High Seas Drifter : Escapades Of A Travelling Diver

Song Of The Siren

2012-02-07T14:41:00.003+08:00

IT WAS ALMOST impossible, but leave I did. Eventually. I had almost left a few weeks before; Julian, the Australian fellow with whom I'd driven to Guadalajara, had passed through Colima in his truck. He was heading for the Michoacán coast. But he'd turned up a day earlier than expected and wanted to leave the next, as he was on a tight schedule; I wasn’t prepared to rush off. So I'd stayed. Maybe I'd miss out on some amazing experiences, but you make these decisions and you stick by them. The time came when I realised I'd have to get moving, though. Being at the beach in Michoacán had amplified the seductive whisper of the ocean: I wanted to get down to the Oaxaca coastline and dive. On the way I'd catch up with my Austrian friend Karina in Guanajuato, have a brief sojourn in México DF and see Oaxaca city.

I'd packed the night before, and was showered and ready to go by midmorning. Niki had refused to say Goodbye the night before, saying that I was going nowhere. He came back from work, saw me sat in the garden and laughed before he noticed the two packed bags stacked outside my room. He groaned, I grinned. "You'll have to roll your own joints now, amigo." Alex kindly offered me a lift to the terminal, and Niki and Pajarito came along. I usually hate farewells. It upsets me to leave people I've really connected with. But my heart was less heavy at the fact that I know I'll be back to Colima one day. I’ll visit Niki in Munich. I could look up Rudi & Bruno there, the two gay guys I spent Xmas 2008 snorkelling in Thailand with...they live in the same city. I'm sure they'd be delighted to watch Niki eat an ice-lolly? They’d likely even pay for it.

The boys departed, tooting the horn and shouting abuse out of the window of the truck. As us Europeans tend to do. I entered the terminal laughing to myself, to the bemusement of some of the locals; I don’t suppose many of them are dropped at the terminal by friends and family, who then depart with shouts of “I think you are a fat bastard!” from the car window, in French-accented English? Charming. No decorum, the French. Savages, one and all. It wasn't long before I was on a bus headed for Guadalajara. I thought of the friends I’d made in Colima and smiled to myself. I’d miss them, and was glad I’d turned up in the town at random. It amused me that I'd arrived thinking I'd be out of there in a few days, and had spent a full month in their easy company. Colima feels right to me, and friends back home, when I'd expressed doubts about staying in one place so long, when there were so many more places to see, had told me to stay if it felt right. It did. But I was also slightly relieved to be back on the road and heading for the unknown.

I daydreamed until we reached the city, delighting in the scenery. There was a half hour to kill before my connection to Guanajuato. I wandered the terminal and hung around near my departure gate. A rotund man of around 50 years of age struck up a conversation, asking if I was American? Nope. We got chatting. He was México-born, but brought up in the States; back for a holiday. His parents still lived here, and he was going to Puerto Vallarta, where he had a timeshare. I chuckled and told him I'd been there, but it was far too Americanised for me...I was here to see México. He laughed too, and said he understood completely, but that it was safe and secure, and that he just wanted a beach to relax on. Fair enough.

Like most Americans, or in this case Améxican, he was shocked when he'd asked the whereabouts of my friends, only to be told I was travelling alone. He said México was dangerous and that I should take care; his jaw hit the floor when I said I'd ventured through Honduras and spent a month in El Salvador. "Are you crazy?" he asked. “Only on Tuesdays.” People don't seem to realise how simple independent travel really is. The big step is doing it the first time and, yes, it can be daunting. But once done, you can never go back. Ever. He was fascinated by my tales from Colombia, but said he was surprised that they had tourism there. If he hadn't been so old already, he told me, I might have inspired him to give it a try. But he said that he'd stick to a Margarita and a steak on the beach. I laughed, shook his hand and told him my Guanajuato bus was pulling into the terminal. "Guanajuato?" he said, doubtfully "Be careful up there, my friend." I smiled and told him that there'd be more gringos than locals in that place, and so I wouldn't be there long. He waved with a grin and a shake of his head as I climbed into the bus.

I arrived at my destination in the early evening. After the warmth of Colima, where a degree drop in temperature one evening had prompted Alex to say it was a little fresh, and Niki had replied, deadpan, that he might even have to go and put a tee-shirt on, Guanajuato was a shock. I could see my breath in the air, for pity's sake? Wouldn't be hanging around here long, I thought. If I wanted to be cold, I'd be back in bloody England.

A beautiful town on an impressively rugged seat of arid rock, Guanajuato nestles in a tight, winding valley five hours North of the capital. Sitting on one side of the crevice and looking down into the centre of gaily-coloured buildings, the place is surprisingly quiet. No drone of traffic assails the ears. This is the beauty of the place, due to the genius of its design: beneath this UNESCO city snakes a network of tunnels where the traffic passes, unheard, below the feet. Cars, buses and trucks are infrequently seen when walking about town. It's incredibly peaceful. Myself and Karina spent an hour on the hillside enjoying the peace and picking out our favourite-coloured buildings. The vista plays tricks with your eyes, making it difficult to have a sense of perspective or depth-of-field: the view can look completely flat at times, it's quite bizarre.

Two days was enough here, and the three of us headed back to the capital. Aline was due to leave for Nicaragua, and I was heading for Oaxaca. It felt good to get back to DF, I'd missed the beating heart of México: its dirt, holes in the pavements, graffiti, traffic fumes and excitement. A couple of nights out with some familiar faces, and I was ready to make a move. I got a reminder never to be complacent when Aline was robbed mid-morning at the computer fair downtown. She'd needed a battery for her laptop, and had heard that they could be bought cheaply there. Personally I'd have taken the serial number of the required battery rather than carry a computer to a bustling marketplace. She'd been handing it to a stall-owner to check when a thief ran by and knocked her over, snatching the laptop and disappearing rapidly into the crowd. It happened so quickly that she didn't have time to be frightened, and thankfully she was downright annoyed rather than traumatised by the experience. Tough girl. It was made all the worse by the fact that she'd had a Macbook stolen from a locker at the hostel we'd all been using barely a week before. Just bad luck. And bad people.

There were plenty of parties upcoming in DF, but I knew that if I didn't make a move then I'd be there another fortnight; it's a great city that you really need to spend some time in if you're ever out this way. So I was on my way by lunchtime, and arrived in the old colonial city of Oaxaca late that evening.

I love a pretty colonial town as much as the next traveller. But I've been away a year and have sampled the delights of Antigua (Guatemala), Quito (Ecuador), Suchitoto (El Salvador) and the Casco Viejo district of Panama City. So I'm kind of colonial citied-out. Jaded. Oaxaca, had it been visited earlier, may have blown me away. I could hardly be bothered to take photographs, which is very unlike me. Of course, it's a beautifully-kept place...but there's just far too many gringos for my liking. I like a town where I can sit in a faded old square, sip a coffee from an independant shop, read my book in peace and have a brief chat with a few locals. Not one where I'm being pestered to buy a hammock every five minutes. In the central plaza of Oaxaca I sat and had one coffee, a shit one from an "Italian" chain at that, and counted nineteen vendors or beggars constantly breaking my peace and quiet. It's beyond belief. I'd been promised great vegetarian food in the town, but I failed to find it.

And so, walking around town, I was overwhelmed by something building up inside of me, akin to a panic attack. But it wasn't a panic attack at all, it was more that I just couldn’t be arsed, and was getting the urge to flee. It was late afternoon and I realised that, if I wanted to see the ruins of Monte Alban high above the town, I would have to move fast if I wasn’t to be trapped here for another day. I located a shuttle company and took the last bus uphill. Alone with the driver, I had a pleasant chat on the way up; his family and job, my family and travels; and, of course, the obligatory exchanges about English football, El Chicharito and (my hatred of) Manchester United. Diego liked his job, and it was easy. It also paid fairly, and allowed him to bring up his daughters comfortably. We discussed the number of westerners in the town, and he told me that there are 5000 permanent ex-pats living there. I told him that this was a good enough reason for me to want to spend my time elsewhere, as I came to the country to learn Spanish and get a feel for México: the real México, not some sanitised gringo version. “You must leave tonight” he cackled.

Monte Alban's ruins are not the most spectacular you'll see in the Americas, not by a long way; but the setting is tranquil and it's a nice escape from the town. Indeed, it is so quiet atop this hill that sounds from the valley can carry: voices and music drift on the wind from below. Being so still, it's a good place to sit and take it easy for an hour or two. The makeshift scaffolding around one of the central pyramids somewhat marred the view. And a laughing local I spoke to told me that it had been left that way for the last few years; the few restoration workers I saw laughing and chatting in the shade were a good indication of the current workrate. Mañana, mañana.

I returned to town, sat in the square with a final constantly-interrupted coffee, and then booked a shuttle for the following morning on my return to the hostel. Ordinarily I would have been happy enough on the bus but, with the winding, mountainous road to Puerto Escondido taking 11 hours, a mere 6 by minibus seemed a better bet. A good many people make this journey overnight, but I had a feeling that the scenery was going to be worth seeing, so set off midmorning.

I wasn't disappointed. The dusty outskirts of Oaxaca gave way to green hills as we climbed in altitude. The roads were as bad as expected; potholes and hardly-visible speed humps slowed us, and I was hardly surprised that the bus took twice as long. Temperatures dropped as we sped ever higher, and each bend revealed another incredible, never-ending view of mountains and valleys. The delicious, fresh scent of pine drifted in through the open windows. Drives like this make me happy, and it was a pity that darkness would fall before I could see the ocean.

We stopped in a village that time forgot, the driver telling us that we had twenty minutes to eat. Nothing looked appealing, and I made do with a milkshake and a packet of peanuts. It wouldn't be the first time. I was amused to see a few locals sat around watching a repeat of a recent English football game featuring Everton, my boyhood team, and Stoke City. It was a little bizarre to be sat in a run-down café in a no-horse town in southwest México and catch the back-end of a match from home. Less of a surprise that Everton were losing.

One of the women from our bus was eyeing me. When I looked over she informed me that my headphones had been a little loud on the first leg. I laughed and said that she should have let me know and I would have gladly turned it down? As we climbed back into the van, she took this as the starting point of a very, very long conversation: she talked my bloody ears off. She was around my age but twice my size, and told me she was single and worked in a hotel in Huatulco, a few hours from Escondido. And that I should visit. She insisted on giving me her number, and seemed unhappy that I didn't have a phone. She grilled me for the next hour, the high point of which being her question on what an atheist temples looked like? After a while my neck was aching from constantly looking to my extreme left, hoping me being wrapped up in the view would prevent further conversation. Or maybe I should have just gently put her off by informing her that I make it a rule never to date girls with arms hairier than my own? Would have been rude. But effective.

We were less than two hours away when we were treated to the very strange sight of a man in a tee-shirt running along the mountain road carrying a flaming Olympic-style torch, with a support vehicle of sorts trailing him...though this one had a huge, candle-ringed shrine to the Virgen De Guadelupe atop it in a glass case. It turns out that this festival is celebrated every year, with teams from every town and village church competing to win the race to the sea with the eternal flame. They'll run from one point to the next before passing on the torch to the next runner, accompanied by a raucous din of blaring music and roared encouragement from the vehicle's PA system. Faster, you bastards. As an atheist since primary school I'm constantly flabbergasted, and thoroughly entertained, by the lengths the followers of the Catholic faith will go to in proving their devotion. Though it has to be said that this event looks far less painful than the self-flagellating procession you can witness in the Philippines around Easter, the devotees walking the streets to the harbour, whipping their own backs raw and bloody with chains before throwing themselves into the sea. Barmy.

It was with some degree of relief that we crept into the barrios of Puerto Escondido. The religious lunatics had thinned out to a trickle, and the chatty Méxicana seemed to have run out of steam. She asked for my number, and I scribbled down some numerals. She won’t be getting a date, but she’ll certainly know the exact time in London.

I was shattered, and rubbed my eyes. A hostel bed was going to be welcome, and I was looking forward to getting straight into the sea the following morning. Shelter found and secured, my head hit the pillow and I was away with the fairies.

Home From Home

2012-01-15T01:33:00.013+08:00

I ADMIT THAT I felt the twinge of doubt within half an hour of arriving in Colima. We'd waited outside the El Litchi hostel for a full ten minutes before a shuffling old Chileno, a guest, opened the door to let us in through the iron gate. There were no signs outside; no reception area; no information at hand; no staff. Was this really a hostel? I left my bags beside a table and chairs at the far end of the enclosed garden space. The Chileño suggested we come back later when Alex, the owner, was around.

A walk into the town was mooted. Heading out of the olive-green building's entrance, dwarfed by a huge rubber tree, we turned right downhill. Passing few people as we approached the main plaza, I began wondering if I'd made an error in coming here: the place was dead. I was already checking my mental map of México to decide where to head for next. Two nights and I'd be out of here. After all, despite ringing the area on my map, it hadn't been anywhere near the top of my list of places to visit. But it had only been a few hours out of Guadalajara, so it wouldn't be a long trek back.

But the place was pretty enough. There are two central plazas with well-kept gardens, hemmed in by the usual arrangement of pastel cathedral on one side and arched colonial grandeur on the remaining three. The high street is barely four hundred metres long; starting suddenly at the far corner of the main plaza and running by the town's only department store before ending abruptly at the parque central, in front of the post office building. It's a decidedly low-rise town, and a solitary concrete monstrosity blots the skyline. Martín pointed beyond town to where the volcano stood. If we could have seen it through the afternoon haze, that is? These empty streets and invisible geological wonder were certainly making me wonder what I was doing here.

Martín took me to meet his Mum at the family's fruit shop, and after a brief chat we headed back towards the hostel. Traversing the deserted main street, he explained that his town was always like this on a Sunday, as people generally stayed home with their families. This explained a lot. In fact England's towns were once like this on the day of rest, too...before the odd department store and supermarket started a trickle of Sunday commerce which would become a flood of shopping madness. Now a Sunday is no different to a Saturday in my home country. It seems a shame we've lost that peace and (relative) quiet. Before we took the gentle hill to El Litchi we came across an elderly couple in the street, sat on small stools in front of a red-and-white-checked tableclothed stall. On it were two large earthenware jars bound with bandage at their spouts. The leathery old man tipped his white hat and stood as we approached, bidding us Buenas tardes. He poured a drink, red in colour, into a small cup. Martín explained that Tuba is made from the sap of the stem between tree and fruit of the coconut tree. In this case, berries had been added to flavour it. The gentleman asked me if I'd like peanuts? Sure, I smiled, but was open-mouthed when he dumped a handful of said peanuts into the drink. I'm used to having a few peanuts with a cold beer, but I'd usually consume them separately? The Méxicanos grinned at me and nodded their encouragement. It was surprisingly good. I grinned back and assured the old man that he would see me again.

Arriving back at the hostel I met Lucy, a permanent resident, who taught at the local college. She'd been in Colima a while, having left North Carolina behind in search of a different life. I got a quick tour of the place from her, and she explained that the place was in its infancy. Having been used to a certain amount of organisation...receptionists, orientation and maps of places on arrival in most hostels...disorganisation was all new to me. But it wouldn't kill me.

Alex, the Montpellier-born Frenchman who ran the place, turned up. We smiled and shook hands. The product of a French mother and a North African father, he'd grown up on the Mediterranean and was understandably laidback. This likely explains why the hostel is the way it is? Mañana, mañana. He'd travelled México extensively over the years, and had lived in Monterrey for a while. But having met a woman in Colima, he'd decided to move there. They'd since split up, but amicably share custody of their cute and precocious daughter Naima. She's 6, a robust bundle of chubby cheeks and a mass of curly hair; already speaking French as well as her native Spanish, and rapidly picking up words and phrases in English. Niki, a German lad of 22 who was staying there on a work placement, was also teaching her words in his native tongue. But life is too short to learn German, even for a little girl. I took to calling her pajarito. Un pajaro is a bird and, in Spanish, dropping the -o and adding -ito (or -ita if the noun is feminine) makes it little bird or birdy. She kept asking Alex why I would call her this, and he explained that it was a nickname. After a while she took to calling me pajarote; the -ote ending denoting something big. So I was big bird. Naima thought that this would stop me calling her pajarito, and questioned her Dad as to why being called big bird hadn't put me off? "I think he likes it" he told her. I did.

Myself and the Frenchman became easy friends. We share a similar outlook on life, have both travelled extensively and have similar tastes in music. Although Alex hates the 80s, a period in which he says music died. Full of shit on that one, I keep telling him. But it's nice when you can hang out with someone with a passion for good music, even if they did have their fingers in their daft French ears for a decade. And music wasn't all we talked about; he's one of those rare people you can have a rambling discussion with on just about anything. Except cooking, of course...what do the French know about that?

We decided that we'd visit the volcano's best viewpoint two days after I got to Colima. It wasn't visible from the centre of town that morning, and I was a little dubious and asked if we shouldn't wait for a clearer morning? Alex said it should be fine, and we set off with Niki in tow. We stopped for lunch on the way, in a tiny village at the volcano's foot. Being sick to the back-teeth of tortillas by this time, the food was uninspiring to me. I went to play with a wolf-like dog rolling around in the dust while my companions ate. After having its belly stroked, it was eagerly licking my hands and forearms. It was at this point that I noted its lower fur was matted with a bright greenish-yellow gunk, discharged from its penis. Obviously I recoiled in horror, gagging. As our table was on the way to the bathroom, I thought it only polite of me to recount the tale and point out the dog's problem while Alex and Niki tried to enjoy their pea-coloured soup...without gagging. Seeing as the volcano was still invisible when we got to the viewpoint, yellow pus coming out of a dog's cock seemed destined to be the cultural highlight of my afternoon, unfortunately. You can't have it all, can you?

Alex asked us that evening had we ever played Chinese Checkers? We hadn't, so he taught us this relatively simple but fascinating board game. It's very addicitive, and we played it for hours on the first night. And the next. And the following night. The set we were using was only cheap and badly made in China. So I told Alex I'd look for a nice hand-made set in Hong Kong on my next Asia trip, should there be one. We were both horrified when Google revealed that the game was, in fact, an 1800s American invention; refined and the board reshaped by the Germans. Our mental images of ancient Mandarins sat around smoking opium and stroking their beards soon evaporated. Shame.

We were introduced to Alex's girlfriend Teresa one evening. Very beautiful though pale for a Méxicana, she reminded me a little of Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio. Lucky Alex. She has a long pair of legs that could make a grown man cry. But Alex has no need to cry, because he is allowed to touch them. Now, Tere likes a smoke, as does her diminutive and sultry best friend Julieta, who came round to visit with her one night. Julieta is a morena Pocket Rocket if ever I saw one: small but perfectly formed. And a lovely girl, with the cheekiest smile I've ever seen. She rolled nearly as many joints as me, too...which was quite impressive. Very cool chicas, the pair of them. Alex brought out the smoky, amber mezcal (far superioir to tequila) which he sources from a local brewer: the locals getting the best stuff from the rear door of the factory, sold in metal jerrycans. So these early evenings ended in a cloud of sweet smoke and a warm fug of mezcal. And hours of Chinese Japanese, as Teresa inadverently re-christened it one evening, to much good-natured laughter.

I was having a pleasant time with the gang. The two days I'd initially estimated turned into a week. I was in a dorm, but alone, so effectively had a private room. And Alex's rates are very good. The atmosphere in Colima was pleasant; it's the kind of place where the locals don't see too many tourists, so you get the occasional stare (and the occasional "Go back to your own country" Lucy told me), and people leave you be...although they are more than happy to chat if you strike up a conversation. I enjoyed wandering the streets at random, edging deeper into the various barrios with their pavements lined with orange and lemon trees. There was an excellent seafood café nearby, where I regularly ate platefuls of shrimp for less than $5, as the puzzled waitresses continually asked me why I was in Colima. A routine is sometimes nice when on the road, and a regular coffeeshop is alwas good; mine being full of mosquitoes, the happy abuelita running it always gave me one of those electric tennis-racket devices to kill the ones bound to annoy me as I walked in each midmorning. Eight blocks away was a basic open-air gym and basketball court. After a couple of visits here I befriended a few locals who invited me to play football with them. It felt like I really was settling into life in Colima. Méxicanos to hang out and play football with, a Frenchman and a couple of witty and amsuing lady potheads to take it easy with, and an ever-increasing circle of mates to go out partying with at salsa club 1800? You could certainly say that I was enjoying myself. I was gradually meeting Alex's inner circle, too. I judge a man on the quality of his friends, I told him...and his are a fine bunch.

That weekend, Alex was at a loose end. His ex-girlfriend had Naima, and his job teaching French at the University didn't involve weekends; Tere was working. So did we fancy going to a very nice beach in nearby Michoacán State? They were already on my map so yes, I certainly did. Alex, Niki, Lucy and myself packed the truck with a tent, beers, cigarette papers and water. We hit the road. There are so many army and police checkpoints in this country that travelling with grass can be a little risky. I know people that do it, but respect the fact that Alex will not: he has a lot to lose should he be caught. As we sped through the lush green valleys of Colima towards the coast, he told me he knew a fellow we could try in a village a few miles beyond where we'd be staying.

We arrived late afternoon and cruised through the ghost-town that was now Maruata. The fact it was off-season, and that a hurricane had ripped through here barely two months previously, meant that hardly anyone was visible on the streets. It made Colima on a Sunday look hectic. The rough wooden-walled, palm-roofed shacks which had survived the winds were still boarded-up. No surfers in sight. Nothing. A local told us that there were no dealers around at the moment. So we took another road to the man that Alex knew. A shallow river meant that we'd have to leave Niki and Lucy in the car and make our way on foot. As we paddled across, the Frenchman briefed me.

"I don't like this guy...you'll have to deal with him" he told me.
"Oh?" I queried.
"Last time I came he told me to go fuck myself."
"And what did you say?"
"I told him to go fuck himself..."
"And then...?"
"He told me to go fuck my mother..."
"Then?"
"I told him that I'd go fuck his mother on the way to fuck mine, as I knew where she lived."
He was silent a moment.
"So he stormed back into his house, then came out and pointed an automatic rifle at my head. He was high on DMT. It kind of got out of hand" he deadpanned.
"Riiight..."
I couldn't wait to meet this chap, obviously.

Considering I was expecting a demented Méxicano Rambo, the guy was fairly nondescript: quiet, small and in his late 50s. Alex waited away from the house while the man wandered off to his stash. Thankfully he returned with a bag of nice-smelling green marijuana...not a loaded AK47. But then, why would he? Leave the ill manners to the French, I say.

We doubled back and arrived at Palma Sola, our destination, as the sank into the ocean. A small settlement lay before of us, one small house with an open kitchen beneath a palm-frond roof held up by poles of felled trees. The family living here were sprawled about watching TV, some in hammocks, the rest on the floor. Alex had been here previously, and went to make arrangements with them. As things had been slow, the small cabaña the family rented out was offered to us very cheaply, and the family would cook for us. We unpacked and made our way down to the beach barely 30 yards beyond. I've seen some stunning beaches in my time, but this one was ours alone. Crystal clear water pounded the golden beach, and we were quick to change and get in for a swim before the light faded. Ceviche was prepared for us, and we saw the sun off with a few beers. Obviously the Chinese Japanese set had been brought, and joints were rolled as the mezcal flowed. It's the simple pleasures in life.

Alex had mentioned a beautiful girl in the family, whom he'd seen when last here. When the father of the family came and joined us on the beach the next morning, he asked about her. The man indicated a toddler on the floor of the kitchen; he said that the child was his grand-daughter, but that his daughter had left for Manzanillo immediately after the hurricane, unable to cope with the sudden loss of her husband. Alex asked what had happened to him. The old man looked out at the surf and said simply "The sea took him." All eyes glanced seaward, and we fell silent.

