact that there is an urgent missive awaiting my perusal. It is from the groom and he says "So Liisa and I were wondering if you would officiate the wedding".
I was a tad squiffy at this stage, and not really knowing what "officiate" meant (Quick speech? Tell people where to stand? Sign something? Pay for the drinks??), I duly replied "Let's do it" and thought nothing more of it.

48 hours later I arrived a little shaken, but not stirred in the lovely Puerto Viejo. I get off in the centre of the town and realise it's a good 2 mile hike south, so I sling my rucksack and ramble on down the dusty road. It's a beautiful walk, a mixture of rainforest and stunning beaches. Parrots flying round the canopy and crabs playing Russian roulette on the road, shaking their claws furiously at any passing car. Love their spirit. I arrive parched and dusty only to be hugged by bride and groom. Fantastic to see them after all this time and half way round the world. The festivities begin, I'm the last to arrive, so I'm introduced to the entire wedding party. Tennessee, Oregon, Washington, L.A., Brazil, Puerto Rico, Germany... It's only 30 people or so, but they are from all over the place and all extremely friendly. We move on to dinner down town, more beers are imbibed and soon we are all decidedly intoxicated. With that Liisa, the blushing bride comes up to me and hands me the wedding speech. All 2.. 4.. 6.. 8! pages of it... I become a bit more sober, but decided to put off the inevitable till the next morning and dance on into the night.

The next thing I know it is 9am and the bride's sister is knocking on my door telling me that we are leaving for the "church" in 2 hours. Cue cold showers, slaps to the face and a frantic searching for my jeans to prepare the speech. After finding out that the pages were in the wrong order I calm down and start to get a bit more fluid. Fortunately there are no big words for which I would require a dictionary. The wedding party gathers and we all hop into cars to drive to the rainforest lodge where the ceremony is taking place. I have a small surreal moment as I sit in the car with 4 American girls who all start singing "Going to the church". Gradually I start to realise the enormity of what I am supposed to do.

The party files down to the beach where I am going to do "my thing" and with receding hangover and advancing nerves the congregation amasses. The location is amazing - a small sliver of beach with a pristine rainforest behind. Howler monkeys bouncing round the trees like misbehaving school kids.

Geoffrey turns up in his linen handmade-in-India suit and smiles meekly at me. A couple of minutes later Liisa appears through the trees, being lead by her father and looking beautiful. She arrives, beams at Geoffrey and winks at me. I clear my throat one last time and the games begin. Vows are made, speeches are read, rings are exchanged and about 20 minutes later I say "By the power vested in me [grin madly at the couple] I pronounce you man and wife". The couple hug wildly, Geoffrey lifts Liisa up into the air, they give each other a big smooch and off we run back to the lodge for some well earned champagne.

The evening turns out to be every bit as fantastic as the day, with Jacuzzis, monkeys, sloths, dancing, great food and of course lots of drinks.

Some pictures here

A Baltic New Year

A whirlwind tour of Riga, Villnius and rang in the New Year on the streets of Tallinn.
Fantastic people, fantastic cities.