As lunchtime approached, we were asked if we'd like lobster for lunch. ¿Y porque no? The old fella wandered off back to his home, and we expected some kitchen activity to begin. But no: he came back with a mask and snorkel perched on his head and carrying a pair of fins. No doubt it was going to be the freshest seafood I'd ever eaten. As it turned out, lobster wasn't really my cup of tea...but at least I'd tried it in its prime condition. The tail I can deal with, but cracking claws and sucking the meat out of joints? The German and myself left such savagery to the French and American contingent.

Sunday disappeared all too quickly, and we packed and made ready to leave. Alex brought the bill over from the family. It was more than reasonable, so much so that we would have felt guilty paying it; we gave them a 50% tip on top, which amounted to around $15. They were delighted with this. Tourism levels are never high in Michoacán as it is, due to the danger from the narcotraffickers; the recent hurricane meant that any extra we could give people was bound to be appreciated. And they were good, honest people. I hope I'll see them again one day.

The afternoon light was disappearing fast as we travelled back, the truck speeding through tunnels of trees connecting above us from both sides of the road; the sun closer to the sea at every rocky point we passed before plunging back into leafy twilight; the sounds of the Doors accompanying us all the way. I hadn't listened to them for a long time, and it was perfect. A couple of hours later we were hitting the limits of Colima. And then we were home. I say the word home because, when you stay at the hostel, it feels like like a hostel than it does staying at a friend's house. Alex was flattered to be told this, and said it is exactly how he wants people to feel. Though I'm sure one day it will be a retirement home for mezcal and pot addicts with Chinese Japanese addiction issues. And I'll likely be a permanent resident. A contented one.

I'd been planning to leave the following day, as I'd been there a week. I'd seen all there was to see as far as the local sights go.
"So" said Alex over a mezcal "you're leaving tomorrow?"
"Supposed to be" I replied.
"Chinese Japanese, then?"
"Chinese Japanese" I said, pulling a packet of skins out of my pocket. "Rack them up, then..."

I didn't leave the next morning, and told the Frenchman that I'd be around a few more days. He seemed pleased. Two days later as I was getting up, he asked me if I could ride a motorbike? I answered affirmatively, but said I was rusty. So he said we were going out for the day. I took his 250cc and he went ahead on his BMW 650cc. We left Colima and headed out down the freeway (terrifying) in the direction of the coast again, but peeled off in the direction of the small village of Madrid. Our route was a loop back to the hostel, and on one country stretch, Alex was quite excited to be able to point out the volcano in the distance. Ironic that we could see it from bloody miles away at this point. The hurricane's edge had caused massive flooding in this part of the state, and we stopped for ceviche in an area which had been changed by the course of the floodwaters...including a road bridge completely washed away. It had been a great day out. We got back to the house tired, dusty but happy. Though I reckon my Old Dear would have had a heart attack if she'd seen the speeds Alex had me doing to try and keep up.

Another week passed; another self-imposed deadline to leave also passed. It became a bit of a running joke. I'd kiss Julieta and Teresa goodbye after a Sunday night, telling them I'd see them next time I was in México; they'd laugh and say they'd see me tomorrow. And they were right several times more, as I just couldn't bring myself to depart. You should never force yourself to leave somewhere just because there are other places to see, and it's foolish to rush around a country on a sightseeing tour...travel is about far more than that. I was very happy in Colima. Considering I did little more than visit a nice beach, wander round town and read my books in the park with a coffee, drink and dance at 1800, visit the depressing Colima Zoo quite by accident (a dark day...I never imagined feeling pity for a crocodile), play a board game I'd never heard of while smoking myself (well...Alex) senseless and attempt to kill myself using a motor vehicle, I had a great time. Another friend of Alex's, a girl named Elia, became a friend of mine after meeting at a party in a rented house (she told me there were no more nightclubs as too many people got shot, so they threw these private parties instead); if I spend any more time in Colima I'll see her regularly as she shares my love of cinema. I know I'd also see a lot more of Armando too. He'd called me into his tiny studio one morning and showed me his work, and we attended a play put on by children wearing masks that he and his friends had created; half of Colima turned out for this in the beautiful old teatro. I was impressed. And each time I attended a Tursday salsa night at 1800 I got to know more great people. I even got on with Niki most of the time, despite us fighting like cat and dog occasionally; me labelling him with the nickname Gestapo due to his constant questioning didn't go down too well. It was a bit like having an annoying younger brother around at times, but he was a good kid. He needs to learn Spanish and roll a joint now and again, though...lazy German. Sitting in the square of the neighbouring town, Villa de Álvarez, soaking up the atmosphere amongst smiling local families and eating a paleta (famous local ice-lollies) I frequently wondered whether I could actually live here? I was beginning to think that I could...very easily. Incidentally, you have to try the paletas. Alex had taken us to the well-known square, and we'd quickly become hooked: it became something of a weekly pilgrimage for us. Though we couldn't bear to watch Niki eating his, it appeared he'd been watching too many porn films...myself and Alex felt physically sick at the sight, and asked him if he was sure he was straight?

We had another day out on the bikes, Tere being keen to show us the region she'd grown up in. It was a long way out, and even more beautiful than the route myself and Alex had taken the previous week, terminating at one of the most beautiful waterfalls I've seen in a long time. It was dark as we arrived back in town, and the pair took me on an unfamiliar ride, past the turnoffs for the hostel and the town centre. We pulled up in a small park, where hordes of children were running around, laughing and screaming. Making our way through them to a lit area, I could see a dark shape among them and a smile began to creep across my face. It was a huge boulder...the famous Piedra de Lisa. Legend has it that anyone who slides down the stone will one day return to Colima. I climbed atop it and slid down it's smooth surface with a few open-mouthed kids in my wake. At the bottom Alex and Tere grinned and hugged me. "Now you have to come back" they told me. I laughed. "Who said I was leaving?"

Extremely Easy On The Eye

2011-12-06T12:11:00.013+08:00

JULIAN HAD OFFERED Rachel, the older woman from NYC, a lift to Guadalajara with us. We drove over to her place to collect her stuff. Julian pulled out a joint to smoke before we left. Rachel asked if we were carrying any drugs besides this? I said No, Julian said A Bit. She was quite nervous, and insisted on a better hiding place than Julian was currently using. He told her to relax, as he'd been searched around fifteen times on the road so far, and the cops hadn't found a thing: they're looking for people carrying a little more than a few joints of grass, after all.

She quickly grabbed the front seat, leaving this 6'-tall Englishman crushed in the backseat between Julian's gear and her bags. Great...this was going to be a fun ride? As we set off out of Sayulita and pulled onto the highway, she remarked at the view. Since my view was the back of Julian's head and Rachel's two-foot-wide straw hat, I told her I couldn't possibly comment. She took the hint and removed it.

Julian was fiddling with the facia of his stereo.
"I hope you're not going to play any of that awful rap music?" she asked.
"Sorry?" asked the owner of the vehicle she was riding for free in.
"I really don't like that music...you'd have a very grumpy passenger if you play that..."
I caught Julian's eye in the rearview mirror, we exchanged raised eyebrows. If I'm a passenger in someone's car, the last thing I dream of doing is to dictate what music they can play. In fact, had I been driving, said New Yorker would have been getting a longer, closer look at said scenery while I disappeared in a cloud of dust, Public Enemy blaring from the speakers. Cheeky old mare.

"Can I turn the air-con down please? I'm very sensitive to temperature change" was the next request.
Sweating in the back, I rolled down the window. Julian did likewise.
"Can you just roll it down halfway? My ears are very sensitive to wind...they don't like being buffeted."
Anything else, Your Majesty?

I was actually glad of being in the back by now, Julian stuck in conversation with her. She had that awful habit of sign-reading: anything we passed on the road, she read out aloud. Thankfully she skipped the Coca-Cola signs, or it would have been non-stop. And she was a nervous passenger, saying "Whoa...whoa...whoa!" in increasing volume anytime we were near a truck which drifted across the white line as we overtook it, or if we rounded a bend and there were cars braking. I asked her if she had any valium with her, as she needed to calm down a bit? Having said that, if there'd been any valium, I think I'd have taken it first: an overdose.

It was blessed relief to reach the small pueblo of Tequila. As it was on the way, we thought we should stop. Julian wanted to buy some of the famous spirit for a friend he was due to see in the States soon. He was in and out of a few shops, unable to find exactly what he wanted, which was a quality bottle at a reasonable price. At the third shop, Rachel butted in and said she'd ask for him. She then used pretty basic Spanish to ask the owner what he recommended. I could tell by the Austalian's expression that he felt a little patronised...his Spanish being more than good enough to ask the questions himself.

She wandered off to buy postcards. "Man..." sighed Julian. "Doing your head in?" I asked. "Mine too." He told me that he'd given plenty of people a ride, but that she was the first he'd wanted to leave somewhere by the side of a road. She was lucky she was in her 60s, I reckoned.

Tequila seen, done and its namesake bought in a half-hour, we hit the road again. More signs were read out, just in case we hadn't seen the huge green metal things above the roads.
"Wooooow...look at the scenery...incredible" she gasped.
It was an average valley with a few trees. Julian caught my eye again in the mirror.
"Does anyone have any objections to me singing..?" she asked.
Weird.
"Errrr..." chorused myself and the Aussie, uncertainly.
She cleared her throat.
"Oh, give me land, lots of land, under starry skies above...don't fence me in. Let me ride through the wide-open country that I love...don't fe..."
Spying a gas station, Julian slewed across the road, gravel flying from beneath his tyres, and crunched to a hard stop. I was biting my lip to stop myself howling with laughter, knowing exactly what his game was. While the attendant filled the tank, Rachel went in to buy snacks.

"What the hell was that about?" he asked, his palm to his forehead.
"Dunno, mate...but good skills and quick thinking."
He grinned. Rachel was all but silent the rest of the way: no more murdering Cole Porter.

We arrived in Guadalajara, and located Rachel's hotel. She seemed surprised that we didn't want to check out the rooms, too. More comedy ensued when she asked Julian for his cellphone number...much um-ing and ah-ing before he realised he couldn't avoid giving it to her as he had the bloody thing in his hand. I was relieved that I didn't own one. We made a quick getaway, even considering a different hostel from the one we'd told her we were going to stay at after she said she'd drop by when she'd settled in. Personally I'd even have considered a different town. Thankfully it didn't come to that.

Guadalajara is México's second city, and the capital of Jalisco State, with a population of 1.6 million. It's a big place, but fairly low-rise, and seems deceptively small as you walk around the centro. Ask any Méxicano and 90% will tell you that this city is populated by the most beautiful women in the country. The other 10% are lying, blind or gay. Just a quick walk around the city centre backs this up. The Méxicanos consider the paler, taller women the prettiest...but there were more than enough dark-skinned moreñas for me to feast my eyes on. I've been to Brasil, Argentina and Colombia...the three countries considered to have the most beautiful latinas. But those in México beat them hands-down in my humble, red-blooded, cold-shower-needing opinion.

We were invited to a couple of parties, Julian's friend Liz knowing a few people in the city. The first was at a bar previously a house, an empty swimming pool in the garden packed full of revellers. The crowd were well-dressed and hip, and wouldn't have looked out of place in a European venue. The music was pretty good, too...a mix of House and hot Latin numbers. We had a few beers and mezcals before Liz said we should head for the other party. She and myself stopped in the street and I rolled the fastest joint I could, wary of the police cruising the streets looking to shakedown whoever they could. I didn't fancy paying a few thousand pesos to stay out of jail. We smoked it in the shadow of a tree, and then headed into the club. As we headed for the bar, my head spun...and it wasn't the weed spinning me out: an absolutely stunning woman walked by, all shining anthracite mane, flashing black eyes and a pair of legs most girls would give an arm for. I nudged Julian, but he was always pointing out another one. Then I spotted another incredible vision. They were everywhere. It suddenly clicked: Liz had mentioned earlier that the party was being thrown by a modelling agency. We were obviously in heaven and giggling like nervous schoolboys in their orbit; the only drawback being that all these creatures gracing our presence were in their early 20s. Had I been of that age myself, I think I'd have been engaged by the end of the evening; as it was, I had to content myself with just looking and rueing the fact I didn't come here in 1995. Oh well.

I got a haircut the next day, and the hot stylist was chatting me up. She asked me out, and we arranged to meet the next evening after she finished work. Julian left that afternoon, and I moved hostels. Heading out, I arrived at the salon to find her colleague there alone: my date had had to head home due to a problem with her kids. As I was leaving the next day anyway, it wasn't like the romance of the decade had failed...so I headed back up to the hostel for a quiet night with my book. I was still sat around when the Méxicano sharing my dorm happened by. He introduced himself as Martín and asked what I was up to? I explained my Loose End status and he laughed. Did I want to come to a party in a penthouse across the city, then? You bet your bollocks I did.

The rooftop of a hotel provided a 360-degree view of the city, an impressive sight at night. We got stuck into the beer and eyed the women. Pounding drum-and-bass was complimented by the fug of weed hanging in the air. Departing in the wee small hours, we ended up back at the dorm in a right old state. Just for a change. I awoke next morning, and Martín was up and starting to pack. He asked of my plans. "El plan es...no hay plan" I told him, and he laughed. My rough route was Guanajuato, San Luis Potosí and possibly the desert ghost-town of Real De Catorce. I asked where he was from, and he said Colima. I told him that it rang a bell, and I pulled out my map. I refuse to carry a guidebook these days; too heavy, and it's easy to either ask for recommendations or steal a quick look at someone's guide when in a hostel. I'd bought maps and marked off the locations I wanted to visit before leaving England. Colima and the surrounding area were covered in yellow highlighter ink. I asked him if he minded me tagging along, and he grinned at my change of tack, his hometown in the opposite direction to the intended Guanajuato. "El plan es...no hay plan?" I grinned back. "¡Claro!"

So we jumped a couple of local buses and waited on a dusty highway for a first-class bus. I didn't realise it then, but Martín was the catalyst which led me to one of my favourite periods in my whole trip.

Message In A Bottle

2011-11-26T11:06:00.006+08:00

I DROPPED MY pack on the sandy road, and wiped the sweat from my eyes with my shoulder. The damp back of my tee-shirt clung to me in the afternoon heat. "How much?" I asked again in surprise. The big Mexican in front of the taco shop repeated the price of the rooms at his friend's place: $25 a night. And allegedly I wouldn't find cheaper. This place was going to rinse me out by the looks of things. I thanked him and said I'd take a look. I crossed the street on his directions and found the small hotel. A tall, scrawny American in his late 60s owned the place. His name was Dave. And he reeked of booze. I had to take a subtle step backwards when he spoke, for fear of being knocked out. His pale, watery blue eyes were streaked with red, and his hands shook as he looked for the keys to the room. The room was OK, but nothing special considering it was more than twice what I'd normally expect to pay. While we talked the price over, an older woman behind Dave came out of another room, and was waving at me as if to say No. He saw me frowning over his shoulder, and he turned to look at her. I told him I'd take a look around, and headed down the stairs. She followed me out. In the street she asked me what price I'd been quoted, and where else I was thinking of looking? Dave made her feel uneasy. I told her there were a couple of listed hostels, and I was about to look for them. She said she preferred a hotel, and said she'd see me around.

Sayulita is a small beach-fronted pueblito North of Puerto Vallarta's huge bay, in the state of Nayarit. I arrived mid-afternoon, the centre quiet, with most people on or around the beach. There are more holidaymakers than backpackers here, and I drew a few stares walking around town bearing my load. I tried the two hostels in the Lonely Paranoid. The first was locked up and a manky, growling dog guarded the door, seemingly keen on a piece of white man's leg for an afternoon snack. Dogs normally love me, sensing a fellow simple being I suppose, but dogs in México don't. One had gone for me as I'd walked home in Vallarta a couple of nights previously, lunging out of the darkness and scaring the shit out of me. According the two women outside the shop next door the place was open, the owner out of town on holiday. The two Méxican lads she'd left in charge had obviously decided to take a holiday, too? The second place was deserted, the rooms wide open and dead leaves on the floor. If I didn't have valuables with me, I'd have squatted. As it was, it was looking like Drunken Dave's Hotel Borracho.

Keen for the business, he dropped the room to $20. I noticed that the older woman had come back, too. Nothing much available in town on a budget, it seemed. I headed back to the taco place, and got chatting to JT, the Méxicano who'd directed me to Dave's. The shrimp tacos he'd promised me went far beyond expectations...they were excellent. He filled me in on Dave. The guy had been here years, and was leasing the hotel. All his money went on alcohol, and his wife had just left him. Sounded like the booze-soaked tale of many an ex-pat. Their day revolves around that first drink. I've seen this a lot on my travels: ex-pats drinking too much for lack of something to do, and then sitting around bitching about each other. Paradise looks different through the bottom of a bottle.

I took a look around town, and a nice little town it is. The tiny square is colourful and spotless, shaded by several trees. Coffee shops and restaurants surround it, and two blocks of houses and shops away is the beach. Gentle surf sees a lot of trainee 'boarders, and judging by the number of families on the beach, it's a popular holiday destination. Nothing exciting, but a good place to relax for a while. I'd get my tan back and catch up on some reading and writing.

At Hotel Borracho that evening, I was to be treated to the car-crash spectacle of Drunken Dave and his ex-spouse at war. The hotel was single-storey and featured six rooms around an open space with a balcony. A few friends of Dave's turned up, with the woman I later found to be his wife, and they populated the balcony. The drinking got heavier, I was writing and having a quiet couple of drinks. It got more and more raucous. The older woman, a New Yorker named Rachel, came out of her room around aghast. She said she'd been assured that this was a quiet place to stay. Wanted to know if it was going to continue late? I shrugged. How should I know? I turned in a short while later, leaving the drunk couple alone. The friends had left when they started bickering over their failed marriage. The conversation took a turn for the worse, and it soon became clear that I wouldn't be getting much sleep. I could hear everything through the door.

"Look at you" she hissed. "Look...at...you."
"What?" he mumbled.
"You fucking drunk. You're a drunk. Fucking drunk. Drunk. Fucker."
I opened my eyes.
Dave told her that she was free to go, as she didn't live there.
"I've seen you puke blood. Fucker...I've seen you shit blood" she slurred.
"You bitch. I should never have married you..." he replied.
"You're an alcoholic, Dave...just look at yourself...you fucking mess..."
"...fucking bitch..."
"You're going to die..." she sang, mockingly "and I'm going to watch you die, Dave..."
"So are you...look at you, you're fucking anorexic. You skinny bitch..."
"You're going to die, Dave..." the harridan said, mock-soothingly.
"Fuck you, too. Fucking bitch. Get out of here."
"...shitting and puking blood, on the floor...and I'm going to watch."
This had gone far enough. In fact, it had gone beyond anything I've ever heard in my life.

I left my room and walked out to the balcony. The emaciated witch dropped a glass on the floor, and shoved the broken pieces to one side with her foot. Neither made a move to clear it up. Several empty bottles littered the table. It took a full minute before Dave turned, bleary-eyed towards me.

"Everything OK?" he slurred.
"Not really, Dave. In fact, I'd say I'm pretty far from OK right now."
"Were we disturbing you? Oh I'm sorry...we'll try and keep it down."
I was disturbed, alright.
"For a start, you're keeping everyone awake...and this is your hotel" His wife turned to regard me. "And it's not really my business, but I have to say that if I heard my parents speak to each other in the way you two have been doing, I would be mortified. I've never heard anything so spiteful." She apologised. Dave meekly apologised again. I suggested they should sort their differences out with a clear head in the morning, and retired to my room. No wonder their kids never visit, according to JT?

"Dead, Dave. In your own...fucking...blood. And I can't wait. I'm going to watch you die, Dave...do you know that? Watch you. Die."
"Fuck you. You'll die, too...I'll kill you, you bitch..."
She laughed shrilly. I heard chairs overturn, the scrape of metal table-legs on tile, an ashtray hit the floor with a crash; I jumped up out of bed. JT was out of his room, picking up chairs. Rachel had come out of her room, too. A drunken friend of Dave's emerged from his, and tried to placate me as I remonstrated with the drunken pair. This place was like Fawlty Towers, but with violence, booze and little humour. I was off in the morning, no doubt about that.

His wife got up to leave. It was 2am. She apologised to me, and said it had been nice to meet me. Eh? She held out her hand, which I pointedly ignored. She staggered away down the stairs, muttering spite, and Dave slumped in his chair. "Sorry about that...it won't happen again." I told him that wasn't good enough, but that in my opinion he was much better off without that hateful wretch in his life. And then went back to bed.

Morning saw me leaving with a bad back from the lumpy bed, and a partial refund from Dave; he'd likely spent the rest on last night's jolly knees-up. I'd been on the verge of leaving, but had found a shabby hostal-in-progress run by a grumpy Chileño and a young Méxicano named Victor. Between these fellows and an Alaskan nicknamed Hollywood who frequented the place, my mind was changed about departing: a few days on the beach would do me good, and this lot liked a smoke. Though the moody Chileño liked smoking ours, and then rolling his own in the bathroom. Not very sociable. But Victor was great to be around, and took me to several good bars. Hollywood and I got on like a house on fire; he reminded of a slim Ray Winstone, and had a few good L.A. tales from his days of working there as an editor, hence his nickname. A solid drinking partner.

The days drifted by. Sun. Books. Beers. Smokes. I met a few more ex-pats as the week went on. Two women, one in her late 40s and the other a blonde Canadian in her early 20s, seemed a permanent fixture on the party scene. The older one was attractive, but it looked like years of hard-drinking were taking the edge off her looks. The younger one had introduced herself as they were walking by our table one night. Nice figure, but her mouth was surrounded by small spots and sores. Not my type. When she'd given me the eye and moved on, Hollywood leaned over and said "Stay away from that one...meth-head." She certainly looked it. I encountered these two with another woman late one night in a local bar a few blocks from the beach. A group of people outside Hotel Borracho warned me not to go in, as it was full of dodgy Méxicans, and the scene of constant trouble. Red rag to this bull: in I went. The place wasn't packed, but the pair were there with another friend. Soon drunk, myself and Hollywood were dancing with them. The older one leaned into me as the third one was writhing up behind me, groping me. "I think she wants you" she slurred, breathing potent rum fumes in my face. The spotty one was slyly grinning at me across the dancefloor. "Well" I said "you can't always get what you want." She looked a little puzzled as I extricated myself and escaped their clutches. I had a suspicion they'd probably been through most of the men in this town, and weren't used to being turned down.

I found myself chatting to the owner of the bar later, a gorgeous 44-year-old. She looked 30 if a day. We got on, and in my drunken stupor I started thinking that maybe I should stick around in Sayulita for a while longer? A few more tequilas and I decided Yes, that's exactly what I'll do...this place isn't so bad after all. Reckon I could live here etc etc. I even had a few dances more with the gruesome gropers. I might even have groped them back, I can't remember? It was a very messy night with a late finish.

Next morning I awoke with a sawdust mouth, but thankfully it was my own ceiling I saw when I first opened my eyes. The Australian lad, Julian, who'd turned up the night previously, was packing his bags. He'd offered me a lift to Guadalajara, but last night in the bar I'd been keen to stay on instead. I recalled the details of my late-night conversation with the latina: divorced, two twenty-something kids, jealous ex-husband in the town, and tied to the place by a dodgy bar. Hmmm. I stirred, and Julian looked over. "That lift still on, mate?" I asked. He nodded "Let's get the fuck out of here."

A Bridge Too Far

2011-11-25T07:48:00.006+08:00

THE ROAD CUT through dense swathes of palm trees and vegetation, shadows and silhouettes swaying in the darkness. The bus shuddered over the potholed tarmac towards the coast and our destination of Puerto Vallarta. Dawn saw me in a taxi, flying along the highway bisecting the city. The overnight journey had taken its toll, and I rubbed my sore eyes wearily and cast doubtful glances at the rows of high-rise hotels drifting past my open window; the fresh salty air pleasantly stinging my nostrils as the the populace awoke for another day beneath a blistering sun.

I'd headed up here from DF after hearing about a upcoming postion for an instructor at one of the shops. Having had quite enough of towns and cities for now, I was aching for boats, beaches and sharks. It had been almost two full months since my last immersion on Utila in Honduras, and for a dive addict, that is a hell of a long time. My taxi driver was a chatty fellow, and we talked about the town. He told me that he had a nice room to rent long-term if my hostel wasn't comfortable enough? He gave me his number. I dumped my bags at the door to the hostel, grabbed a milkshake from a lady in the street and waited for them to open up. It was still very early.

I paid for three nights up front, thinking that this would give me plenty of time to speak to the dive shop, find my feet and decide where I was going to live. Stomach growling, I headed downhill into the pueblo around the river's mouth, the sea visible ahead of me. The place had a nice atmosphere, the cobbled road leading alongside the river and through narrow streets towards a small plaza. Many food stalls and local stores had cheery owners sat outside shooting the breeze with passers-by; I stopped and ordered shrimp ceviche on tostadas from one of them, and a fresh orange-and-carrot juice from the elderly lady next door. I like to share my money around a little. And the little old lady was very funny, squeezing oranges with an old mechanical juicer...pointing out her toned biceps while she worked, after I'd pointed out that she didn't need a gym with that kind of work to do.

Belly appeased, I set off walking again. I liked the atmosphere of the place, and saw a couple of potential homes with Se Renta painted on them. Towards the beachfront things got a little too glitzy for my liking, but then Vallarta is a large resort. Hopefully I'd be able to avoid most of this in my day-to-day routine. Then I reached the bridges across the river. They may as well have been the gates of Hell.

The cute old town ended immediately at the bridge. On the other side the shiny developments, bars and restaurants started. Starbucks. Two of the horrific Señor Frogs chain of bars...the true Méxican experience, no? This was like being back in Cancún. My heart sank to my flip-flops as a beaming local hailed me from a shop doorway "Hey, buddy...how are you liking your vacation?" As of thirty minutes ago, I'm hating it, thanks for asking. I continued on, gazing at the upmarket shops and restaurants as I walked down the Malecón, the pedestrianised seafront. It depressed me. Ancient tourists in sandals and white socks, slathered in sunblock, ambled along the front and hung out in front of the bars with their frozen cocktails. Three days. Three bloody days here? Did I learn nothing from the Taxco experience? Apparently not. I sat chiding myself for being so stupid, especially as I recalled the prominent No Refunds At All sign behind the desk at the hostal. Jesus. So the internal debate was: do I just bin two nights accommodation in favour of not wasting 2-3 days of my remaining time? Tough call.

I got halfway down the Marina and stopped dead in my tracks; turned around and walked back to the main road and hailed a bus back to the hostal. I'd email the shop from there and tell them Thanks, But No Thanks. Why waste time walking over there when I'd clearly made up my mind? Even if the diving was outstanding, which the Méxican Pacific isn't, there was no way on earth that I could live in this tourist hellhole. I'd sooner live in Mogadishu. Honestly.

I awoke from a nap to find a short, shaven-headed Canadian fella a little older than myself rolling a joint, cross-legged on the dormitory floor. His name was Karl. He told me he'd just arrived, but had lived here previously. "Man, it's changed around here. When I was here fifteen years ago, this road was never even here...just trees. I just bought some tacos for 60 pesos. They were 20 when I was here before. Maaaan...I lived on the edge of the jungle up there..." he indicated a forested ridge above us "...just me and my girl. Hardly any Westerners here...I just spoke Spanish all the time, man. Learned it in two months. Everything's different now." He passed the joint. He filled me in on the area and his experiences...all good and interesting so far.

We chatted some more about his plans to get further North up the coast, to find some less-populated areas and beaches. Sayulita was on his list, as well as mine. "Man, Sayuita's probably changed, too. I was there fifteen years ago..." After a couple of hours Karl went from someone who could have made the three days bearable to a painful stuck record. Stuck fifteen years in the past. I'd quickly realised Karl's angle before he spelled it out "Man...you should have been here fifteen years ago...everything was better. You've missed it...you're too late." Karl is a I Was Here First And Everything Is Rubbish Now merchant. These types become tedious pretty quickly.

"Thanks, Karl...I'm sure there are still some places worth visiting... México hasn't died just because one place gets the taste for tourists?"
"No...sure. I'm just telling you like it was, man. Fifteen years ago..."
You get the picture.

He accompanied me out to get an afternoon coffee. I had to keep stopping to let him catch up. I'd estimate his pace at a mere 2km/hr.
"Karl...can't you walk any faster?"
"Maaan..." he grinned, stoned out of his mind behind his sunglasses.
"Man nothing...get a bloody move on...coffee'll be out of fashion by the time you get there."
"Maaan...you need to get your Méxican groove on...slow down, man. I got my Méxican groove down..."
I wanted my coffee. Not my Méxican groove.
"I'm not even walking that fast, Karl?"
My London pace gets left at Heathrow airport. Well...mostly.
"Just speed up a little, Karl...look..." I indicated the abuelita passing him "even little old ladies are overtaking you."
He was nonplussed, a big, beatific grin on his face.
"What's the rush, maaan? We're just walking..?"
"Yes, but walking is a method of getting somewhere in order to do something else...like sit and drink coffee?"
"Yeah, man...but..."
But bloody nothing.
"Tell you what, mate...meet you there?"
I needed a coffee some time that afternoon...not the weekend after next.

I visited the beach at Boca the next day, a half-hour bus ride South. It was a better vibe here, the tourists being Méxicanos rather than Western. Sat on the beach all day and read my book, then had a walk upriver and chatted to a few locals. A nice day out. It broke up my time in Vallarta nicely, too. I'd spent all my time in the old part of town anyway, refusing to cross the dreaded bridge ever again. The dive shop didn't reply to my apologetic email about the vacancy. No great loss...I'll never be back.

I'd packed the night previously, and headed out for my final shrimp ceviche tostadas and orange juice. It was midmorning, and the burly ceviche vendor was already on the ale. We'd chatted a lot the last few days, and he offered me some beer and grass, if only I'd hang out at the stall with him and his friends. As enticing an offer as that was, his compadres were a great bunch, I had to escape this town. Getting back to the hostal to grab my bags, I bumped into Karl on the stairs. He asked me how I'd found Boca? I told him very relaxing and peaceful. "Maaan, I bet it's all changed since I was last there. I remember fifteen years back there wasn't even a road down that way. I could sure tell you some stories..."

I left.

Herbie Goes Bananas

2011-11-25T01:57:00.008+08:00

TAXCO SHOULD BE picture-postcard perfect. A small pueblo, famous for its silver and jewellery, it sits on a hillside a few hours out of México DF by road. The silver mining industry is all but dead, and now tourism has taken over. I'd been quite excited about seeing the place, expecting to come away with a nice bespoke item after a relaxing weekend. As the bus rounded the curve and the valley came into view, Taxco shone brilliant white from the hillside it covered. I'd come with an Austrian architect named Karina whom I'd met at the hostel in DF, and she was as taken with the view as I was. We'd booked three nights in a hotel, there being no cheap hostel options in this town. We'd soon find out why.

The bus pulled into the tiny station, and we climbed uphill through the tight, pavement-free cobbled streets and into the centre. The place looked very pretty. As we approached the town plaza, I estimated we'd been passed by at least twenty white VW Beetles with numbered red circles on their doors. The noise of idling engines grew as we reached the square; a band of these taxis, two or three wide, snaked through the wide streets around it; all making for the exit at the far side, it being a one-way system due to the tight streets around town. Myself and Karina looked at each other "What the bloody hell is this?" I asked her. As we picked our way through the cars and asked directions to our hotel, she was voicing my fears "Maybe we should have just booked the one night?" Indeed. Too late now.

We found the entrance to the hotel and mounted the 157 steps to the reception. Karina counted them. These Austrians are almost as precise as the Germans? Our misgivings grew in magnitude as we got higher: dusty, long-unused tables and chairs with cobwebs all over them were randomly placed all over one terrace. Workmen were hammering away from within a tarpaulin-covered doorway next to the reception. I caught Karina's eye, and realised we were both thinking the same thing. The woman on duty showed us three rooms of a similar standard, but with differing shapes and furniture. We took the last one on the upper floor.

The room was grand. Or at least it probably was in the 40s. Indeed, from the state of the hotel in general, you'd have thought that visitors really were here last in 1940: Hermann Goering's Luftwaffe. And they were still cleaning up the mess. The bed looked big and comfortable, until Karina fell through the middle and realised that it was, in fact, two single beds pushed together: great. I took a look at the balcony. The view from the rusty wrought-iron chairs around the wobbly table was nice enough: if you ignored the weeds creeping from the cracks in the bricks and the dead leaves strewn all over the place. Karina emerged from the bathroom as I was re-fixing the guttering which hung down over the double doors from the room. "Look at the state of this" I said. I also pointed out the ancient roof tiles as stained and badly-set as a tramp's teeth. She grinned. "How is the bathroom?" I asked. "OK...but very old...and there doesn't seem to be any hot water." It just got better and better? I went and found the nightwatchman, an amiable old fellow named Carmelito, who informed me that we had to run the water for ten minutes before it got hot. So we were wasting almost a swimming pool of water before we could have a rinse in the shower? Must be some sort of Méxican eco-lodge. "Three days" I muttered. "Do you think they'll let us cancel one or two nights?" Karina asked me. I raised my eyebrows doubtfully. As we were likely the only guests here, I don't think a refund was on the cards. So...what the bloody hell were we going to do for three nights here?

After a first, thankfully very quiet and peaceful night atop the slope, we descended to check out the town. The burble of Beetle engines awaited us like a growling dog. Heading into the square through the mid-morning throng of white cars, we found a decent coffee and sat in the square with it. I spat half of mine out as a woman walked through the paved centre holding a small Polish flag aloft, a line of sandal-wearing, shuffling people twenty-strong behind her. Another group was less than five minutes in following. "Look" I said "a Japanese fellow with only two cameras. Travelling light." Karina laughed and bemoaned "A little bit touristy, isn't it?" How we laughed mirthlessly at our misfortune.

The smiles were well and truly wiped from our faces at lunch, when confronted with menu prices three times those of México DF. This was most definitely not a backpacker destination. Bad enough if the crappy food didn't add injury to the insult. When you're a captive audience people can charge whatever they like for any old rubbish, just like Picadilly in Central London. In fact, those shitty week-old slices of pizza you see under the hot displays in downmarket London takeaways are probably tastier and twice as nutritious as the one we had in Taxco's main plaza. "Oh it's not that bad" Karina scolded me. Compared to what, I thought...McDonald's? Eating wood?

Another day, another (thankfully) great coffee. This time the balcony overlooking the square was free, and we quickly took it. Below our vantage point was the entrance to said square, and we watched the line of traffic crawling through. For such a beautiful little town, it's a crying shame that there is, quite literally, not a moment's silence. We sat for an hour waiting for the traffic noise to die away to nothing, but there was always the growing metallic rattle of another approaching Beetle. "Is this a joke?" Karina asked me. If it was, it was definitely on us. Three days? Even the locals looked at us funny on Day Two...surprised we were still there, no doubt.

Depressingly, all the silver shops stocked the same mediocre shit; hardly the variety of Camden Market. Decent pieces were extremely thin on the ground. It was a little disappointing that there was only one independent workshop we could find. They had some nice stuff: for women. Ah well. More money saved to spend on diving, no? Or booze. At least Karina found something she liked. And I found her bargaining over 50 pesos (£2.50) quite amusing...it went on for a while before she caved in. I was amused, the shop owner less so. At least in that particular shop the staff weren't constantly on our heels making sure we weren't stealing anything; most followed us or positioned themselves so that they could see our hands at all times. I mean...there may be a slight Liverpool lilt to my Spanish, but I'm hardly going to start nicking everything that isn't nailed down? Feeling like a criminal while shopping isn't a comfortable experience, so we gave up after a while.

We took a walk around the hilly streets. This town's layout is truly crazy, a map wouldn't do you much good. The roads veer off uphill in scattered directions: it's all over the place. It has a certain charm, but the traffic killed it stone dead for us. After breakfast at the bend of a road, just above the square, we sat and watched the intricate mechanical ballet as taxis came from opposite directions and manoeuvered around each other in a dance of three-point-turns, engines revving noisily on the slopes. As the traffic snarled up the passage, I headed uphill and counted the VW Beetles in the jam: 15 of them. But the drivers don't get irate. No-one honks or shakes fists. In NYC or London I reckon someone would be beaten to death with a steering wheel. I took advantage of the fact that drivers were stood around chatting to ask how many taxis there were in Taxco. Over 300, apparently.

Having seen everything of the town in the first hour of the first day, we headed out to the Cascadas de Cacalotenango, less than an hour away by minibus. No drone of Beetles here as we jumped out of the colectivo bus. A short hike uphill in the quiet of the valley below us was pleasant in the midmorning heat. We passed a local with some delightful little cabañas to rent, and wished again that we weren't stuck at Hotel Decrepit. The tranquility here suited us far better. After a short conversation and a look around, we headed to the fall. Quickly changed after a wade across the stream, we were in the freezing cold water for barely a minute each dip. It was so cold that it made the head swim and vision blur. Climbing out across the rocks I looked over at Karina and mentally remarked that a pneumatic, blue-eyed Austrian blonde dripping water, nipples erect in a grey bikini and covered in goosebumps, looked a damn sight sexier than an overweight Englishman with wet shorts clinging to a manhood wisely retreating from the intense cold? Ah well. Can't win them all, old chap.

So we were glad to escape Taxco after the third night. I wouldn't say to avoid the place entirely, as it's pretty enough and certainly worth a visit. But if you're in México DF, get up early and see the place on a day trip. If you do happen to get stuck here overnight, be sure not to stay at Hotel Decrepit. And bring a packed lunch.

An Assault On The Senses

2011-11-24T05:09:00.029+08:00

ARRIVING IN A large, unknown city can be an intimidating experience; I try to ensure that my arrival is in daylight. And they don't come much bigger, or apparently badder, than the megacity of Ciudad De México. The place has a negative reputation, little-deserved these days. Indeed, many locals are horrified when you tell them which parts of the city you have walked through without an armed guard. They tend to believe their own media, rather than see for themselves. Apparently as little as five years ago certain parts of the centre were no-go areas even for the police. And so I felt a little daunted on arrival, the endless barrios blurring by as the bus crept into the Centro Historico in the early morning. It was around 6am; I shouldered my dusty pack and headed off into the unknown, swallowed up by the streets. I decided to walk due to the fear of pirate taxis and express-kidnappings (the so-called Millionaire's Tour of ATMs at gunpoint in the back of a car). It was initially my intention to stay only for a few days, not knowing that I'd rapidly develop a strong affection for this impressive place. Its fearsome reputation would soon be dispelled.

My first impressions were good. Thankful for the coolness of the early morning air I picked my way through the side streets on my way to the Zócalo, the huge paved central plaza. I liked the atmosphere; I was reminded of my immediate love for Barcelona...it had a similar look and feel in places. Some buildings are in a state of disrepair, others immaculate and intricately tiled; cracked pavements, leafy avenues and cobblestone streets contribute to its atmosphere of a yesteryear Spanish city.

The Aztec capital was originally situated on an island amidst a huge lake when founded in 1325 A.D. and now commands this vast plain, surrounded by volcanoes and hills. From the Torre Latinoamericana in the heart of the central district the solid mass of streets and buildings spreads in every direction, toward all four horizons. It covers an incredible 1485 square kilometres. In the distance dense settlements encroach upon steep slopes above the conurbation, space is at a premium here. The four main arterial roads serving as the main points of entry cut the city into four pieces of concrete pie. The view from here is truly breathtaking.

The ancient lake of Texcoco has been completely drained since work began to expand the city in the 17th Century: miles of tunnels and canals run below thousands of streets, draining away water which continues to seep upwards from the clay bed. But this is causing problems, as buildings in various areas of México DF are slowly sinking: the cathedral in the Zócalo has dropped an incredible 9m since the beginning of this century, the ground floor is now the basement. In the early hours of each morning, crews can be heard draining the excess water into container trucks. Keeping the city flood-free and above ground level is a 24/7 job.

Pollution is a major problem. On some days it is impossible to see the hills and volcanoes from the centre for the filthy smog. And this aire mala is estimated to shorten the life of the average resident by 10 years. In 1991, the air was deemed a health hazard for 355 days of that year. I dread to think how the conditions would be if the city did not sit at an altitude 2240m above sea level. But several measures seem set to improve conditions. The subway system, built in 1968, is very cheap at 15 pence a journey, and carries 5 million passengers each day. Anyone who thinks that the rush hour on London's Tube is claustraphobic and stressful should really try this one. The Tube feels like a day out on the Orient Express by comparison. I've seen carriages jammed with people, and yet more literally bouncing into them from the platform in vain attempts to create a space. The transit authority has wisely created an area of the platform available only to women and children during the busier periods. It is savagery down there. As regards traffic, by law new cars need to be fitted with a catalytic converter, and LPG cars are becoming more popular. There is also a system called Hoy No Circula, whereby cars ending in a certain number are only allowed on the streets certain days of the week, in a bid to alleviate the problem. Hopefully these will begin to make a difference and improve the lives of this city's residents.

The other problem is the people: indeed, they're very nice...but they are everywhere. An estimated 21.2 million people populate the metropolitan area, 8.85 million of those souls in the Distrito Federal, or DF as the locals refer to it. In the municipality of Nezahualcóyotl, to the northeast of DF, it was recently reported in National Geographic that 17,537 people saturate a square kilometre. A staggering figure. Throw in the problems with narco-trafficking on top of the usual issues associated with over-population, and you have troubles. The article reported residents taking matters into their own hands and reclaiming the streets after various gruesome murders and drive-by shootings: they built their own concrete barriers to pedestrianise roads and create safe-havens from the gangs. If people stick together, these problems will gradually be overcome. I overheard one American bemoaning the danger and drug-war in this country, and its drain on US resources. The deadpan reply from his Mexican friend was a classic "Well if you gringos would stop buying cocaine..?"

On my first day in the city I walked solidly for almost six hours. I'd climbed the Cotopaxi volcano, Ecuador, in a pair of Converse, but this trek gave me more blisters. I left the Centro Historico with its heaving streets and roar of traffic; the khaki-uniformed wurlitzer players with their caps on outstretched arms, a raucous, tuneless din emerging from their ancient instruments; the noisy farting of VW Beetle taxis in their gold and burgundy livery; hawkers plying their wares in the streets adding to the racket. This assault on the senses is incessant. It begins at 5am and tails off around 9pm. Your ears ring as it dies down and the city relaxes.

I reached the bohemian Colonia Roma, and this was where I began to toy with the possibility of living here. It's rough around the edges, beautiful and decrepit. Gorgeous old houses covered with climbing vines, shabby-chic bars and restaurants with an arty vibe. Both here and the more upmarket Condesa district are littered with coffee shops populated by Macbook-wielding drinkers. The two Méxicanos I'd befriended in El Salvador live here, and I could see why (incidentally Emi, the thin, handsome one pointed out some factual errors in this text, and told me to say that he was The Thin And Handsome one of the two...sorry, Wíro (who is cute in a Beardy And Cuddly way, girls...see the photo)). They have a network of fellow creative friends in this area; it's the design-centric barrio of México DF. All I need is my Mac laptop and my diving gear: I could design for London agencies for 6 months of the year and dive, write and travel the rest? Sounds rubbish. Something for me to ponder, anyway. As far as art and design goes, there is plenty of inspiration on tap here: the city boasts some 2000+ museums and galleries. I took in a few on the way to DF's biggest green space, and was pleasantly surprised at the quality of work and tasteful curation on show.

Parque Chapultepec is an oasis of calm amongst the madness; once you penetrate deep enough to escape the sounds of traffic, that is. At its edge squirrels make forays between the groups of people, unabashedly searching for food. I had a couple scramble up my legs and dig about in the pockets of my jeans, and made a mental note to bring some nuts next time. Lose yourself in this vast park, and it's possible to forget that you're in one of the biggest cities in the Americas. Within its walls is the Museo De Caracol, showcasing a history of México and its people; outside the park is the famous Museo De Antropologia, a stunning building and collection of ancient artifacts charting the development of the human race on this vast continent. While here, I was lucky enough to catch the temporary exhibition of anthropolgical studies by JB Debret, a French exile to Brasil in the early 19th Century. His pencil drawings are stunning depictions of everyday life for the Portuguese colonials and their African slaves. I envied him his skills, having been pretty handy at sketching myself in younger days. The age of the Mac has put paid to those, but I've been inspired to pick up a pencil again. Though it's going to take a while...Rome wasn't drawn in a day.

I traversed the centro once more on my walk in the afternoon sun and stumbled across Calle Donceles. Being a bit of a bookworm, I was pleasantly surprised to see that this long avenue is populated almost solely by secondhand bookshops, stocking titles in English (and many other languages) as well as Spanish. As books in Spanish are very expensive in London, I stocked up on a few titles by García Márquez to study and improve my collection back home. As things look, I may be shipping them back to México within 12 months? Incidentally, I met an Australian who was carrying 41 books at last count, and was having to buy another bag to carry them home. I had to laugh, explaining to him that I had a strict Five Book Rule when travelling, as books aren't light. His library ensured that he was using México City as base...carrying those around would be impossible.

Physically shattered by my lengthy hike, I headed back to the Centro. Resting with a delicious, cheap coffee across the street from my hostal, I read a little in between the amusingly bad performance of those buskers who force unwanted music upon people enjoying a bit of peace and quiet with their coffee. At least the teams of Mariachis ask if you'd like them to play for you, whereas the buskers just start playing and you're obliged to endure it. There's a regular on Calle Regina for whom I have a soft spot, though: a middle-aged man who plays and sings (murders?) The Cranberries' Zombie every afternoon. He's so bad that he's good, as far as entertainment goes, and I tip him every time I see him. Unlike the mohicaned gimp screaming worthy revolutionary songs out of tune, while strumming a guitar which sounds like it hasn't been tuned since he bought it. My tip for him? Give up, mate...it's giving everyone a migraine.

A gentle breeze carried the stench of a long-unwashed body. No...not mine. I looked to my left and saw that a tramp had laid down on a nearby bench for a nap, barely ten yards from me. His less-than-delicate aroma was clearing tables in a rapid fashion, empty ones appearing around him. Customers fled to those upwind, wrinkling their noses and laughing. I quickly grabbed another before I became stuck where I was, and the afternoon continued. I caught the eye of a few locals who raised their eyebrows and smiled, rolling their eyes at the prone figure as if to say What can you do? I smiled back. You've got to love the Mexicans. People are so tolerant of each other here. Back in England the tramp would have been poked with a (long) stick and told to bugger off.

So I was happy to be here. Inspired. Excited. And feeling the butterflies and goosebumps usually associated with the beginning of a love affair. I couldn't wait to see more of México and felt that, at last, I may just have found my place.

A Mixed Bunch

2011-11-14T11:50:00.016+08:00

MY HONDURAN AMIGA was flying to Arizona for a holiday, and had a stopover in Florida for a few days. She asked me if I'd like to join her? I'd only previously visited NYC as far as my Stateside jaunts go, and fancied seeing Miami. It was the location for Brian De Palma's 1980s epic gangster flick Scarface...and so naturally I wanted to visit South Beach.

It was also a good opportunity to see Americans in their natural habitat, so to speak. You can't judge the States on New York City, after all. I've encountered plenty of switched-on American backpackers on the road. And I've met some freaks. I'm not tarring all Yanks with the same brush, so don't be offended; I have several good friends from the other side of the Pond (you know who you are). Besides, we English have countrymen to embarrass us: our drunken football hooligans, white trash racists and ex-pats in Spain who speak only English, eat only English breakfasts and refer to the Spaniards as foreigners. Ahem.

I'd been in Mexico a few days, having travelled up from Guatemala with a brief stay in San Cristobal De Las Casas. Returning to the hostel one evening, I was buttonholed by a long-haired American of mixed race. He began quizzing me about the motorcyclist's gear in our dorm, and did it belong to me? Then whose is it? Where is he? He had only got to the city that evening and bemoaned his lack of marijuana opportunities. I told him he'd met the right man, and invited him to smoke awhile on the balcony upstairs. As is the way, destinations and length of trip were the primary threads of conversation. Then I asked him where he was from. Then I wished I hadn't.

"California, man."
"Whereabouts?"
"All over.You know..."
Do I?
"But where?" I asked.
"Everywhere..."
"But don't you remember which place you were born in?" Puzzled now.
"Weeeell...Santa Monica, I guess."
"You guess? Like sticking a pin on a map?"
"Uh-huh."
"Right." I frowned, took another drag and began wishing that I was smoking alone.
"And I'm from Panama."
I coughed a cloud of smoke "You what, mate..?"
"I partly grew up in Panama" he told me.
"Whereabouts?"
"All over."
Here we went again.

He asked me what I was doing in Mexico, and I told him I'd been backpacking and diving, glad of the change of subject. He went on to tell me he couldn't dive again, after a rocket had exploded near him in Iraq, damaging his ears. When he pointed out how close it had been, I struggled to contain my mirth: there was no way he'd have survived. Other half-baked tales came out which exposed the fact that the guy was, quite clearly, talking out his arse. The fella was a few sandwiches short of a picnic, no doubt; he was so vague about everything that I got the impression I had a stoned Walter Mitty on my hands. And I was bored already.

When he informed me that it was 9pm, I yawned theatrically and told him that I was off to bed, thinking this was my chance to escape. He said he'd turn in too, and took a bottom bunk next to mine.

"Bottom bunk, man" he said from beneath the blankets.
"Eh?" I asked.
"Bottom bunk...you know."
"Know what?"
"Bottom bunk."
"Bottom bunk what?" I almost groaned.
"Too long in the miltary...bottom bunk...you know..." he grinned knowingly.
"G'night."
Time for the earplugs. I can't half pick them, you know...I'm some sort of freak magnet.

As I was dropping off to sleep, movement made me open my eyes. He was there, this fellow (who I later nicknamed Syndrome, short for the Gulf War variety), hurriedly packing his rucksack.

"What are you doing?" I asked him.
"Getting out, man...big cities..."
"Eh?"
"Big cities what, exactly?" I was perplexed.
"Not good, man...gotta get out of the cities."
I asked him just where he thought he'd get to at midnight, starting to think that shit...maybe he had served in Iraq? Maybe he has got Gulf War Syndrome? Maybe I've set him off and he's going to go on a mad one somewhere? Shoot some kids, or something. I was still a little stoned, which wasn't helping.

When he left the room I followed at a distance and watched him shiftily making his way down to reception. I felt a bit guilty, but he did look funny creeping around in the shadows of the lobby, obviously pretty stoned himself. Thankfully he didn't wander off into the night and trouble (I didn't want the blood of innocents on my hands, obviously), but fell asleep on a sofa instead. Next time I offer someone a smoke, first I'm going to ask them "Have you ever nearly been blown up in a war or experienced anything equally traumatic?"

4am and I was in a taxi hurtling towards the airport, the last of the madrugada fading as the sun inched over the hills. I had a pleasant chat with the taxista in Spanish; not all taxi drivers are arseholes. But more on those who are at some point in the future. Airport formalities over, I joined a queue for a paperwork check. An elderly American gentleman, and I use that term loosely, was in front of me, haranguing his silent wife. Not that I'm a nosey bastard: it was impossible to avoid listening in. "This fucking country...backwards...fucking primitives. We've been through African countries more civilised than this. They just wanted that stuff for themselves. Those motherfuckers. They'll be drinking it tonight and laughing at us...you mark my words." He turned my way, and he reminded me of the late comedy legend George Burns. Yes, actually...like a vitriolic, hate-filled, xenophobic George Burns. "This'd never happen in a developed country. These fucking wetbacks..." he spat. His wife dutifully bore it, probably used to it after 50 years of blissful marriage. I felt like saying something, but couldn't be bothered. People like that don't reason, and never change, so why bother engaging in conversation with them? Life's too short as it is. Besides, the last time I picked a fight with a racist, I broke a finger.

I experienced a joyous flight to Dallas; forced onto an old lady in the window seat due to the sheer mass of the gargantuan chap next to me. I think I sat at a 25 degree angle for the entire flight; listening to a running commentary on the scenery from the lady, who hadn't flown this route for 20 years. All the buildings that hadn't been there in 1991 were helpfully pointed out. The fields looked different too, apparently. Fascinating stuff. I was looking around for a hidden camera after an hour of it, my face an aching, rictus grin from constantly acknowledging her running commentary.

I wasn't quite prepared for the scale of Dallas airport: it's huge. Having only 45 minutes for my connection, I'm pleased I decided to just head for the next departure gate rather than wander around the shops, as there was a ten minute shuttle ride between terminals. I found a bookshop amongst the draped Stars & Stripes, various huge screens broadcasting war footage and Obama speeches. It was here that I encountered my first, and sadly not last, Have A Nice Day-er. She looked up as I perused a shelf of novels. "Hey, how ya doin' today?" she asked with a big toothy smile. "I'm fine, thanks...you?" She answered in the affirmative. I left and withdrew some cash from a nearby ATM; I was gone not three minutes. She looked up at my return and gave me an identical smile, then cheerily asked "Hey, how ya doin' today?" Great. Just like three minutes ago. I went to the gate and sat watching the endless patriotic ads for the airline, between war footage: servicemen in uniform being shaken by the hand; given first boarding privileges (British military personnel traditionally get free tickets for Wimbledon here); thanking the pilot for a great flight and getting a heartfelt "No...thank you." I nearly threw up. Thanks for what? Securing the oil to keep American Airlines flying? All those poor young men getting killed or crippled for the greedy bastards behind the Administration.

I find most Americans a friendly enough bunch. True, I had to run the gauntlet of Have A Nice Day-ers on arrival in Fort Lauderdale. But there were several people made my first day in the US a pleasant one. The 20-something black girl on the Hertz desk allayed my fears about driving a car here. "Don't worry...the roads are huge here, the lanes are wide, and everything is on a grid. You'll be fine." She flashed me a beautiful smile as I left and said "Try and bring it back in one piece, OK?"

She wasn't lying. The roads in America are very wide and easy to drive on, I'd been worried for nothing. And now I understand why Americans feel claustrophobic while driving in British cities. The only problems I had were road signs drying up unexpectedly, and the traffic lights being on the far side of intersections, resulting in a few screeching stops. The nice Hertz lady had given me a map and a rough idea of where my hotel was, as I'd neglected to write down the full address. Clown. The roadside scenery seemed to be on a continuous loop: KFC; Wendy's; Knives & Guns; Blockbuster; We Buy Guns; used car lot; KFC; Wendy's; Knives & Guns; Blockbuster; We Buy Guns. I decided to stop and ask someone.

I asked for directions in a McDonalds. Two black guys in there, dressed like gang-bangers, were very enthusiastic about helping me but didn't know the hotel. The staff were none the wiser. After a quick chat and well-wishes from them and I headed across the parking lot to a row of shops. I entered a lawyer's office and told the grey-looking man sat at the desk that I was English and lost. He hardly batted an eyelid. By the pallor of his skin I'd say that he hadn't been outside in three or four years. I asked him if he could possibly Google the hotel, and soon wished I hadn't. I ended up having to show him how to open new tabs in a browser, and how to use Google. Painful. But I got the address.

The hotel was nondescript and far from special, but I've stayed in far worse places. I soon found a decent Thai restaurant; a pleasant change from the Taco Diet, let me tell you. My friend arrived soon after me and, deciding that Ft Lauderdale was a little on the dull side, we planned a trip to Miami the next morning. Most of my Stateside friends agreed that Miami Beach would be the place to find the most vacuous, plastic, image-obsessed lunatics in the country. I didn't expect to fall in love with the town.

I was in a store in Ft Lauderdale before we left, grabbing some supplies. An old man was walking around talking loudly to anyone who'd listen. I arrived at the till and he sidled up to me; obviously my turn to be engaged in unwilling conversation.

"They don't know nuthin'..." he informed me, wild-eyed beneath unkempt hair.
"They certainly don't, no..." I smiled placatingly.
"Nuthin'. The Irish know nuthin'..."
"Quite."
"And I ain't telling them nuthin', neither" he said, tapping his nose and winking conspiratorially.
I turned to the woman ringing up my items, and she smiled knowingly.
"It's going to be one of those days, eh?"
"Honey..around here, it's always one of those days."
A pause.
"Nuthin'. The Irish know nuthin'..."

The approach to South Beach is a pleasant drive, spotless roads lined by some jaw-dropping houses adjacent to the water. We parked up and wandered down through the Art Deco District. There are some interesting buildings here, but the atmosphere of the place wasn't grabbing me. It was an obvious see-and-be-seen kind of town. I noticed a guy get out of a yellow Ferrari, wearing matching shades and a Ferrari polo-shirt. He sat down and looked about to see who'd been impressed by his arrival. No-one much, by the looks of things. I was so tempted to go over and point at his sunglasses on the table, the crest on his shirt, and then adopt a penny-just-dropped expression and saw "Wow...is that your car outside? You are so cool..."

We sat and had lunch at a pavement cafe. My companion was accusing (to me) the camp waiter of being catty and selective about who he served. I think she was just a little miffed that I was getting more attentive service? It was a great spot to people-watch. I saw just how far money gets you in this town; several stunning woman strutted by with stunted Danny DeVitos in badly-fitting outfits. Unbelievable that a woman could sleep with a toad for a lavish lifestyle? Lights off, hopefully. And each to their own.

My favourite freak of the afternoon was the young man who strolled by, pushing a shopping trolley with a dog in it. He wore a leopard-skin bikini, smudged lipstick lined his mouth and he'd written Slut in marker pen on his forehead. He was smiling and waving at people, not a care in the world. I actually admired his (metaphorical) balls, just didn't want to see his actual balls hanging out of a skimpy outfit. You can't not admire people who just don't give a flying fuck what other people think of them?

I got to see the building used in the chainsaw-murder scene in Scarface, sadly now a fast-food joint. Thirty years have changed the town a great deal, and the beach isn't even next to the road any longer, you need to walk through a hundred yards of vegetation to see it. A few photos later, and a walk on the hugely underwhelming, featurless beach and we were heading for the car. We crossed the street twice to avoid a shouting crazy in the street; the middle-aged white man, wearing a filthy bandanna, was walking up to random people, smiling, nodding at them "Yeah...yeah...fuck yeah...yeah...FUCK YEAH! Yeah! Alright...yeah." Some people have nothing better to do with their day, they really don't.

So. Culture? Not much. I'm going to have to visit the Deep South and San Francisco to see a little of that. But this story's just about the people, and it was a short break, after all. Before we knew it, the trip was over and we were heading back to the airport. I filled the car's tank at a 24-hour gas station, manned by an elderly and seemingly spaced-out rastafarian. The pumps were pre-pay only, and a few people were waiting for their change. I'm used to late-night customers at gas stations being a bit stoned and unsure of exactly what they want, but this guy was working here...wandering around picking the wrong items up and looking flummoxed. I asked a young man next to me how much I should put on the pump to fill my tank. He wanted to know what kind of car it was. I said I wasn't sure, as the car was out of shight, but that it was "a tiny Chevvy piece of shit". He made a mock-offended face, thumped his heart and said "Man, that hurts...Chevvy's my brand, man." We continued giggling at the rasta's continued antics: he was certainly entertaining. I eventually managed to get my change and left the lengthening queue behind me. As I crossed the forecourt, the young man I'd spoken to shouted over to me as he got in his car "Hey man...you were right...that one is a piece of shit!" I grinned and waved him off.

I left my friend at her terminal, and drove to the international one. I had a couple of hours to kill, and headed to the Hertz car park to drop the auto. The unearthly hour was no excuse for the rudeness I encountered from one man there. I pulled up and asked him if he wanted me to leave it in the same bay I'd collected it from?

"Leave it there with the keys in it."
I got out and waited for him to go through a checklist of some sort.
"Anything else I need to do?" I asked.
I received a grunt in reply, he didn't even look at me as he scanned the car.
"I'm sorry?"
"You're done" he replied tersely.
"And which way is the office, please?" I continued to be polite, even if he refused to.
"That way...second door after the pillar" he jabbed a pen in the vague direction I wanted to go.
I walked off, but couldn't see the exit. I returned to within 20 yards of the Hertz man and called over "Sorry, mate...where, exactly?"
He jabbed again and repeated the directions. "Yellow door, just keep walking...man, you stupid or something?"
I hadn't really met many rude Americans yet. This was certainly a first.
"You tell me, mate? I'm flying to Mexico today...whereas you're parking my car?"
I turned on my heel, didn't wait for a reply.

If I thought he was rude, then the best was yet to come. I had a handful of change when I made it through to the departure area. Mexican shops accept dollars, but not US change. I had a little over a dollar, and wanted to exchange it for a bill instead. I went into a newsagent staffed by a weighty black woman in her 30s. I smiled and asked if it was possible to swap my coins for a dollar bill, mindful that most shops like having change. She grumpily told that she couldn't open her till. I told her I could wait.

Five minutes later a woman entered the shop, and a man around my age entered with his teenage son. The woman bought something, and to my surprise the till girl immediately closed the drawer without changing my money. I gasped.

The woman next to me apologised. "Oh I'm sorry...were you next?" she asked.
"No, no...it's OK. I just wanted to change these coins for a bill."
"Oh, well I can change that for you" she said, producing a dollar.
I thanked her, and explained that I'd asked the shop assistant but she hadn't been keen to do it. She seemed surprised.
The assistant was ignoring me and serving the man. He had a copy of Playboy. She scanned it repeatedly, and 60 cents kept flashing on the till. She seemed puzzled.
"I don't understand it...it keeps coming up as 60 cents."
"I think the big black and yellow sticker on the cover saying 60 Cents Offer means it's probably 60 cents?" I offered. I was mildly annoyed by now.
"Bargain!" laughed the man at me; his son eyed the magazine; the assistant scowled and ignored me.

I left the store and sat near a group of elderly Americans with a delightful Southern-drawl. I love that accent. As I counted my remaining coins and realized that I had 55 cents, an idea formed in my mind; if revenge is a dish best served cold, then I was about to have mine with ice-cream. I asked one of the southern gentlemen if he could spare 10 cents, please? No problem, and he gave me more than I needed. I thanked them, and said I'd be right back.

She looked surprised when I walked back into the store. It was empty, and I walked right over the shelf and picked up the magazine. I put it down on the counter, then deliberately placed the coins next to it in a neat pyramid. "6o cents, I believe?" I asked cheerfully. "That's handy...exactly what I had left."

She didn't even look at me; scanned the barcode on the Playboy.
"That'll be 64 cents." She took the coins.
A slight smile crept across her face.
"Ah...tax on it?" I asked.
She nodded.
I pulled out a 5 cent coin with a well-look-what-I-found expression.
"Well...that was lucky, wasn't it?" I gave her a big smile.
The smile evaporated as I passed her the coin. "Keep the change" I said haughtily, and walked away without looking at her: the unexpected cherry on the vengeance-flavoured ice-cream.

I sat down with the old folks. One of the women eyed the magazine and said "Oh yeah?" and laughed.
"There's actually a story behind this...I don't usually buy this magazine."
"Oh sure!" they cackled. Her husband grinned and winked.
I related my experience in the shop. They were very surprised at the assistant's attitude, and apologised for her. I told them that they needn't...I'd met lots of nice people from their country, but some strange ones too.
"Where have you been?" asked the winker.
"Miami" I told him, and they all laughed as if to say that that explained everything.
"So where you headed to, boy?" I could have just listened to him talk all day, just to hear that accent.
"Mexico."
He paused for a moment.
"You be careful down there, boy...you hear?" he smiled.
"I will...thanks" I said. I shook their hands, thanked them again and headed for the plane.

So that was the Americans at home. And to be honest, I quite liked them. Sure, they have their idiots...but doesn't every nationality? I found them a friendly and helpful bunch; some of them were very funny indeed; and nobody minded giving up time to help me, bar one or two notable (and duly noted) exceptions. It's actually made me think that I should see more of the States, so they can't have been bad. I think I'd just avoid Florida and Texas next time. After all, only steers and queers come from Texas, no?

Dark Undercurrent

2011-11-02T07:26:00.005+08:00

THEY SAY YOU should never go back a second time. Whether that's a relationship that didn't work, a job you left, or perhaps a favourite bar on an island. The dynamics change, the people are different and your memories can sometimes be spoiled by a second visit. I recently spoke to a fella I met on Koh Tao, Thailand, three years ago. There had been a decent gang of us there, diving most days and frequenting the Eazy Bar most nights; good music and the barmen supplied us with a steady flow of joints. It was a great few weeks. But he'd returned two years later: the staff had changed, and locals we'd known had moved on. So I try not to go back if I can help it. Coron in the Philippines is different: there are wrecks there.

So after all I said about the Bay Island of Utila, Honduras, it was as much a shock to me as anyone else that I was returning there. But there was wind of a diving job with a friend I'd taken the Instructor Development Course with, and with the season low in places such as Mexico, I decided to go back. Work experience and just something to do was appealing...constant travelling can get tiring. So Stacey said to head up, as they needed someone soon. I also had another motive for visiting as I'd been dating a beautiful Honduran girl when there originally. But no details on that...gentlemen don't tell, and all that.

I'd been in Costa Rica when the job had been mentioned, and had a horrific bus journey across three countries to look forward to. I stayed overnight in Managua, and at least found something decent to eat in the ramshackle neighbourhood near the bus station. I was up at 4am and on a bus 20 minutes later. It was a grind to get up to the Honduran capital of Tegucigalpa. The bus had pulled up outside the tiny depot, and armed guards saw us inside. The café served nothing but chicken that had been fried for a month and bright-orange cheese sandwiches on unappealing white cardboard-like bread. I was starving, but not that desperate. I recalled seeing a taco place a few blocks away, and headed for the door.

"Where are you going, sir?" asked the man, brandishing a assault-rifle.

"I don't like the food here...I'm going to find something else."

"Do you have a gun?" he asked, patting the weapon.

"Pardon?"

"Do you have a gun?"

"Er...no?" I smiled.

"Then don't go outside."

Righty-ho. I suppose the people being escorted to their taxis by the security guards should have been a bit of an indicator. Tegucigalpa really is as dangerous as they say.

And so, refreshed by my can of sugary fizzy-pop and a bag of stale, hard nuts, I was on my way again. Night was falling as we arrived in San Pedro Sula, reputed AIDS capital of the Americas. I didn't want to be catching that again, it was bad enough last time. So I was lucky enough to get out of that violent shithole, making the last bus to La Ceiba by the skin of my teeth.

First thing in the morning, and a pleasant(ish) ferry crossing saw me deposited on the dock in Utila Town. Juicy and Fernando, a couple of instructors from the shop I'd trained at, were waiting to ambush tourists and take them to the shop. They both hugged me, laughing, and said "I thought you were never coming back?" I grinned sheepishly. I walked up the road and went to see Tempy at Treetanic Bar, arranged lunch, and then took my old room at Bavaria Hotel. Every familiar face I passed grinned and asked "Never again, eh?" You have to laugh, don't you?

To be honest, despite my problems with the place, it felt like coming home. Walking down the street and seeing old acquaintances was great, buying my baleadas from the same lady in the street, and catching up with the remainder of my class. But things weren't to be as rosy as I'd hoped. Sometimes in the dive industry you can be treated like a commodity: worked into the ground for little reward, and dropped like a hot potato when the trade is slack. So I was hardly surprised when the job didn't materialise. No guarantees in this business. There was some talk of dive-guiding, but Utila's sites are hardly the most exciting on the planet. So I settled into my old routine of swimming, reading, sunset beers, G&Ts and reefers at Treetanic, and seeing my lady friend most evenings.

Beneath the surface, though, all was not well on the island. A local criminal had recently returned and there had been a large number of robberies. A Divemaster at one shop had been away for a week, and came home to find that someone had smashed a hole through the wall of his house. Everything had been taken including, he told me with understandable dismay, the soap from his shower (talk about a clean getaway). Several other people had been robbed, and word came that the police on Roatan had seized a large number of items. By the time these tourists got to Roatan by boat a day later, locals there had already claimed the haul of iPods, phones, computers and dive gear. One man I spoke to had gone to see the police chief back on Utila. This cop is reputed to be a virtual prisoner on The Rock; involved in the murder of a couple of criminals in past years, he's been told that he is a dead man should he set foot on the Honduran mainland. He didn't bother taking his feet off the desk when the tourist entered, and was reading the paper. On being asked about the valuables being given to locals on Roatan he shook his wrist, on which hung a gold watch, and said "Nothing there...just a few watches..." He went back to reading his paper. Apparently the police are complicit in the thefts, receiving their cut of the profits. A notorious family live on the island and, for a fee, they can usually "find out" who stole and then "buy" your items back for you. But even they are unaware of who this gang are. Or that's their line, at least.

I was sat in Treetanic one evening, and things were slow. The island was very quiet. I struck up a conversation with a German at the bar, a man in his 50s. He told me that he'd been robbed two nights before, and that the thieves had broken through the ceiling outside his room, then climbed over the wall via the roof space. Being drunk that evening, he hadn't noticed anything out of place but, on waking, he'd seen the hole in the ceiling above his bed: all his camera equipment and his laptop were gone. I asked him where he was staying? Next door but one to my room at Bavaria. I told him to watch my beer, and raced back to my quarters, bagging my valuables to be locked in Tempy's house. No way was I taking any chances.

The German told me that he'd been running a dive shop on Roatan for 5 years, and had lived on his boat. Though he'd never had a single problem in all that time, sleeping on an unlocked boat obviously had potential dangers. He'd slept with a snub-nosed .38 revolver under his pillow; also stolen in the raid. To say he was thoroughly pissed-off was an understatement. So much so that he was selling his boat and heading back to Germany. I told him how the Thais deal with Burmese thieves out on the islands. Myself and Jocky had been robbed in 2008 on Koh Tao, but only our cash was taken from the room, despite all our valuables lying around: if the thieves are caught with currency only, nothing can be proved; but caught with someone's camera and it's a different story. One Thai had told me of a notorious thief who'd finally been apprehended in the act, how he'd been taken out on a fishing boat late at night and bound with rope and lead weight. The terrified man had pleaded with his captors and swore that he would never steal again. "We know you won't" said the Thais, and threw him into the sea. Rough justice Thai-style.

The German fella also told me an amusing story about a vicious dog owned by a local on Roatan, who had bitten a couple of people, and had also gone for him on several occasions. Despite discussing it with the owner, nothing was done...so he and a few friends decided that it was time for the dog to go: they poisoned it. They took the carcass out to sea, weighted it and dumped it with several large lobster pots into the water. A week or so later they retrieved the pots, full of large lobster, and forgot about the dog. Some time after that he was on the beach one day, chatting to two local policemen, their backs to the shoreline. He noticed something floating in the water and realised with horror that it was what was left of the dog. The conversation was cut short and he was soon quickly heading back out to sea with a little more weight; this time it stayed down. Apparently the lobster was the biggest and tastiest he'd ever eaten. I've heard of corn-fed chicken, but never dog-fed lobster? I'll take his word for it.

My German friend Gerald had been around when I first arrived back on the island, but before I could go and visit him he'd disappeared. He and a few friends had started a rival ferry company recently, with a solitary boat. One morning he'd been poaching customers from the queue for the main company, run by one family for years. This went down like a shit sandwich, obviously. A few nights later someone fired a fusilade of shots at his house. Taking the subtle hint, the German left the island immediately, abandoning his house and all his belongings. Don't step on local toes.

It wasn't all doom and gloom on Utila, though...there was much hilarity, too. I met a bearded ex-Navy S.E.A.L named Dave. Short and wiry, he was amiable but looked the type you shouldn't mess with; like he could kill you with his bare hands. I'd missed his 30th birthday the previous night. Apparently he'd been having dinner with friends when a bespectacled tourist ran past on the main street, stripped to the waist and sweating heavily. This fella would run up and down the main street every single night, in that weird low-impact style which looks somewhere between walking fast and mincing down a Paris catwalk...it's not a good look. Dave had had enough "If that guy runs past one more time, I'm stripping off and running with him." As good as his word, as the jogger passed again, he stood and stripped naked and then chased him down the street. The locals were horrified, as the island is deeply religious; he'd passed numerous churches and halls before someone called the police about the jogger with the swinging, hairy ballbag. The other runner ignored him, and Dave got bored. He returned to his table, got dressed, and was two forkfuls into the remains of his dinner when the cops arrived and hauled him away. He spent 18 hours locked up, without food and water. Paying a fine sometime later, he was released. He laughed and told me that it wasn't how he envisioned spending his 30th birthday, but I told him that I thought it was brilliant: how many people can tell their grandchildren that they spent their 30th in a Honduran police cell for streaking down Utila's main drag? Not many, I'd imagine.

So after a couple of weeks catching up with friends, the heat becoming unbearable, and the season dead...it was time to leave again. As the job hadn't materialised, I couldn't hang around doing nothing. Stefano got in touch: did I fancy joining him in San Pedro la Laguna, Guatemala? I sure did. I'd had a great time there first time around, and it was on my route back up to Mexico. I could drop in on people I'd met in Antigua on the way, too.

I waved Goodbye to Utila for a second time. And I'll never go back. Ever. Yeah, yeah...I know. That's what I said last time.

La Frontera

2011-10-30T08:22:00.007+08:00

A RIVULET OF sweat trickles down my back. I tilt my cap forward, hiding from the glare of the noonday sun. A dry, hot breeze blows dust across the unpaved road, litter dancing to the parched scrub beside it. The bus engine idles, its driver sheltering in the shade in front. The passengers are amongst the trees, the tarpaulin shelters above makeshift taco stalls casting welcome shade for the fat women stirring pots of stewed meat. Beggars move among them; the ubiquitous one-legged man hops from the treeline, hat in hand; stray dogs slink between the stalls searching for discarded bones; children run wild, casting doleful faces at the tourists, hands held out.

A wizened old man shuffles by, immaculate in white. I walk between the border outpost buildings, reading the Wanted posters on heat-blistered walls...their subjects regarding me balefully from black-and-white photographs. Narco-traffickers. People-smugglers. Murderers. A woman among them, her brutal, pock-marked face a pitiless mask. The incessant chimes of an ice-cream vendor's bell is interrupted by the rapid approach of a horse: the Nicaraguan caballero gallops through the junction and pulls up in front of the food stalls, dropping off supplies of tortillas and rice. Within a minute he is astride his charge again, and heads back in the opposite direction, only a cloud of drifting dust to show he was ever here.

Borders are uncomfortable places, and no-one keeps eye-contact for long. An ugly centipede navigates the scorched track to the shade, and a passing man notices me observing it. "Feo" he tells me. I nod "Si"...very ugly indeed. He walks on as I cross the road towards the bus. A shifty man with a scar tracks my progress with his eyes as he squats in the dirt. I nod, but he turns away without acknowledging me. I reach the cool shadows below the trees, running the gauntlet of money-changers: slick characters in cheap jeans, spotless white fake sneakers and mirrored shades, wedges of currency being flicked through their fingers like a pack of cards. Not to be trusted. Two Scandinavian girls are warily exchanging money, and I tell them the rate and conversion...translating for them when the moneychanger plays dumb: trying it on.

A trio of streetkids crowd around a couple of bowls of rice and meat, their scavenging and hustling having been enough to fill their bellies for now. They laugh and joke as they eat; the moneychangers of tomorrow. I cut between the trees to the hard-packed dirt area where the trucks are lined up, waiting for clearance to cross the frontera. Drivers and their mates are slung below the trailers in hammocks, sleeping in the shadows...the best place to be in this heat. A policeman paces with slow purpose behind the trailers, watching keenly for smugglers, Armalite rifle unslung and pointed at the ground; I don't envy him the webbing, pack and body armour in this climate.

Heading back to the bus, the moneychangers are still clamouring for custom. I change some US Dollars into Honduran Lempiras with the same man who had dealt with the girls. On walking away, I recall the rate I'd checked before getting on the bus in Managua. He's given me a poor return. I feel foolish for walking away, and check the going rate with a couple of the dealers, including a fat woman struggling to squeeze into the confines of a plastic garden chair. Hers is far better. I approach the man, and he looks resigned...maybe he'd hoped I'd just let it go? But I know I'll be kicking myself for not being sharp enough as we leave. I ask him why the fat lady is giving a far better rate. He looks away, preparing the brush-off excuse. At that moment the rumbling of another bus approaches: my Ace of Spades. As it slows to park next to ours, the man glances back at me. I look at the arriving bus as his colleagues make a dash for it, return to look at him, shrug and smile. He knows exactly how his immediate business is going to be affected if he doesn't give me what he owes me. Handing me the cash, he heads off to compete.

A man from our bus company exits the Nicaraguan building, a transparent bag full of passports clutched in his hand. The sweating driver revs the engine and pumps the horn three times, jabs his thumb over his shoulder "¡Vamanos!". We clamber aboard, the perspiration freezing on us in the icy air-conditioned atmosphere, grabbing headrests for support as we pick our way to our seats, the driver unconcerned. Bumping along the potholed road and belching smoke, we exit Nicaragua and enter Honduras.

Goosebumps

2011-10-23T00:08:00.004+08:00

THE WIND HOWLED outside the walls of the Nicaraguan café, rain lashing the roof. The electricity on the island of Ometepe had failed, leaving us huddled amongst the giant shadows cast against the walls by a flickering candle. Maxy leaned forward, his face skull-like in the upward light from the flame. "Who knows a ghost story?" he asked. I smiled knowingly and began.

As a atheist since childhood, some may call my believing in the other-wordly slightly hypocritical. I can't explain exactly what I believe; what I can do is to relate my personal experiences, and those of my family.

My late Grandad Bill was the first to tell me of an experience he had whilst working as a long-distance truck-driver in the 60s and 70s. Using a remote lay-by one night to answer the Call Of Nature, he'd returned to the cab of his truck and opened the door. A young woman was sat in the passenger seat. It was late at night, and my Grandad was a little shocked that someone was out in the middle of nowhere on a deserted road, never mind a young woman on her own. He asked the woman where she'd come from, and explained that he wasn't strictly supposed to take passengers. But where was she going, exactly? Slightly annoyed by a lack of response from the woman, who stared fixedly and silently at the dark road ahead, he ran around to her side, and flung open the door. The cab was empty...the road deserted. Quite shaken, he returned to his depot a few hours later; a couple of drivers had also seen this woman in roughly the same spot over a period of years. Nobody had a valid explanation.

Now as far as I know, no-one else in the family has had any supernatural experience. Except for events surrounding my sister, Emma. I remember one occasion where we'd been on a family outing; returning home early evening, we'd entered the house to find that every single photograph and painting on the walls of the entire house had been moved, so that they were all at crazy angles. Inexplainable. Myself and my Mum had a similar bizarre experience in that house: her hairbrush had gone missing one afternoon, and a brief search of the house left her bemused. Returning to the place she'd originally been brushing her hair, she found the brush exactly where she knew she'd left it. She was positive that it hadn't been there when she was searching for it. I'd answered the phone one night while getting ready for a night out, and had the lid from a tub of wax in my hand, having been in the bathroom when the phone rang. Going back to the bathroom, the tub was nowhere to be seen. Puzzled, I imagined I'd carried it through to my Mum's room when the phone rang. But it wasn't there. Nor in my room. On entering the bathroom, the tub was on a tiled shelf in front of the mirror. And I will swear on my life that it hadn't been there a moment ago.

At the age of fourteen, my younger brother had by far the most sinister and frightening experience in the house. I was twenty by this point, and had taken the smaller room due to being out most of the time. My old room had double sliding mirror doors on a built-in wardrobe. Scott and his best mate Paul had been sitting on the windowledge, overlooking a school field, and having a smoke like we used to when our parents were out. On climbing back into the room, the mirror doors began to shake violently. Paul reacted quickest, running for the door and down the stairs. He told me later that he ran all the way home, a quarter of a mile away. Scott sprinted out the bedroom and slammed the door shut, holding the handle and putting his foot against the frame to stop it being opened. When he heard the rattling sound cease, he left the house as fast as he could. My parents returned a few hours later to find him sat in the garden, being too scared to go back into the house alone.

These strange occurrences stopped when my sister moved out to live with her husband-to-be, Lee. But they continued at her new house. One night my nephew, four years old at the time, came downstairs late. My sister told him to get back up the stairs and get to bed, as he shouldn't be up at this time. His But Mums were cut short. Twenty minutes later he was down again, but similarly dismissed.

Emma lost her temper when he appeared a third time, and shouted "Lewis...I won't tell you again. Get back up those stairs and get in your bed."
Lewis was tearful. "I can't get in my bed, Mum..."
"What do you mean, you can't get in your bed?"
He rubbed his eyes. "There's a little girl in my bed, and she won't get out."
Emma's blood ran cold.

A close friend of hers recommended a spiritualist church in Preston, the Northern town where we grew up. She laughed it off at first, but decided to take a look when Lewis had a similar experience again one evening. She got to the meeting late. The church hall was half-filled, and Emma made her way to a seat near the back of the gathering. The woman at the front stopped speaking a few minutes later, mid-sentence, and peered into the dim recesses of the back of the hall. "There's a little girl here," she said "and she's lost. She's looking for somebody." The speaker scanned the room "She's looking," she suddenly pointed at my sister "for you." The hairs on the back of Emma's neck stood on end as the woman smiled beningnly and informed her that all was well, and the little girl had seen her.

They found a bigger house a few years afterwards, Emma having had her third baby. The property they'd bought had belonged to an elderly man who had died suddenly. There was therefore no chain, and they moved in quickly. Weird things started happening from the first week: Max, her second child, was a toddler...he came into the kitchen one day with blood on his hands. Emma panicked and, having ascertained that he hadn't cut himself, asked where the blood had come from. Max took her to the living room and showed her a small patch of fresh blood on the wall; on some evenings they could smell pipe tobacco, and could hear the sound of a walking stick on the wooden floors downstairs; one night while in bed, the mobile of dangling fish shapes above the baby's cot had begun to move. Emma said that they should shut the window, as a draught was no good for the tot. Lee went to close the window and, moving the curtains out of the way, realised that the windows were firmly shut. Puzzled, Lee says that he was getting into bed when the mobile stopped turning, the fish on wires still swinging with the momentum; gradually it started turning in the opposite direction. Again, no logical explanation.

Being a misguided believer in the old bloke in the sky with the long beard, Emma asked the local vicar in to bless the house (incidentally, he's quite cool for a Creationist...my Mum introduced me to him one Xmas with the words "This is my eldest son, Warren...he doesn't believe in God" How we laughed). And so Nick The Vic blessed the house, and nothing further happened, though they moved to Australia a short while afterwards. Nothing strange seems to have occurred out there so far, but I put this down to English ghosts having more sense than to move to Adelaide. I mean...would you?

My sister isn't one to make things up or sensationalise a story. Unlike me, who makes everything on this blog up. I've never been to Central America, or anywhere else. I'm currently locked up in a mental institution near Liverpool, typing with my nose until they take the strait-jacket off. Which they'll do. But only when I tell them where I buried the bodies. Since I've forgotten, I've had to become very good at this nose-typing.

Of course I'm joking. They don't make me wear a strait-jacket.

But let me finish with a story that could easily have put me in said loony-bin. In the early 1990s I dated a Blackburn girl named Cushla for a while, and she had a very odd friend named Catherine who dabbled in the dark arts. We were invited round to her house one night to try the Ouija board. This is something I'd never tried before, and will never repeat. It had all started slowly, Catherine trying to summon something to no avail. Just as we were about to give up the upturned glass, on which we had our little-fingertips resting, began to glide around the table, stopping at the letters arranged in a circle. Catherine asked questions, but was not receiving answers which made any sense. I was smiling to myself, positive that some of the seven people around the table were pushing the glass. I was not smiling a moment later when the glass moved directly towards me: the person opposite was certainly not pushing it, as her finger was bent, and I was pushing against it in horrified disbelief. Cushla held my hand tighter. One girl freaked out and started crying, saying she wanted to get off the board. Catherine sternly told everyone to keep their fingers on the glass until she said it was safe to break contact. On asking the presence if we could leave the conversation, the glass repeatedly slid to the card marked No in the centre of the board. During a further half-hour of garbled messages she asked again and again, and eventually the glass crept to Yes. With a sigh of relief we released the glass, and I winced as Cushla let go of my hand: her nails had stuck into the base of my palm, and I hadn't even noticed the discomfort until whatever it was had allowed us to end the session. I drove her home in silence afterwards, and checked the rearview mirror constantly on my nervy onward journey alone. We never spoke of the incident again. And it's not an experience I'd ever want to repeat.

You don't have to believe me; indeed, laugh heartily if you don't. I'm just relating personal experiences as they happened to myself and those around me. These experiences centred around Emma, almost as if she were a sensitive conduit. We still don't know quite what to make of them. And likely never will.

Food For Thought

2011-10-13T14:25:00.012+08:00

WELL I MIGHT have been lauging then, as my friend Kneehead reeled from the Guatemalan café, quite literally sick to the stomach at the smell of maize tortillas laid unexpectedly on our table. I chuckled at the sight of him at the roadside, leaning against a lamp-post, pale-faced and sucking in air. But I'm certainly not laughing now. Nine months in and the sight of chicken, rice and beans on a menu makes me want to burst into tears. Or rice, beans and chicken; beans, chicken and rice. Whatever. It's an understatement on the scale of "Pol Pot was a bit mean" to say that the food in the Americas is limited. If the scale of the continent, from Tijuana to Ushuaia, fires your imagination... it's a safe bet that the food won't. And I can't think of a reasonable excuse for this crime against the tastebud?

I was sat alone in a Managua bus station at 4am when my lowest moment occurred. Having arrived late the previous afternoon, I'd wandered around an earthquake-decimated neighbourhood in search of something vaguely edible. The rotating spits of burnt flesh resembling something between human and horse weren't really grabbing me, and I ended up in a Chinese which was about as Chinese as me. Needs must. Having braved the Thriller extras who wander the Nicaraguan capital's streets at this unearthly hour, I made the terminal, dumped my bag and attempted conversation with the haggard sourpuss manning the deserted eaterie. And so I found myself cradling a styrofoam cup, the liquid within rainbow-shiny with grease, watching plastic noodles gradually softening and pitying the lonely, dessicated shrimp enjoying its final swim. From an idyllic ocean life to a ignominious end amongst an Englishman's noodle soup in the confines of a Nicaraguan bus terminal: the indignity of it.

Making my way to my seat, I jealously eyed the coffee an old gentleman was carrying onboard: the crema atop rich and brown. But, having wide experience of the amonia-scented toilets on latino buses, I wasn't taking any chances. Coffee could wait. I don't even drink water on these ardous journeys for fear of contracting dysentry from the filth-strewn interior of a Ticabus shitter. And as I mused on the importance of a contented stomach on the road, the bastard in front of me reclined his seat to within 6" of my face, almost spilling the watery broth Oliver Twist would have turned down into my lap. The obligatory seat-kicker/ headrest-grabber behind me also started up. Ah well, only another 14 hours of this to endure.

Food is very important to general happiness and wellbeing . An army marches on its stomach. You simply don't appreciate just how much good grub means to you until you're on the road. But it's the bland sameness of the food in the Americas which baffles me. The staples are rice, beans, tortillas and chicken; avocadoes if you're lucky. I can't believe the Spaniards spent so much time in this region, left behind their architecture, language and religion yet forgot the tapas? Shame on the conquistadors. I've eaten very well in Barcelona, and it's a crying shame that I can't get the same food or even wine here (have you tried Mexican wine? No...and there's a good reason you didn't know they even produce it).

It comes to something when I can name the places I've had a decent meal in almost 18 months of travelling this region: a trout lunch in San Gil, Colombia; chicken tacos in a Cozumel backstreet; falafel(!) in Bogota, Colombia; cevíche in Panamá City; avocado and scrambled eggs for breakfast in El Tunco, El Salvador; crepes (yes...crepes) in Antigua de Guatemala; pizza (yes...pizza) in Rio de Janeiro, Brasil; pizza in México City; pizza in Quito, Ecuador. You get the picture. Like Kneehead, everyone has a breaking point; I've reached mine now. No more tortillas, please...they stink.

So why the lack of options? México is slightly better than the rest, with a more varied menu. But on the whole you would struggle to discern the cuisine of one country from another out here, and I find this a touch depressing. Europe is a far smaller continent, but look at the differences in cuisine: coq au vin in France; paella in Spain; lasagne in Italy; bacalhau in Portugal; moussaka in Greece and...erm...fish and chips in England. They're all different. Give me $3 and I'll find you delicious pho noodle soup in Hanoi, pad Thai in Bangkok, gado gado on the streets of Jakarta. Mouthwatering food, created with imagination. Asian cuisine is unbeatable.

I've had some grim food, the worst being in Nicaragua. I've stared, incredulous, at the piles of fatty, dismembered cattle behind glass beneath a dim light bulb, wondering how people put up with this? Chicken meals have been spat out to the dogs on the street: bones and skin constituting no decent meal I've ever heard of. And why is everything fried in month-old engine oil here? Is heart disease fashionable, or something?

The jury is out on México...everyone telling me that the food is much better here. But most of those people were in Guatemala, after México, and heading South, from whence I'd come. The poor bastards...

If Carlsberg Made Dive Sites...

2011-10-10T11:15:00.020+08:00

...THEN DARWIN ARCH would surely be it. This remote point, an overnight sail further still from Wolf Island, represents the pinnacle of many a diver's experiences. This impressive slab of rock juts from the sea atop a series of plateaux, giant steps leading to the abyss. Relentess waves pound this site, and the currents can be fierce. To be out here, miles from civilisation, medical help, and among hundreds of sharks, is both intimidating and inspiring.

Under a cloudless sky we left the sanctuary of the Explorer and approached the Arch. Bright blue above us, deep blue below. We hung on for grim life as the building swells slapped the boat; there's nothing quite like a rough sea in a fragile craft to make you appreciate mortality and sharpen the concentration. The guide knew the right entry spot, and we fell backward into the water, descending quickly to avoid being swept away from the area by the strong current. Finding shelter on the flanks of the small island, we could already see many hammerheads swimming effortlessly against the flow. On one dive at this spot, I ceased counting when I reached one hundred sharks: incredible numbers. And they kept coming. But we weren't at Darwin for the hammerheads.

It was just a dark shadow the guide pointed at, shape emerging, heading towards the reef. But then bright white spots became visible in the dim light, interspersed with vertical stripes. It got bigger. And bigger. We could now see the strong horizontal ridges adorning its length. In a phalanx, we headed out to meet the whaleshark as it cruised by us. Its size defied belief; mouth open and feeding on the plankton which clouded the water, it powered along with deceptively slow sweeps of its tail. We'd been warned about getting too close: not only could we frighten the creatures, but their huge tails had been known to give unwary divers painful bruises which lasted weeks. Broken ribs are not unknown...and I've had quite enough of those, thanks.

Comparatively little is known about the whaleshark and its migration patterns. Their appearance is seasonal and relatively brief and, as they disappear into the depths, far from sight, nobody really knows to where they vanish. During our visit we encountered a research boat, the crew informing us excitedly that the first-ever male whaleshark had been spotted and electronically-tagged just a few days before our arrival. I'd imagine it will take quite a few years' more research before their behaviour is accurately mapped. But diving with these creatures every day doesn't sound like a bad way to spend a few years?

We were fortunate enough to spot a whaleshark on every dive at this location. Stefano had by far the best experience on one particular dive: he'd been above the animal, behind its huge vertical dorsal fin, and pulled along in its wake. We'd been left behind to head back to the shelter of the rocks, El Macarron signalling to Stef to stay with the whaleshark; he enjoyed a good five minutes alone with it in the blue before it unknowingly led him back to us and the upward slope of rocks at Darwin's base.

Another occasion was a little hairier for myself and Maxy. We chased after another whaleshark, breathing hard as we finned swiftly to try and keep up. A shoal of large remorra fish hung below her vast belly, one of them in the beginning of its death throes, pieces of it falling away. It wasn't more than a split second before the culprit showed itself: a Galápagos shark and two companions emerged from the gloom. We were losing the whaleshark, and marooned in the open with feeding sharks. Not ideal. One of them came close by, its pectoral fins spread out, nose up and showing us its chest: an aggressive posture. I was a little worried that this shark and friends thought myself and the Scotsman keen competition for their meal. It doubled back past us in a figure-of-eight. I jabbed my thumb towards the rocky plain: Let's get the fuck out of here. Maxy quickly nodded assent and we swum for all we were worth, nervously eyeing the touchy trio over our shoulders and breaking into nervous giggles when we we realised that they weren't going to attack us. Crouched among the rocks we winked and slapped each other on the shoulder as we regained our breath; the excitement was over for now.

Many a time we could see the silhouettes of schooling hammerheads against the white sand below us. It's always nice to have something interesting to watch while the three minute Safety Stop ticks away. On one particular dive I'd stayed a little lower than the group to make a Deep Stop, a further safety measure after a deep dive. I was maybe 6-8m below the other divers; we drifted along this time, instead of fighting the current to hold position. Out of nowhere a silky shark appeared, at my depth. I looked up El Macarron and pointed to the animal. He tapped two forked fingers against his mask in answer Watch that one. I nodded and quickly turned my attention back to the shark. It glided by, flicking me an uninterested glance, banked slightly before turning the other way and disappearing.

Waiting on the surface for the RIB was always nervy. Due to the large waves at Darwin, a signalling device is essential to mark your position to the boat captain. I use a standard DSMB (Delayed Surface Marker Buoy): a metre-long, sausage-shaped device, which rises to the surface when slightly inflated from 5m below, the expanding air filling it as water pressure decreases. Attached to a cord reel, this is locked and held taut from below; the fully-inflated orange tube stands vertical from the water.

Myself, Stef and Maxy had been allowed to stay down a while longer on one dive, as we'd had far more air remaining than the rest of the group. On surfacing, we couldn't see the boat, and they couldn't see us. I held the marker buoy tight to enable them to spot us more easily. Huge walls of water were undulating towards us, tipping us over their crests before dropping us into the 2m deep troughs between them and the next wave; everything else, including the horizon, disappeared from sight. It would have been fun, but for the thought of the silkies below us. We spied the boat, and it was a long minute before they spotted us. Anxiety turned to relief as they signalled and guided the craft in our direction; we were actually able to enjoy the next couple of gargantuan waves before we were gratefully hauled out of the ocean.

Our two days at this exhilarating spot were over all too quickly. As the Explorer pointed her bow South we left the hundreds of hammerheads, the seals, the dolphins, whalesharks and countless other sharks behind. It was a wrench. This place is stunning, the diving some of the best I've ever been lucky enough to do. They say that diving Galápagos is one of those once-in-a-lifetime experiences. No way. I'll be back...as soon as possible.

Wolf Island

2011-10-03T06:15:00.010+08:00

MANY SPEAK OF the perfect sunset. Most travellers can recall that special one, and hold it in a place close to their hearts. But there is melancholy in a sunset; something has ended, gone forever. Personally, a sunrise makes my heart soar; the optimism of another day, replete with endless possibilty. Sitting on Temple IV at Tikal, Guatemala, will live with me forever; few moments in my life have made me appreciate what it is to be human and alive as much as that one. But as humbling and inspiring as that dawn was, give me a sunrise at sea any day of the week.

Excitement had cut short my sleep. I sat alone with my thoughts on the top deck of the Humboldt Explorer, staring out to where the sea meets the sky, it turning deep purple prior to the sun's appearance. Pale gold streaked the scant clouds as the orb broke the horizon. A gentle wind whipped my face as I hugged my knees, pulled down the brim of my cap and retreated deeper into my hoodie. Scanning a full 360° around me I could see nothing but ocean: we were 12 hours from the nearest land and almost 24 hours north of the nearest inhabited island of the Galáapagos archipelago. This was going to be real diving, alright.

Wolf came into view, her sheer cliffs streaked white with the dung of thousands of seabirds which wheeled and screeched their welcome. The boat slowed as we approached a sheltered spot between the island and a small islet at its head, the waves less fierce here. Anchor was dropped with a clanking which vibrated through the hull.

I could hear movement below and checked my watch: almost 7am. Soon enough the breakfast bell rang and I made my way gingerly down the stairs, the huge blisters from the football game causing me grief, being open and bloody. I was having to walk on the outsides of the soles of my feet, giving me a bandy-legged gait. Everyone was up and ready, bar Maxy; the Scotsman could sleep for his country. I sat with Stefano, the pair of us spooning heaps of fruit, granola and yoghurt into our mouths; eggs and toast, fruit juice and coffee: dive fuel. With the currents around this infamous rock, we were going to need to be at full strength...fighting the ocean on an empty stomach is not advisable.

The dive deck was a hive of actvity. Gas pressures were checked; wetsuits donned; systems tested; everyone all smiles of anticipation. We were allocated RIBs (rigid inflatable boats) and in we clambered. We were quickly around the corner and out of sight of the Explorer. A few hundred yards further and we were in Shark Bay. The swell was quite large, the waves surging against the unforgiving rocks. My heart pounded. This was what we had been waiting for. As wildlife diving goes, this is the top of the pyramid...and the anticipation was palpable amongst the group. We balanced on the edges of the RIB, ready to roll backwards into the ocean on a count of three, together so as to not capsize the craft.

In we went, a confusion of bubbles. As the water cleared we quickly descended together. Dropping to the wall of lifeless rocks, we regrouped and headed to a vantage point 28 metres below the surface. The current was moderate, and I found a sheltered spot between two big rocks and hunkered down. We spotted a couple of seals and a group of yellowfin tuna in the blue, and didn't have to wait long for the real action to begin. Hammerhead sharks began to drift by, less than 5 metres away. One...two...four...nine... coming thick and fast. The school was small by their standards, maybe 40-strong...but there were likely more we couldn't see due to the visibility, which I estimated at 15m. I held my breath as one shark cruised towards me, not wanting to scare it away with my bubbles, and I admired its muscled body as it turned above me, light reflecting from its scales...an incredible, powerful hunter.

The second dive was an improvement still. At the same site we watched the ubiquitous hammerheads cruise by. A curious dolphin appeared amongst us, right above Stefano's shoulder. It hung motionless in the current, checking us out. Maxy made too swift a movement towards it, a kid in a sweetshop, and with a flick of its tail it was gone into the blue. I shook my fist at him. When creatures get that close, the best option is to remain as still as possible, so as not to frighten them...if you try and get too close too quickly, the animal flees and no-one else gets to appreciate it.

As time trickled away, we made our way upwards to a small plateau to begin our safety stop. The surge was very strong here, and bright blue sea was churned with white froth. The rocks of the island were red with algae, a beautiful contrast to the myriad blues of the water. Amongst the rocks, seals danced effortlessly in the fury, while we clung onto rocky outcrops for dear life; being sucked into the surge and smashed against the boulders would potentially end the dive trip, and quite possibly your life. So we didn't get too close, content to let the seals approach us if they chose. It was quite something to watch the pups mimick their parents, learning their place in the world.

We hadn't been back on the boat more than five minutes when a pod of dolphins was spotted. Donning masks and fins, we immediately went back in. Away from the island and in the blue the water appeared clearer, and these graceful mammals were right below us. They were swift, and we had barely two minutes to appreciate their speed and agility, their grey-blue backs lightening as they broke the surface to breathe. As we waited for the RIB, our guide urged us to stay together and to not get separated from the group. Silky sharks are more inquisitive than most, and a lone diver has been bumped on more than one occasion by these sleek, stone-brown skinned fish. And bitten on others. So don't let the pretty name fool you, these are as dangerous as any other shark if you are not careful. Nobody wanted to be last out of the water and onto the RIB, that's for sure.

Day Two and we were early to rise again. We visited Landslide and Shark Bay again, and were lucky enough to see infant hammerheads on these dives. At the same point we'd observed the seals in action the previous day, the plateau was now patrolled by five or six large Galápagos sharks, treating us to some close-up views of them. At this shallow depth we could have hung around for another half hour, but our guide signalled the end of the dive, as we had another two to get in before sunset.

At the tip of Wolf lies a pinnacle, a tower of rock set apart from the rest of the island. The currents here, depending on the time of day, can be ripping. I'd not experienced anything quite like this since diving Pulau Weh last year. Lose your grip on a rock here and you could end up surfacing a few miles away, alone in open ocean. We picked our way through small ravines, racing to the cover of boulders one by one and pausing to catch our breath. Turning to look at a fellow diver means clamping the regulator mouthpiece between your teeth; the water movement is so rapid here that it can otherwise be torn from your mouth. A hand on the mask is also essential to prevent it being filled with water and ripped from your face. I looked around and could see Stefano, but the group was breaking up. Where was Maxy? I was a little worried as he's inexperienced, but I was relieved to see him up on a wall above, clinging on for dear life but clearly enjoying himself: the young have less fear. He soon made his way slowly down to rejoin us.

As we rounded the pinnacle, I was caught in an up-current and was pushed too rapidly to the surface. I stuffed my fingers into a crack in the rock and gripped it for my life. Looking down, I could see that a few of the Brasilians had gone deeper after exiting the small swim-through, and the group was stretched out. I spotted the guide, and waited until he had got the rest of the group's attention..I acknowledged his signal to drift away from the column in the direction of his jabbed thumb. The up-current eased as we escaped the raging water surrounding the pinnacle. Out in the blue, with no points of reference, we were in another world. We gathered together, each of us counting off the minutes until we could surface. We bore an inspection from a couple of hammerheads and a Galápagos shark momentarily intrigued by our silhouettes from below: tense moments.

There was silence from the Brasilians on the ride back to the Explorer. The old fella we had nicknamed Sven, after his resemblance to the ex-England football manager, looked shattered; breathing deeply and staring into space; mildly traumatised. Maxy was bouncing around like a child after a roller-coaster ride, and wanted to return there on the last dive of the day: his reaction was the opposite to theirs. In truth, I don't think the guide anticipated the varied ages or fitness levels of the group; that dive was not for the faint-hearted, the conditions very demanding. Fun for an ebullient young Scotsman, draining for an sextagenarian Brasileño.

Our final dive was more memorable for Stef than for myself. We'd explored a small series of caverns close to the main boat, full of dormant marble rays. We'd been well ahead of the rest of the group, and decided to see what was happening outside the cave's entrance. At the mouth, the small plateau widens, with steep walls on either side. Within 15m, the shelf ends and the abyss begins. Seeing nothing out in the blue, Stef went to investigate one of the walls for life. I looked amongst the rocks on the shelf, and spotted a huge moray eel. I'm not usually excited by these, but was a little bored whilst waiting for the rest of the group to exit the cave. And there was nothing else around to look at. To hold my position in the water, I inhaled slightly and then kept breath. And so I hovered motionless for a full minute. I'd soon had enough and exhaled, watching the mouth of the cave as divers began to re-emerge. Next I checked on my friend, who was a good 10m away and in some state of agitation. He signalled to me by jabbing two fingers at his eyes and shrugging Did you see it? I shrugged back, fingers pointed at my own mask See what? Hand flat and vertical, he tapped his forehead rapidly: Shark. I shook my head and shrugged again, gesturing around me Where? He pointed directly, frantically at me, eyes wide in the confines of his mask. I gathered it had come close, and moved my hands apart to ask him How close? He held his arms barely outstretched. Jesus...

We ended the dive and broke the surface. Stef couldn't spit his regulator out quickly enough to tell me "Fucking hell, man...I thought you were a goner" he gasped. He described what had happened. As I'd hovered above the rocks, a bulky Galápagos shark had swum towards the cave from the blue, clearly wondering exactly what I was. As I was not emitting bubbles, the animal was not wary of me. So whilst I was concentraing on the eel, Stef estimated that the shark had come within two metres of me, diverting in its path only when I exhaled, having seen enough of the eel. Due to its proximity he also had a good idea of it's size: 7 feet long and twice my size.

As much as I love being around sharks, I don't know quite how I would have reacted had I looked up to see it bearing down on me. With a cardiac arrest, in all likelihood. And if I'd held my breath a fraction of a second longer, the potential outcome is quite unthinkable. So thank you, moray eels...thank you for being so bloody boring.

Brainfreeze

2011-09-22T14:44:00.006+08:00

DESPITE BEING FOREWARNED by our dive guide, the temperature of the water on our check dive was a shock to the system after the last three years of warm-water diving; what the old hands at my BSAC diving club in England refer to as Holiday Diving. Those divers don't tend to give much respect to the likes of me who have yet to sink into the UK's more bracing depths. I hope to command a modicum more when I brave the wrecks of Scapa Flow in September 2012; for now I accept the good-natured ribbing.

The Galápagos Islands are subject to three major currents: the Cromwell from the West, the Humboldt current which delivers the coldest water up from southernmost Peru, and El Niño which brings warmer waters down from Panamá. Of these three, the Humboldt is the richest in nutrients, and therefore attracts more wildlife to the area. Fifteen minutes into this dive and it was the Humboldt Current which was on my mind; quite literally, as it seemed to be penetrating the bone of my skull and affecting my concentration.

We'd spent a bizarre few minutes at the beginning of the dive demonstrating to our guide for the week, El Camarron, that we were all able to retrieve a lost regulator 2nd stage (the mouthpiece a diver breathes from) with a sweep of the arm, locating the hose and therefore continuing breathing...and also that we knew how to clear a partially-flooded mask by exhaling through the nose. These are the basic skills first learned on the PADI Open Water course; as we were all Divemasters and Instructors, it was strange that he needed the reassurance that we could perform these basic skills. It appeared everyone was thinking the same thing, as the divers exchanged puzzled glances.

Camarron appeared satisfied with our performance, thankfully; we swam off across a rocky site and descended a little deeper. There are no reef systems on these islands, but divers come here for the large pelagic (ocean-going) creatures, not pretty fauna. The group moved slowly, and the visibilty was barely 10 metres. Stefano and myself drifted a short distance ahead of the guide, and we hovered in mid-water while we waited for the stragglers to catch up. These initial dives are known as Check or Shakedown dives where divers re-familiarise themselves with kit they may not have used in a while, or even just get comfortable with diving again after being out of the water for a period of time. For Stefano, Maxy and myself it felt like it was going to be a long dive for nothing: we'd been underwater daily for two months in Honduras.

The majority of the group were very well-off Brasilians, with top-level gear including drysuits; it was unlikely they'd feel the cold. Two young American students made up the numbers along with our trio. The latinos were messing around with what was obviously new gear, and taking their time. I was in a 5mm wetsuit but, not wearing a hood, I was losing 50% of my bodyheat. My Italian friend, lacking my body fat percentage and wearing a looser-fitting 3mm suit, was suffering more. My head was beginning to ache, and I estimated it'd be a mere 20 minutes before I'd have to head for the surface and the warmth of fading sunlight. I caught his eye, and rubbed my hands on my upper arms to ask him Are you cold, too? He rubbed his arms vigourously, hunching his shoulders into himself and giving me a pained look, eyes closed: I'm bloody freezing. I nodded and turned away, regarding the green water to my left and scanning the rocks for signs of life; I was bored.

Loud, rapid, metallic clanging woke me from my torpor: Camarron wanted our attention. We all turned, and I saw the stocky guide pointing directly at me. For a split-second I assumed he was annoyed I'd drifted too far ahead of the group, and away from the rocks to our left? But I turned away as he continued pointing frantically, looking to the depths. I exhaled forcefully in shock, my head flinching back away from the sea lion's face that was a foot or two away from mine. As my bubbles shot upward, he wheeled away in a backwards somersault...but not before he'd looked me straight in the eye, close enough for me to count his whiskers and admire his dimpled, black Labrador's nose: challenging me. Quickly over coming my fright, I looked back at the group, bubbles of laughter escaping my regulator. Camarron pointed again. The sea lion had doubled back from the gloom and raced right up to me, flippers effortlessly guiding him through the water with a grace unconnected to their flabby clumsiness on land. This time he came closer, baring his dirty brown teeth right in my face and mockingly blowing bubbles of air through his nostrils before skimming away and buzzing another diver. He was having the time of his life with these mysterious, clumsy black-clad creatures. I was astounded as I watched Camarron perform barrel-rolls, the mammal copying him before repeating the somersaults of another diver. A further sealion joined the fun; he later estimated them to be juvenile males.

For a further twenty minutes they toyed with us; performed maneuvers we had no chance of copying, and appeared to be grinning in delight when they swam up for a face-to-face before flitting away to the outer reaches of our visibilty, balletic shadows in the murk. I can't satisfactorily describe just how special it felt to share space with these creatures underwater; imagine the fun you've had with the daftest, most playful puppies you've ever come across: now multiply it by a hundred. And you're still not quite close. Time flew by. The animals escorted us to the surface, teasing us, as if they didn't want playtime to be over. Come on...just a couple more somersaults? The boat cruised over to pick us up as we floated in the gentle waves, looking below for a last glimpse of our new friends.

"Jesus, I was feezing down there" Stefano groaned.
"I'd completely forgotten about that" I laughed as we climbed out of the water and onto the boat.

If this was only the check dive, then I couldn't wait for what the morning would bring.

In Darwin's Blistered Footsteps

2011-08-18T06:11:00.016+08:00

I HAVE NEVER kicked a nun before, but I wanted to upon arrival at the Galápagos Islands. After clearing Immigration and parting with another $100 for the privilege of setting foot on this remote Ecuadorean outpost, there was the bun-fight over baggage collection. Waiting my turn, I felt someone barging me from behind. I ignored it as first, until the offender started trying to squeeze through the gap between me and the next passenger patiently waiting his turn. Turning to deliver a mouthful, I was quite shocked to see a nun next to me. I've never been a fan of religion, and Catholicism particularly gets my goat; a faith which thinks it is fine to take the cash from the poor and use it to build huge gilded churches, effectively rubbing their noses in it, while expecting them to feel guilty about the slightest thing and repent of their sins several times a week. "Can't feed your family and put a roof over your head? Never mind...come into the church and tell this huge golden statue of Mary all about it. Been thinking about tits and fannies again, have you? Dirty bugger...now get on your knees and beg forgiveness. And give us some more cash while you're at it...these places don't build themselves, you know."

Bag grabbed, we waited paitiently in line to exit. Well, some of us did. The Penguins started blatantly pushing in, jockeying for position, fellow devotees soon joining them in the scrum. If you're not infirm or disabled, then wait your bloody turn? Some of these were in their 30s...using religious carte blanche to jump the queue. I'm an Atheist, so forget it, love. I managed to position myself so as to block a trio of them passing me, giving no quarter. One tried smiling sweetly and stepping around my bag. I smiled sweetly back and shoved the bag with my foot...up against a guard rail, blocking her way. Yes...I win! Take that, you dried-up old husk! It may sound petty to you, but things like this pass the time when waiting in line. Besides, I was striking a blow for mentally-scarred young altarboys, with involuntary centre-partings, worldwide. These paedo-protectors weren't getting on the bus before me...no way.

Ferried across from Baltra island to Santa Cruz, I couldn't believe how clear the water was here, a rich azure; I was looking forward to the diving already. We were bussed into town, and felt almost duty-bound to take a room at the Hotel Sir Francis Drake. I noted that the window in the door to my room opened on a hinge, and that I could reach in from outside and open the locked door. When mentioning this lack of security to the landlady, she laughed and told me that she hadn't had a robbery in 10 years. I pointed out that this was unlikely to wash with my insurance company, and that I didn't want her to be welcoming the next weeks' guests with "We've only had one robbery in 10 years". It was duly nailed shut. I felt a lot better. But I had to laugh when myself, Maxy and Stef stayed here after the dive trip: the boys took this particular room, and I had the "matrimonial" room with a double bed (if you spent your wedding night here, you'd be divorced by morning). We were out on the piss one night, and on returning Maxy managed to lock them out of the room. I went to my lumpy bed chuckling to myself; Stef slept in the landlady's kitchen wrapped up in a tablecloth; Maxy slept upstairs in an unfinished concrete room, atop a pallet and wrapped in cardboard with a piece of wood crowning it to stop the cardboard unravelling and exposing him to the cold night air. Obviously neither had a good night's sleep. But their belongings were safely locked in the room. Every cloud has a silver lining, no?

The town is a sleepy place, especially on a Sunday. It was low-season when we were there, which made it all the quieter. It's also small, and it is possible to cover every street in an hour's walk. The road along the seashore is almost devoid of traffic, and the one-counter fish market is the place to be in the afternoons: seals and pelicans pester the fishmonger for scraps as he sorts the day's catch straight off the boats...an amusing sight. Just beyond town is the 2km walk to Playa Tortuga, an amazing stretch of beach which is home to marine iguanas, storks and pelicans as well as the turtles. I've never seen a more pristine place...the fees we pay to be here are obviously well-spent, as the archipelago is spotless.

Darwin was here in 1835 aboard The Beagle, making geological surveys of these 3.5 million year old volcanic islands, 1000km off the coast of South America. He was amazed by the variety of wildlife species here: there are over 9000 who make the islands their home. And nowhere on Earth has more endemic species, creatures unique to this small area. 75% of the animals on Galápagos are not found anywhere else on the planet. The mind boggles. Darwin's certainly did: it prompted his theory of the survival of the fittest by natural selection, the basis of his book The Origin Of The Species (1859). Many of these animals are unchanged since prehistoric times, such as the Marine Iguana...the only swimming lizard in the world. The place has as a strange effect on a you, almost regressing you to a state of childlike wonder. Having kids has been pretty far from my thoughts so far in life, but these islands almost made me broody. Coming back here with children is almost an incentive after my time here.

The human history of Galápagos is also quite fascinating. An Irishman named Henry Watkins was marooned in 1807 to become the first permanent human settler. The Ecuadorean government created penal colonies here, the most notorious of which was Manuel Cabos's El Progreso in 1869. The prisoners in his charge soon became sick of his tyranny and murdered him. Seemed fair. In 1927 a group of journalists persuaded 60 Norwegians that the Enchanted Isles were a paradise waiting to be exploited. The Scandinavians had no idea how hard life could be here on these patches of exposed rock in the Pacific. Many left after the first harsh year. But by far the most interesting tale is that of "The Baroness". Two German families had settled on the island of Floreana around 1929: the Wittmers and Dr Freidrich Ritter and his mistress, Dore Strauch. The two families tolerated each other, but a series of events led to bitterness between them. Feelings were already simmering when Baroness de Bosquet turned up in the 1930s with three men in tow...two of whom were her lovers (filthy minx), Robert Philippson, Rudolf Lorenz...and an Ecuadorean servant named Valdiveseo. She looks to have been the dark cataylst amongst this German community. By all accounts she lorded it over the inhabitants, walking around with bullwhip and pistol like some sort of swashbuckler. Her fellow islanders were unhappy at the stories she told about them to visitors. After several heated disputes, in 1934 she and Philippson disappeared, never to be seen again. Lorenz was found dead on a remote northern island some time later; he'd been the chief suspect in the assumed murders. Dr Witter was the next to die, supposedly from food poisoning after eating chicken...despite being a vegetarian. These mysteries have never been solved, and remain part of the islands' folklore.

And there are rumblings of discontent on modern-day Galápagos. The increasing number of native Ecuadoreans are demaning the right to fish the waters, and some are doing so illegally. The government lacks resources to counter this. Introduced species are also a problem; feral pigs and dogs on some islands are threatening the marine iguana populations. Goats are a surprising problem, and Alcedo island holds an exploded population of around 100,000, despite attempts a number of years ago to eradicate them. A goat was found as far away as Wolf Island, and no-one seems to know how it got there.

But back to kids. The three of us passed the concrete basketball courts of the Ecuadorean Navy the afterno won before boarding our diveboat, and ten or more local youngsters were kicking a football about. "Shall we?" asked Stef. Of coursee shall. So the three of us, and a small be-spectacled boy took on the rest. We played in bare feet, which seemed like a good idea at the time. Maxy kept letting goals in, saying we should give them a fighting chance as they were all around 10 years old...I told him to stop being so bloody Scottish. Honestly. After the game, and my Rooney-like exploits, we sat and chatted with the kids in Spanish. Good practice for me. The girls were trying to set Stef up with an Ecuadorean wife, and he was interested...it's the only way you could possibly work as a dive instructor here; probably the only advantage to an Ecuadorean passport, I'd imagine? At this point, I noticed my feet were burning a little; turning them over, I saw there were two 50p-sized blisters on each foot, both bleeding and weeping salty fluid. Oh dear. Raw skin...just what you want before a full week at sea, and saltwater immersion: a classic own-goal...

Ghosts Of San Blas

2011-08-15T13:24:00.006+08:00

I WAS OUT and about pretty early. Ecuadorean sunshine had streamed through my window and demanded my attention. I'd arrived in Quito for the second time the day previous, and nothing much had changed. The same rickety buses farted thick, choking fumes as I pounded the streets; the rotting buildings continued to rot; the polish-blackened kids still harangued me in the beautiful Gran Plaza; walking through the Parque El Ejido was, thankfully, still the same serene experience.

But Ecuador, and Quito especially, has a serious problem. Walk around any of the poorer districts, San Blas in particular, and you're going to see them: the ghosts. Men who have thrown in the towel and hit the bottle. To be born poor, without hope, and unable to provide for your family must be incredibly hard. I'm not surprised at the despair. Despite Ecuador's official unemployment rate dropping from 10% to 5% in the last five years, the people on the streets tell a different story. In half hour around San Blas, you'll see countless people without work; old women in their 70s selling handfuls of boiled sweets from a wicker bowl; youths with piles of secondhand shoes; others selling just about anything they can get their hands on. Those unwilling to eke out a desperate existence turn to alcohol. I am not joking when I say that, in Quito, you are literally stepping over drunks in the street. On the rise from my hostel to Av Guayaquil, a distance of a hundred yards, there were three men asleep on the pavement. It seems they just drop and sleep wherever the feeling takes them. The first time you see one, it's a mixture of shock and amusement. But these aren't men too drunk to get home after a big night out and sleeping it off. These are hopeless human beings blotting out a world which has forgotten them.

Bootleg alcohol is rife. Obviously far cheaper than the commercially-produced grog, it is popular. And deadly. 21 people have died in the last month, and 103 have been admitted to hospital, after drinking methanol-based liquor. Two glasses of this can induce blindness and coma. Police have seized over 1000 gallons of the illicit alcohol in recent raids. Cheap to produce, someone has, literally, been making a killing.

I've been frequenting a local chifa, or Chinese restaurant, since arrival. Partly because I love the shrimp curry; mostly because, whenever I walk into an eatery to be confronted with the usual rice, emaciated chicken and beans...I feel like crying. Or getting drunk and sleeping it off in the street. Seven months of shitty food takes its toll on a man, let me tell you. So I'm sat there one night, one eye on my book, the other on the U20 World Cup game. A local man came in, visibly the worse for wear, and ordered a curry. Nothing unusual in that...it's a regular sight in the early hours of a Sunday morning in England. The man promptly folded his arms and, using them as a pillow, commenced to nod off. Some time later a couple of worried kids were peering through the window, and then entered the restaurant. They tried to rouse Dad, to no avail...he was out of it. Disappearing, they were soon back with Mum, who had no more success than the muchachos. The poor woman looked mortified, and I avoided her eyes as she looked around the restaurant. The waiter, who I'd got pretty pally with, shot me a shrug and a look that said Happens all the time.

I've never had a problem with glue, save for losing a few layers of skin thanks to the overly-effective Superglue™ variety. If something is broken, I put glue on it, and everything is OK again. I've had a lifelong love of the smell of wood glue since school...wordwork classes were heady days indeed, and the whiff of it whenever I pass a workshop takes me back. But I've never considered sticking it in a plastic bag and inhaling it. I've known a few glueheads, though. Working as a courier in Leeds 10 years ago, there was a notorious madman I used to see who regularly brought traffic to a standstill, running into the ringroad and climbing onto the bonnets of people's cars. He once gripped the windscreen wipers of my van and screamed at me, spittle flecking the glass as he tried in vain to detach them. I just laughed. Not my van, mate...do what you like. He looked like he was having a good time, though. And he appeared positively normal if you (rarely) saw him without his gluebag.

The alcoholics in Quito graduate to glue. There was one guy I passed, slumped in a doorway, watery eyes cast upwards, pointing into the sky behind me and laughing "Miraaaa...miiira...el cielo..." (Look...look...the sky). His hand a dirty claw, strings of saliva between his lips and teeth, he beseeched me to see what he was seeing. I noticed a dark patch down one leg of his jeans...obviously a toilet break was out of the question when the Bostik™ was out? Confirming to him that, indeed yes, the large blue expanse behind my head was the sky, I hurried quickly on, to the haunting echo of his deranged laughter. Wasn't doing his remaining brain cells any favours, but he seemed to be enjoying himself, at any rate.

It pays to be on your toes around here. Last time I visited, several people were robbed in the street. One of the classics is the old woman who accidentally-on-purposely splashes you with some liquid and then kindly offers to mop it off, while her accomplice rifles your bag or pockets. Moral of this story? If an old lady squirts ketchup on you...punch her in the face and run. Or something like that. Maybe just kick her up the bum? The waiter in the chifa had warned me against sitting near the door in some other local cafes, as the other week a couple of gringos had been robbed in one when a couple of shaking, sweating teenagers had burst in waving a .38 revolver around. Jolly pleasant. And there's not much point in going to the police, as they're at it, too. In the Mariscal Sucre area, be wary of anyone beckoning to you across the street, enticing you over: the police will be over as soon as you start talking to the man, and a wrap of cocaine will appear from your pocket...as if by magic. Not yours? Neither is the $600 you'll soon be withdrawing from the nearest ATM. I was told a story about an American lad who was busted with a joint in a local park. The policeman demanded $50. The tourist, suffering from muscular dystrophy, was struggling to get his wallet out of his pocket. The surprised cop took pity on him. "Oh...you're disabled? Ah. OK...just give me $10..." Urban legend? Maybe. But in Quito, I'd believe anything.

But I like this city. 90km long and 4km wide, and nestling in a valley between several snow-covered volcanoes, there are fewer dramatic urban environments in South America. But as my best mate emailed me when he heard I was here: "Quito? What the fuck are you doing back in that shithole?" Quite.

A Right Rum Do

2011-08-14T04:22:00.007+08:00

THERE ARE SOME things you should never attempt to do, for the good of your health. And your pocket. One of these is to try and drink an Englishman under the table, and heaven help you if you take on an Irishman. This particularly applies if you are a half-cut Panamanian tealeaf with plans to mug said Englishman and his Mexican pals, who also like a beer or ten. But more on him later.

After the crumbling, dusty, grim and threatening places that are the majority of Central American capital cities, arriving in Panamá is a breath of fresh air. Well, not quite that fresh; there is still the oppressive heat and humidity, the acrid sting of blue exhaust smoke and occasional whiff of the city's collective previous night's dinner to foul the lungs and burn the eyes. But to eventually escape the Albrook terminal, and bump along in the back of a cab across concrete towards the glittering bay-hugging, glass and steel skyline, is to catch your breath and realise that you've made it: they save the best city of this region for last.

The image every traveller holds of Panamá is the curve of high-rises flanking the ocean up to the tip of the far peninsula. It's a stunning sight. And quite incredible when you consider that many of these building will never see a tenant: they are monuments to Colombian money-laundering. Signs abound to tempt the rental market, but these empty buildings are already occupied by ghost tenants, non-existent occupants paying way over the odds. The cartels build the high-rises, then rent out the space to themselves and plough their cocaine funds through it. Clean money. Beautiful.

But by far the most beautiful part of Panamá is the Casco Viejo, or old quarter. This tight-knit maze of streets and courtyards, loomed over by decaying colonial facades, is one of the prettiest places I've seen in a while. It is a small area; on the edges exist the poor in a mix of decrepit wooden houses rotted by sea air, and overflowing concrete slabs of hopeless humanity. In the afternoon the locals sit out on porches, battered wooden chairs or old sofas, passing the remaining hours of another listless day. Walk too far out of the safe haven, and a well-meaning local will wag a finger and warn you off. I've walked through some sketchy areas in my time, and am generally not too worried: I have money stashed in several places as back-up if I am robbed. And the VISA card currently in my wallet is defunct, and would excite my would-be mugger for about ten minutes after his escape. But one old man pointed to my silver ring and advised me "If they want that, Señor, they will take it...and if you don't give it quickly...then they take your finger, too..." followed by a toothy cackle with head thrown back. All laughter aside, I turned back the way I had come after thanking him for the advice. I've been through the area since and, having seen it from the back of a speeding cab at dusk, can assure you there is likely no bigger shithole this side of Mogadishu. Ancient housing blocks, hardly suitable for habitation; shifty figures in the shadowy stairwells; youths congregating on street corners in the fading light, hungry-eyed hyenas; ragged children rummaging through skips in the hope of finding something useful or edible; scarecrow people slumped in doorways, those who with no fight left. The blowing lights in the tiny squares of the huge rotting edifices varied and warm: tangerine, cherry red, ochre, mustard and pampas green. The sight looks inviting to a night photographer...but you and your camera wouldn't last five minutes.

I haven't had as positive a feeling for a city since I first set foot in Barcelona, Spain. Casco Viejo had a similar effect on me. Stef and Maxy were in town, as were Emi and Andreas, the Mexicans I'd befriended Suchitoto, El Salvador. Luckily for us, there was a music festival the second night I arrived...drinking and dancing in the streets.

Rich and poor were out in force. The latter were campled out at the end of their streets, drinking rum and dancing frenziedly. They are rightly proud of their town and their heritage. I've yet to visit Cuba, but can well imagine it looking and feeling like this. How long this melting pot will be allowed to simmer is anyone's guess, though: UNESCO designated the quarter a World Heritage Site in 2003. Buildings previously left to rot have been rescued, facades lovingly restored. But this has meant an influx of high-class restaurants and shops. Indeed, the President of Panamá also lives in this area. At the present time, the new establishments are required to use local builders and staff...but how sustainable this is remains to be seen. Certainly, the shabby wooden eyesores will be demolished...but where will the inhabitants of many generations be moved to? Likely the concrete slums I traversed in the back of a taxi. Progress? I'm not so sure.

I was out with the Mexicans an afternoon later. We'd taken a delicious lunch of ceviche down by the harbour. I was living on this cheap dish for days: fish and shrimp left to "cook" in fresh lime juice for twenty minutes...can there be anything healthier? No additives, bar the ubiquitous chilli sauce. We wandered back into the heart of the old town, looking for a cheap beer. A dilapidated cantina stood before us, its front a hotchpotch of discarded wooden panels and planks, its door of the swinging Wild West saloon variety. Salsa blared from the darkness, the smell of hot unwashed bodies seeped from within. Emi didn't look so sure. Andreas grinned at me. I shrugged...and in we went.

It was almost pitch black. The small bar stretched away into the gloom to our left, a string of fairy lights snaked behind the stacks of cheap licor bottles. A bored barman chewed a toothpick and eyed us. The dirt floor was where the action was at, a couple of dumpy prostitutes dancing with an old man who was a right little mover...he must have been popular as a young man, and wasn't doing bad right now, if truth be told. A mulatta approached us, and jabbered away with Andreas. I couldn't hear the conversation over the music. She was soon jutting her jaw at each of us and pursing her lips. I backed away, fearing she wanted a kiss. I then remembered, with palpable relief, that this was a method latins sometimes use instead of pointing at something. Lazy buggers...I find it easier to just lift my arm.

Andreas danced with one of the women. Myself and Emi chatted with an old bloke over the raucous music. Well I say chatted, the old man blathered and I nodded politely. I like places like this. The locals are friendly 90% of the time, and if you can get over the grimmest toilets this side of Calcutta, then you might have a good night. And these ones were grim, believe me...if I'd needed to shit, I'd have been yanking my pants down at the side of the street rather than subject my fair buttocks to the horrifically-stained biological experiment of a commode available.

After a bit of a boogie with some prostitutes, which seems to be becoming somewhat of a bad habit, we left our new pals at the cantina and headed back to the hostel. On the way we spied another shitty bar, and obviously went in. There was a dodgy-looking local in there, a few sheets to the wind, who insisted on buying us a beer. Apparently he could show us the best parts of Casco Viejo, including a 100-year-old bar. After a couple of straighteners, we headed off with him...back to the cantina we'd just left. Imagine this fellow's surprise as we were greeted with a cheer, like long-lost friends? A couple of the women warned us off him immediately, but we'd already smelled a rat with his transparent patter. One of the hookers, mid-fifties at a rough estimated, sidled up, grabbed my hand and put it on her arse and then, breathing rum fumes, told me "Don' trus dat guy. Bad man. I am lonely. I live up there" and pointed to her flat over the road. I thanked her for the info and diplomatically retrieved my hand. I get lonely too, but we have to draw the line somewhere. El Bandito, meanwhile, was getting us another round of drinks in...mentioning another drinking den a few blocks down, which I knew to be in the no-go area. We suggested a few more in this place first.

Andreas was showing off his fancy footwork again, and the locals were loving it. I was chatting to hookers old enough to be my grandmother, Emi was fending off the same. They were cadging drinks off us left, right and centre...but we didn't mind. It was a cheap enough night out. El Bandito's plan of luring us away in a drunken stupor, to be robbed by him and his associates, was beginning to backfire; glassy-eyed, he could hardly stand up. He asked for another beer. I pointed out that it was his round again (like the last three), and to stop being a tight-arse. He looked down at his bottle, as if to question himself on the source of that one, before shuffling off to the bar for another four. It'd be his round again for the next lot, too.

We left him slumped on a stool in the corner, looking out confusedly over the rubble of his scheme. I'd liked to have seen his face when he awoke the following morning, several dollars lighter and with a stinking headache? We happened upon another cantina on the way home, this one stinking like a cattleshed, the stench was appalling...ammonia, soil and sweat. You try holding your nose and drinking a beer at the same time? It's not easy, but we managed. Last round for the old ladies of the night, and we rolled back home.

I crawled into bed and drifted off with a smile on my face. Yes, I like Panamá...

A San José Short Story

2011-08-06T07:05:00.012+08:00

I UNFAIRLY JUDGED Costa Rica before my arrival. Although I only spent a short time in the capital, I liked the feel of the place. My opinion had been coloured somewhat by the stories of other travellers: the country is full of American retirees; it's twice as expensive as other Central American countries etc etc. It didn't sound promising, to be honest. But I was only passing through, on a journey from León to Panamá City, for a flight to Ecuador.

The journey hadn't been so bad; the bus was a typically latin hour late, but there's no point complaining. I was the only gringo at the depot, and when I arrived at 6am I was puzzled as to why several men were fanning their faces with leafy sapling branches, sheaves of paper and anything else to hand. As hordes of tiny flies descended on me, trying to crawl into my eyes, ears and nose, I was rapidly reaching for a few available branches myself. The locals smiled and continued their wafting.

At the border, we were again stood around in the heat, belongings exposed. While waiting, a female rep of the bus company was moving along the line collecting change from people. I thought it was another fee, and asked the woman next to me what we were paying for. She was as puzzled as me. The rep had a gaudily-painted, 20-something woman in tow. As they got to me the rep shook the change in her hand and demanded "plata", the slang for money. I shrugged and said I had no change, and asked what she wanted the money for? I couldn't understand exactly what she said, but she gestured to the woman and moved on. I lost sight of them, but 20 minutes later, they were back asking for more. This time I got the gist of it: the woman had no money, and they were collecting for a ticket. I'd seen the woman with a couple of shifty-looking men earlier on, and didn't see why we should cough up?

I asked the rep why we, the passengers, were being expected to donate money. She sniffed at my proffered dollar's worth of change and said that the woman was $5 short of a ticket. Ah, so the rich gringo was being expected to make up the rest? No chance was I being bullied into that, simply on principle. I could tell that the rep thought I was being mean, and she told me that we had to help this Nicaragueña get home. I put it to her that it should be the bus company offering charity, not her dragging the girl round begging for cash. Would a simple phone call to the boss not have sorted this? A few fellow passengers nodded. The rep wasn't happy. I had to laugh as we waited on the bus to leave...the supposedly penniless woman got on. If she was trying to get back to Nicaragua, she was going the wrong way.

We arrived in San José. The place reminded me of the cleaner parts of Manila, but with more intact colonial buildings. If the country had been occupied by the Japanese during WWII, then it would have looked exactly like the US Army's 1945 facelift of Manila. Anyway, one dubious taxi meter later I was at Pangea, the capital's mega-hostel. This place is immense: 25 dorms with 4 beds in each. A small swimming pool and a rooftop cafe and bar complete the impressive set-up. The cost of building the place was reflected in the prices...perusing the beer menu caused a sharp intake of breath: I certainly wasn't in Nicaragua any longer. I locked up my valuables and picked a bed in the windowless room which smelled like a squash court. You'll get used to it after five minutes, I told myself.

The only other occupant of the room looked up from a book and said Hello. We got chatting, and he told me he was from Tel Aviv. When I asked if he was travelling alone, he said he'd been with a friend from Israel, but they'd split up for a while. "You meet more people travelling alone" he said, and I laughed. When I explained what I'd found funny in that, he agreed. "I know...us Israelis have a reputation for not mixing, but that's just the large groups." I told him my theory about only the lone Israelis being the good ones, and it was his turn to laugh. He even said that he avoided hostels that had gangs of his countrymen staying. I had to go eat, and he recommended a few cheaper places than the hostel.

I grabbed my book and headed out in search of dinner. Just a quiet one tonight after the long journey, right? Couldn't have been more wrong if I'd penned the report on Saddam's Weapons Of Mass Destruction.

The heavy, reinforced door of Pangea slammed behind me, and I was out on the shady streets of what looked to be the red-light district. At every corner I was propositioned while waiting for the crossing signal, painted faces looming from the shadows. I resolved to make it three or four blocks at the most, and take the first half-decent-looking eaterie I came across...I had to get away from these persistent hags. There seemed to be nothing around, and I was loathe to walk too far into the city on a first night, preferring to explore by day and suss a place out initially. Minutes from giving up and buckling for the hostal's pricy menu, I suddenly spied a tiny, modern-looking Italian cafe. Warm and inviting, the staff as well as the environment, I was soon happily tucking into the best pizza I'd had in a long time. I read for a while, checked the time, and decided to head back for an early bed.

A few doors down from the hostal was a small, dingy bar. Inside were a few older westerners, some locals and some women of apparent ill-repute. Bearing in mind the price of a beer in the huge gringo-nest I was staying at, something told me to go in. Ordering an ale at the bar, I got chatting to the middle-aged barmaid. She had the air of a retired madam about her, and was nice enough. On hearing an English accent, a middle-aged German next to me turned and introduced himself. His name was Michael. He'd arrived the previous night from Panamá, having worked for an NGO in the infamous Darién province, home to Colombian guerillas and Panamanian smugglers, for 12 months. Tired and off-guard after two days on the road, he'd been pleased when his friendly taxi-driver suggested his uncle's hotel nearby. Arriving at the place, the taxista directed him down a passageway and told him to tell Uncle Pablo that Miguel had sent him, while he waited in the car...just in case he got a parking ticket. Michael followed the corridor, and emerged in a courtyard where a family, having dinner, regarded him with some surprise. He asked for Pablo and, met with bemusement, said Miguel had sent him. Miguel who? A wave of nausea hit him as he doubled back and sprinted back outside. The taxi was gone. So was everything Michael owned besides the clothes he stood up in...including his passport. He was quite embarrassed by his naivety, but told me that he had met some amazing people who had given him money, clothes and a place to stay for a few days. The kindness of strangers, and all that.

A blonde white woman walked in with a very diminutive Tica (a Costa Rican). I'd seen them down a side-street, passing a joint between them. Assuming them to be on the game, I'd decided against going and asking them for a couple of puffs. Who knows what you'll get yourself into asking that question on these streets? Besides, I didn't know where their mouths had been. The blonde said she'd seen me on the street as I'd walked past, and had I smelled the joint? I assured her that I had, and she told me she'd wanted to call me over. We got talking, and it turned out that she wasn't a hooker...she was amused I'd thought so. Not surprising on these streets, I told her. Turns out she was an Italian, Gina, who'd been working in San José for quite some time. The dwarf was a mate of hers, and she made introductions. I asked if they'd let me know when they were having the next smoke. They told me they were going over to a friend's hotel, to see some pole-dancers and the like. I laughed and said that nothing would be more frustrating for me right now than sitting on in front of a gyrating, naked woman...and then going home with an erection. The German laughed and agreed. Gina said it would be close by, and that the drinks would be free...come on, just one? I relented, and she introduced me to Eric, our host.

We squeezed into a cab, and a few minutes later were outside a large house. The building didn't look much like a hotel to me. Not even a sign outside. Eric's burly doorman admitted us, and we were shown to the bar. The penny dropped. Eric's clientele were wealthy Americans, with more money than morals. As we entered the main room, walled with mirrors, I saw two men in their mid-50s sat watching a pneumatic, dancing Russian blonde giving her nether regions an airing. On either side of each man was a latina, lithe and beautiful. But these depraved characters had their eyes locked on the Russian's concha as she slid up and down the pole, mouth open in a state of professional arousal. The latinas didn't care, they were getting paid.

Eric explained the set-up. It was a strictly private establishment, available for hire by whomever could afford it. Eric assured discretion, and had paid to have the hotel's existence wiped from the Web, and de-Googled. The men could invite as many hookers as they liked, but had to pay each girl a flat fee to ensure they had sufficient funds to get home if they were not needed. Recently he'd had a Russian group in who had stayed four days and insisted on forty girls. Eric says he believed that they screwed the whole lot, but they'd insisted on sleeping in just the one room together, while the girls had the run of the hotel. Didn't want to know why, and didn't want to imagine. Oh, the depravity of it all. An American group were coming back down in a few weeks, he said; they'd liked some of the Russian girls Eric knew. As two of them told the Yanks that they hadn't been home to Moscow in a few years, they offered to take them home for a weekend in a Lear jet. The hire of the plane was $100K, Eric estimated. The lengths some men will go to?

I took all this with a pinch of salt. But watching the men cavorting with the girls, the endless cocktails, sniffing returns from the toilets with the girls, money being thrown around, I didn't have too many reasons to doubt. And the place can't have been cheap. Eric showed me around the building next door, and outlined his expansion plans. Pity he avoids publicity, as he might have had a decent budget for a website? His girlfriend runs the bar, and keeps a close eye on things, including Eric. He said that he's quite happy to make his money this way, but he keeps a distance from his clients. I have to say that he seemed like a decent fellow. But I would say that, he was throwing drinks at us all night.

Michael the German, had told Eric about his recent misfortune, and talked him into giving him a trial as a chef for the establishment. By now he was absolutely leathered, his bleary eyes popping out at the girls dripping off the arms of the rich Americans. One girl caught my arm as I went to the bathroom, and asked me if I'd spend the night with her. A gorgeous latina who'd been smiling at me all evening, I told her I'd love to...but that my Mum would kill me. She said not to tell my Mum, then? I laughed and extricated myself from her grasp. Very pretty, but I wasn't going to be part of this perverse circus, just be the fly-on-the-wall and then tell you lot all about it.

I smoked with Gina and the huge-breasted Tica dwarf, who seemed intent on defying the law of Gravity. The three of us were equally amused at the spectacle before us, and the randomness of the evening. Eric wouldn't let us go...beers were almost finished and we'd make moves to leave...another beer would appear. I was pretty wrecked by this point, and danced salsa with the girls. After a turn with the dwarf, drunkenly uncaring how it looked, I slumped on the bar next to Gina.

"My friend said something bad about you earlier..." she slurred in my ear, slouching against me.
"Oh really...do tell?" I laughed.
"No" said Gina "it was nasty...mean..."
The dwarf had returned with a drink by now.
"Come on...I'm pretty thick-skinned" I told her.
"She said that you shouldn't drink beer any more, as you need a bra" she confided.
I laughed, well-aware I'm rather out of shape at this moment in time. But cheeky bitch?
"Well...they're paid for, at least."
I turned to the short one, who was climbing atop a barstool. "Oi...got a bone to pick with you."
"Noooooo..." said Gina, panicking at her imminet unveiling as a shit-stirrer.
I waved her protest away. "What's this about me needing a bra?"
"I didn't say that!" she glared at Gina.
"Well it's a bit rich, coming from a...." I sensed myelf about to hugely overstep the mark, despite her insult. I looked down and was rescued by her feet "...a chick with weird toes." Thank fuck for her ugly feet. Her second toes were half the length of her big toes, and sat squashed atop the big and third ones. Pretty grotesque.
"What's wrong with my toes?" she asked indignantly.
"Nothing, if you like freaky feet" I replied.
"Well I've been told that I have really cute toes" she huffed.
"Who by...Stevie Wonder or Helen Keller...?"

A taxi was ordered. Eric was obviously going to be hanging around, although whether he'd get a Tica hooker offering solace for the evening due to his recent robbery remained to be seen. I thanked Eric for a very entertaining evening and jumped in the taxi with the girls. Tempted back to Gina's for a few more drinks with the vertically-challenged one, my hostal flew by in a blur. Gina's was miles out of town, and we had to sneak in; she lived with a Tico family. One which wouldn't appreciate a strange man on the property, so at 5am Gina turfed me out. Still pissed, with only a general idea of the direction of San José central, I set off through the darkness. I found the highway we'd arrived on, and started walking. There were no lights, and I lost count of the number of times I had to jump into the storm drains to avoid the suction of a passing juggernaut. I thought I was going to be killed, and cursed my stupidity in chasing another drink. After a mile or so I crossed a bridge and could see the city twinkling in the distance. Then I saw a bus stop, and waited around in the gloom, stashing my wallet down the front of my pants. After twenty minutes a local bus turned up, and this dishevelled Englishman boarded and levelly returned the curious stares of the migrant workers aboard the vehicle.

The journey didn't take long, and I jumed off on the edge of town. I knew the rough direction of the hostal, and made my way through the streets of early morning workers arriving for the daily slog. It had been a while since I'd been out all night and headed home amongst the commuters. I used to love doing that in London, drifitng homewards under the dirty looks of the workers up earlier than they'd like. You go to work, mate...I'm off to bed. The joys of freelancing.

I was a block away from sanctuary and my bed now. Two Tícos in a worse state than me were hanging around looking shifty outside a greasy takeaway joint. One of them proferred a bag of white powder, leering at me beneath sunken eyes. "Amigo...friend...my friend. Cocaine. You want to get high?" I laughed and gave him a wide berth, wagging a finger silently and smiling. Amigo...it's way too early for that.

Moan Moan Moan...

2011-08-06T05:56:00.012+08:00

WE HEADED FOR Granada, Nicaragua's colonial jewel on the shores of the lake it shares with Ometepe. The buses in latin countries just aren't designed for western legs. And if it was uncomfortable for me, it was worse for Stefano, him being taller. We sat at the back, and got chatting with a few Nicas on their return from working in Costa Rica, picking oranges. They told us that the wages were so much better there. It was quite sobering when we asked how much better. One man excitedly, loudly and proudly exclaimed to us and fellow Nicas in earshot that he could earn as much as $20 a day over there. It makes you wonder what the average wage is here. He also told us that his family get by on $5 a day.

We discussed the cost of living in Europe with the fellow, as he enquired. As ever, it's diplomatic to talk down exactly how much we earn and spend back home. It always tempers their dismay at the riches of the West when you tell them how much we pay for a beer or a sandwich, or the rental of a poky flat in London. For sure, most of us are financially better off than them, but this money doesn't go as far as they'd likely think. Tell them you pay $3 for a mango, and they laugh. The Nica threw some rubbish out of the bus window, and was incredulous that this was illegal in Europe. He told us that it was just trash, and that he didn't need it any more. He shrugged when we pointed out that, if everybody did this, the place would be a dump. His indifference suggested that he thought it already was a dump. He roared with laughter when we told him that a policeman catching you doing this in Europe was likely to take $80 from you.

We pulled into Granada, and hailed a taxi to yet another hostal with aloof, moody staff. Be as pleasant as you like, speak in Spanish...this bunch still wouldn't give you the time of day. I had to smirk at the large box on the counter with "Tips" on it in black marker: there'd be a piece of paper with "Smile" written on it deposited there before I left. We made our way to our 8-bed dorm, and found a young girl unpacking. We exchanged pleasantries, and Stef asked where she was from. "Oh, I'm from Israel...like everyone else here." Stef shot me a look which said Great. I returned it with a similarly pained expression.

Granada is Antígua without the polish; rougher around the edges than her Guatemalan counterpart, akin to a faded dame past her best who could still turn a head or two if she'd only put in the effort. The city doesn't make the most of its lakeside location either, there being no promenade to speak of; the main plaza is a kilometre from the shores. The road from the heart of town to the water is a line of steadily shabbier houses, punctuated by an oily gas station. The main square, though picturesque during daylight hours, is a whore-infested black hole at night; wholly inadvisable for a midnight stroll. Pass through it and you're treated to the sight of locals pissing against trees, teenagers trying to sell you distinctly low-grade drugs while their sisters try to sell you their conchas. "Heeey, meestah...wanna fock me?" Er...not really. You ought to go see a dentist, by the way.

It's not the cleanest city. I walked various districts, searching for photographic subjects and a decent coffee. Failing to see anything of appeal, I wandered the back streets, casting the odd smile or buenas tardes at an indifferent local. The whiff of excrement and sewage is never far from your nostrils in this place. Passing open manholes meant averting the eyes, but only so far, to avoid falling in. Talk about a fate worse than death? Taking the steps up to a row of pillared arches, said stench hit me in the face. I noted the piles of shit right next to the pillars, flies swarming ravenously around them; either there were some dirty bastards in this town, or the dogs were too embarrassed to defecate in the open.

At any rate, none of the three of us saw much reason to stick around amongst the tourist hordes. And the travellers at the hostal were of the brainless variety. I know we were all young once, but to listen to some of these kids go on and on is tantamount to torture: the CIA should ship a few of them down to Guantanamo Bay to relate their travel tales and outlooks on life to the prisoners...there wouldn't be enough pens to go around for bogus 9/11 confessions. And it's not just me. Several folk have bemoaned the median age and intelligence of today's traveller. Not that I haven't met plenty of switched-on youngsters: I have, they're just a rarity. The age of the iPhone means that foreign travel is too accessible, too easy, anybody can do it...including the oiks from your local high-rise estate who normally wouldn't get further than a mate's front room for a 12-hour McDonalds and Xbox session. There was a Welshman at the hostel who was on the road with a Canadian of similar age. Sat at the bar one night, I listened in to their stories. These seemed to revolve around being wasted, hangovers, and which hostels were the best for shagging fellow travellers. Not once was a beautiful spot mentioned, a blissful beach, foreign friendships or any type of cultural experience. I find it depressing that people like this are allowed to board aeroplanes. He sighed "Well...we can't do this forever. I don't want to get old, me. If I'm not dead by the time I'm 40, I'm going to kill myself." Dismayed at this final straw, I turned to say something, but simply laughed to myself when I saw his baseball hat perched on the back of his head, above his stupid face. GRINGO it read in block capitals. How apt. There was no need to make this chap look an arsehole...he was doing an admirable job of it himself.

Speaking of arseholes, we met another one at dinner one evening, and he made me ashamed to be English. We'd headed out for a pint with the Canadian barman from the hostel, and he brought a few people along, a public-schoolboy type among them. Sitting outside a bar, we were getting pestered by the usual kids with boxes strapped to their midriffs, selling sweets, chewing gum and cigarettes. Some can be a pain, but some amuse with their cheek and basic English. One such kid was having a laugh with us, and kept asking for one of the English guy's chips. He declined, and kept eating. Thinking he was just holding out for a laugh, we all said "Come on...give the kid a chip?" Without even looking up, this posh twit said in his cut-glass accent "I'm sure he's got enough gallo pinto at home." Gallo pinto is a mix of kidney beans and rice, the staple diet of the poor. The table went silent, but His Lordship was unmoved. If I'd been sat next to him, his plate of chips would have been passed to the kid immediately...and I'd liked to have seen what the toffee-nosed git would have done about that? Ignorant bastard. Stefano shook his head, incredulous.

I've lost count of the groups of youthful sunburnt Irishmen camped-out in hostels, inebriated from 10am onwards, and never leaving the place. Can someone explain to me the point of travelling from one Lonely Planet-rated hostal to another, and staying in all day getting drunk? They're all at it. I honestly think that people these days just travel because it's the done thing, it's not a rarity any longer. If I regret anything in life, it's not travelling sooner, when I was in my 20s. Before the internet; before smartphones; before Sky TV; before round-robin emails and facebook updates. Walk into any internet cafe worldwide, and 60% of people are checking out what others are doing back at home. I'd love to have travelled when it was all postcards home, and a short, crackly and echoing phone call to your parents to inform them that you're still alive. There are some of us looking for a more rewarding experience than the Gringo Trail. But maybe that type of travel is over? I know...I shouldn't complain. But I do. It seems a little churlish to moan on the road in foreign climes, but things can get on top of you just like they do at home.

So we moved on to León, the one town I really did like in Nicaragua. Friendlier and more authentic than Granada, I chose to study more Spanish here. It's not the prettiest place, but the folk are friendly and it's a good place to stay put for longer than a few days; find a few good local places to eat in, a decent coffee shop to frequent. The weather was beginning to turn for the worst, though. Heavy rain in León and thunderstorms in the Corn Islands saw us reviewing our plans. My friends were keen to get to Colombia via Panamá's San Blás islands, and so made to leave the next day. I wasn't in the mood for getting to know anyone else, save an Irishman my age who moaned more than me. No...honestly. The food, the people, the weather...the lot. He loved Mexico, and compared Nicaragua very unfavourably. He was also notable for being the only man I've ever met who squeezed nine fucks and fuckings into one shortand sentence. Jesus...I thought I was bad? I resolved to stop swearing, or at least cutting down, after meeting this chap.

Stef and Maxy made their exit for Panamá. The Irish fella headed back to Mexico. What to do? Where to go? My dorm had emptied, and I was alone in a 6-bed room. I watched the rain hammer the garden of the hostal as I lay on my bed, pondering my next move. It's better to have too many options than none at all, though. I certainly won't complain about that. Mine currently consisted of: heading back up to Mexico, as my flight was from Cancún later in the year; heading back to London early for some freelance work before hitting Asia earlier than planned; spending some time in Spain. The weather in Mexico looked dire. A little research online (yes, yes...I know) showed that Spain would break the bank within a month. The London summer was an oxymoron yet again...maybe not the best time to go home to her warm, familiar bosom? I was at a bit of a loss as to what to do next, and I was tired. 6 months on the road can take it out of you.

I thought about South America. The weather would be better on the equator. Then something my PADI Course Director in Honduras, Andy Phillips, had mentioned to me resurfaced in my mind. He'd said to let him know if I was in Ecuador at any point, as he knew a company who did good standby rates for dive liveaboards to the Galápagos Islands. Dragging my diving gear around Central America, and not getting it wet since the poor diving on Utila, had got me down a little...I'd regretted bringing it out with me, especially as most trainee instructors had used the shop gear. I'd have had a far lighter pack without it. I mailed Andy: he was his usual punctual self, and within two days I'd confirmed my place on the trip scheduled 11-18th July. At just half the price of a pre-booked trip, too.

Brightened at the prospect of diving with hammerhead sharks, seals and gargantuan whalesharks, I had a ticket out of Nicaragua booked the same afternoon. It was time to skip through to Panamá City and return to South America.

A Benchmark

2011-08-02T08:24:00.006+08:00

I THOUGHT THAT I'd mentioned this book a while ago but, skimming back through the archives, it seems I hadn't? I know mon ami Coralie is an avid reader, and I've neglected her as regards book recommendations recently. But this one was worth waiting for, Mademoiselle Thabot.

I've read a few travel books; some good, some bad. As I Walked Out One Midsummer's Morning by Laurie Lee is an outstanding piece of work. Aged 18, in 1934 he set out from his home in the Cotswolds and walked to London to seek his fortune. After working as a labourer for a while he decided, on a whim, to take a boat to Spain...this despite having just one Castillian phrase in his linguistic arsenal. Arriving in the northern town of Vigo, he set off on foot through the countryside.

What follows is one of the most beautifully-written tales of a yesteryear Europe you could ever be fortunate enough to read. His descriptions are incredibly evocative and atmospheric; if his account of this wildly varied, colourful riot of country doesn't inspire you to visit Spain, then nothing will. His wanderings took him as far as Granada, where he was evacuated in 1936 by the Royal Navy as the civil war broke out.

I read this book in Mexico and Belize. It's always good to swap books on the road, but I couldn't bear to give this one away; particularly as my copy was a 70s edition, complete with intricate, almost Dickensian, pen-and-ink illustrations by Leonard Rosoman. So I gave it to Kneehead to take home and post from the UK, fearing the Belizean post office would lose it. Wouldn't you know it, the Glasgwegian posties managed to mislay it...it never made it home. I've since sourced another copy, I just hope it's the same one.

I'm planning a few months in Spain at some point, perhaps next summer, to follow in Laurie's footsteps. The journey couldn't possibly be as interesting as his; can you imagine how few people travelled in those days? But I'd like to do it as a pilgrimage to a writer who has inspired me.

If you pick up a copy, I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Twin Peaks

2011-07-31T11:42:00.005+08:00

THE NEXT MORNING we were packed and out of San Juan within 45 minutes of opening our eyes. No point wasting any more precious moments of our trip. We arrived at the bus station and waited around amongst the rotting filth for transport to Ometepe. I've seen worse bus stations, but this one was still pretty bad. Walk anywhere and you have to keep an eye on the ground to avoid standing in something nasty, anything from a large pile of dogshit to a discarded piece of unidentifiable meat. And keep the other eye on your belongings: thieves love bus stations, and it's easy for one to distract you while his accomplice slashes your backpack. Best to get in and out as soon as possible.

I almost didn't visit Ometepe, the twin-peaked volcanic island south of Granada. Motorbike George hadn't enjoyed himself there; said it was dull, rife with mosquitoes and hot as hell. His view was echoed by a few other travellers, but an equal number loved it. In these instances, you need to go and see for yourself. Ometepe means "two mountains", from the ancient indigenous language. The two volcanoes rise out of the expanse of Lago de Nicaragua, one at either end of the island. Concepcion, considered the most perfectly-formed volcano in Central America, erupted as recently as 2010...and violently. The islanders defied government orders from Managua to leave. In 2005 an earthquake measuring 6.2 on the Richter scale shook the hourglass-shaped island, rupturing roads and creating huge fissures. I didn't know all this before we got on the boat; but then, you can't let a hideous death by pyroclastic flow put you off a weekend away, now can you?

George was right in one respect: there isn't much happening, even in the main town. Nightlife is negligible. There are few bars. There are hikes to the summits of the peaks themselves but, with the low cloud during the day, it didn't seem worth it. So we hired motorbikes, grabbed a map, and set off to circumnavigate the island.

The roads are tarmaced between the main settlements, but soon turn to shit. And get shittier. We were on 125cc road bikes which were not ideal, but myself and Stef soon got into the groove, taking turns leading on the rutted, rock-strewn tracks. I loved it. Maxy, on the other hand, didn't. We'd slow up every so often to let him catch up; he generously fell off the bike three times, once for each of us...so me and Stef knew we were OK from here on in. All the accidents that could have happened had happened.

The ride took up most of the day, passing through some tiny villages where the inhabitants rarely saw westerners. They were friendly enough, a big improvement on San Juan's moody bunch. I skidded to a stop on seeing two young boys atop a horse, and asked permission to take their picture; they happily obliged before trotting off into the undergrowth. We took a break at a tiny makeshift cafe where a lad happily played with our cameras while I played with his tiny birds, one of which was quite content to sit on my hand while I drank a freezing Coke. Stef, fearing Maxy had crashed again, doubled back to look for him. Obviously he had.

The Scotsman was pretty pissed off with his steed by now, and possibly at the pace that myself and the Italian were setting, so we went on ahead to the freshwater springs on the way home, while Maxy took it easy to avoid more damage to the bike, and to get himself a few decent photographs. Slowcoach looking after himself, we set off at a blistering pace. We'd passed the worst of the roads by now, and I chuckled to myself at the words of the Finnish couple we'd chatted to at the cafe, who were heading the way we'd come: "The road gets really bad from here" they'd warned us. I could just picture their faces right about now. In fact, a similar face came into view a few minutes later as a group passed us with a few nods...a girl riding pillion with a look of tight-lipped anguish on her face. It'll only get worse love, I thought, as Stef turned round to me and laughed. He was obviously thinking the same thing.

The springs were refreshing, but not hot as we'd hoped. Bloody cold, in fact. Invigourated and dust-free, we headed for a tiny town to eat afterwards, where we suffered the worst of Nicaragua's fayre. And believe me, that's not a standard you want to fall below. It was appalling. Rubber chicken. Maxy caught us up; we warned him to wait until we got back to the main town if he was hungry. Off we went at breakneck speed, the Scotsman a lot happier and far more reckless now back on tarmac.

I spoke to a couple of locals later on about our experiences in San Juan Del Sur. It had a bad reputation even amongst the islanders. One told me that we were lucky to be in a group, as the locals there are known to menace lone travellers in bars, surrounding them and bullying them into a walk to the nearest ATM. I also heard of a couple who were warned not to walk along a stretch of road on one of the more secluded beaches outside the town; they heeded the warning, but later met a German pair who'd just arrived and weren't lucky enough to have found a friendly face: two distinctly unfriendly ones robbed them of everything the had at gunpoint. Nice start to your trip.

The people on Ometepe said that bad things had been happening in San Juan for years. It's only a matter of time before word gets out and people stop going.

Getting Your Nicas In A Twist...

2011-07-29T08:24:00.015+08:00

GREAT EXPECTATIONS ARE all too rarely realised. I wanted to like Nicaragua. I really did. So many people, well-respected travellers from home especially, had told me what a great country it is, how friendly the people are etc. Sadly, neither myself nor my companions were to find this to be the case. I suppose one of the beauties of travel is that so many people can have such a wide variety of experiences in the same place. It's just a shame (for us) that some of the people I spoke to had the great ones, and we got the soiled end of the proverbial walking aid.

Borders are never the nicest places. The one between Honduras and Nicaragua is a pain in the arse. You are turfed off the bus at one point, bags searched, bus given the once-over by armed men. You jump back on, and the rusting jalopy is barely into third gear before it's grinding to a halt for the whole rigmarole to be repeated; this time you have to carry your bags from the hold to an examining room, where an old man with a face like a sun-dried raisin prods your clothes and gives your open bag a cursory glance, all the while eyeing you like you've just ravaged his teenage daughter. The process is far from rapid, so I was stood in the oven of a room, rivulets of sweat trickling down my back, waiting for the old duffer to get to me. Judging by the disinterested search he gave my bag, I could have brought a few kilos of uncut Colombian cocaine and a couple of AK47s...he wouldn't have noticed. Some of these processes are designed just to keep people in a job.

I spied an ice-cream vendor as I waited for the rest of the passengers to escape the oven. Wandering over, I made idle chit-chat as I asked the price of his wares, hoping they hadn't melted and been reformed at any point in their lifetime...especially seeing as there was no toilet on this particular bus. Well, there was a toilet, but without a fistful of asbestos up each nostril, there'd be now way you'd go anywhere near it: the stench could have curled the edges of a sandwich from ten paces. It was only as I walked away from the vendor that I realised he'd charged me double. 20 Cordobas was the price; I'd given him a dollar. I turned back and pointed this out. The man pointed in one direction and said "Honduras" and then in the other "Nicaragua". I tried again "Un dollar es 40 Cordobas, no..?" He repeated his concise geography lesson again, so I told him I hoped other Nicaraguans were honest, and got back on the bus. Bandit.

I arrived in Esteli, a dusty working town on the road to nowhere. The bus disappeared in a cloud of grit, and I chewed dirt as I trudgeed towards the centre in the dying sun. Responses to white faces in this town ranged from indifferent to contemptuous. And that's just the friendly ones. I'd already decided I'd be out of this place in the morning. Besides, I was expecting to catch up with Stef and Maxy pretty soon. Perusing my mail once checked into Hostal Unfriendly, I got the sorry saga from the lads.

The CA-4 Agreement between Honduras, El Salvador, Guatemala and Nicaragua was designed to allow free movement and trade between nationalities of those countries. What this means for the traveller is that you get a 90 day visa for those countries as a whole. The confusion comes when moving between the countries, as sometimes you get another 90 day stamp in your passport at a border. Result! you think...another 90 days. Wrong. If you go over the alloted 90 days for the whole region, you are fined $1 per day overstay when you cross into Belize, Mexico or Costa Rica.

So Maxy had crossed into Nicaragua from Honduras, only to be told he had to get out of the region immediately, as he was two days over his visa. The pair of them had to cross the whole country in a day, and had a few hours in Costa Rica before coming back into Nicaragua and heading for San Juan Del Sur, a surfing town in the southwest. So it was an early start for me. Four buses and two taxis later, relief washing over me as I escaped the dustbowl of human detritus known as Managua, I was chatting to an amiable cabbie ferrying me the last 20km. San Juan came into view, and looked a nice enough place. Dumping the bags, I set off out to find the boys. I needed a drink.

Happily reunited in the street, we swapped stories over a few beers. There was nothing much happening in the town, it being the low season. But we shot a little pool, and sank a few more beers. San Juan isn't a large town, perhaps four streets run parallel behind it's beachfront road; this road is dark at night, and gangs of youths and ne'er-do-wells hang around once the sun goes down. As we walked home, a group of three men were walking towards us. One decided to menace a stray dog in the street, creeping up to it and lunging at it. Understandably, the hound went for him, snarling. The man started kicking it. Red rag to a bull, in this dog-lover's book. We appealed to him to stop. Red rag to a bull, in a gringo-hater's book. He squared up to Stef, the other two hung back. Myself and Maxy moved sideways, keeping an eye on his companions. Despite being so baby-faced, Maxy is a Glaswegian, and he understood the look I gave him after looking over the other two. If it kicks off, I'll take this one nearest me. He nodded. We smiled at our potential adversaries with beery bravado. They soon lost interest in the heated discussion though, and carried on walking. Stef pointed at us and told the dog-kicker "Your friends have left you, and now these two guys are going to kick your ass." He looked around the three of us rapidly, uncertain of himself now alone, and retreated to the sound of our laughter. We had no intention of beating him up; I approve of a fair fight or nothing at all. But he needed a fright. Nothing, bar watching Preston North End of a Saturday afternoon, will make my blood boil like someone beating an animal.

We decided to cool off, literally and metaphorically, with a midnight swim. We nipped back to the hostel, changed into shorts and ran across the road to the beach. After swimming a stupid distance under the influence of alcohol, we headed home. The security guard at the hostal admonished us for swimming there. He pointed out the dark treeline separating the beach from the street, and told us local men like to hang out there and wait for people on the beach at night; robbery, assault or both, dependent on hour and mood. Charming.

I'd hoped there'd be no more trouble in San Juan. Some hope. Playing pool again as, if you don't surf, there isn't much else to do in this town, we were minding our own business down the far end of a bar the following night. The Scot was lining up a shot when a muscly Nicaraguan came by, on his way to the bathroom. He stood inches away from the end of Maxy's hand as he lined up the shot, and began a stupid dance, rolling his forearms like a barrel. Finishing this ridiculous diplay, he popped a hand out near the Scot's head and demanded "Name?!" Our friend sighed, took his shot and said "Maxy" without looking at the payaso. This didn't go down well at all. On the way back from his unfeasibly long bathroom break, and I'm talking cocaine rather than a difficult poo, Muscles was at it again. Slighted by a diminutive Scotsman? No way, Jose. Towering over Maxy, he glared as he passed him, forking two fingers at his own eyes and then jabbing Maxy's chest as if to say "I'm watching you." Stef thought that a little joke would ease the tension. It didn't. "Hey, man..." said the Italian from his stool as Muscles passed him "...I see you like my young friend? If you like, I can introduce you?" This went down like a shit sandwich. With dysentry salsa. Stopping a Nica kicking a dog is one thing, suggesting he may have an interest in batting for the Other Team is ill-advised.

Anticipating a punch, Stef stood as Muscles got nasty. Well...nastier. I lost track of the Spanish exchanged in the heat of the moment; Muscles spraying spit everywhere as he ranted and raved, carotid arteries bulging from his neck. I had a pool cue in my hand, and told Maxy to pick up a bottle and stick it in his pocket. Muscle's friends were looking on, and we were heavily outnumbered. Thankfully his amigos had many more brain cells than he, and one split the confrontation up, pushing Stef away from his musclebound freak of a friend. I nodded my thanks, dropped the cue; we moved to leave. Muscles threw a lame, token punch at Stef's shoulder. I laughed: if he'd wanted to fight, he could easily have broken free of his compatriots. All show.

"Never forget, you are in Nicaragua, motherfucker!!!" he spat in Stefano's face. What was this...two geography lessons in one day? I'll say this for the Nicas, they certainly know where they are. Who needs GPS? I thought of asking Muscles if he worked for the Tourist Board, or if he could point in the general direction of Costa Rica, so that I could leave immediately. What a pleasant thought: Muscles in a nicely-ironed uniform, complete with hat, fetid breath melting tourists' ice-creams as he screams "You're in San Juan Del Sur, hijo de puta!" on being asked directions to the beach.

Stef was almost speechless as we walked back to the hostel "Man, what is this place? What is their problem?" I suggested we leave the very next morning, as things were getting a bit too tasty for my liking.

If I wanted to get into a fight every night, I'd never have left my hometown, Preston.

Butchery

2011-07-09T23:29:00.006+08:00

THE WAR MUSEUM at Perquin is an interesting collection of propaganda posters, decommissioned weapons, radio sets, witness transcripts and photographs. It's about as well-curated as you'd expect from a remote north-eastern village in El Salvador, but worth an hour. Nearby, an ex-guerilla has made a replica camp complete with tunnels, radio station and weapons. We had a quick look around and agreed to head to El Mozote a few miles away. Nothing happens in Perquin.

On December 11th 1981, the CIA-trained Atlacatl Battalion surrounded the tiny village of El Mozote, after a sustained bombing raid which left 20'-wide craters over a wide area. The locals, at the centre of the guerilla stronghold of Morazán, had nowhere to run. The government troops were about to send a stark message to the rebels, and the people suspected of supporting them. Men and youths were separated from the women and children, the latter taken away to the churchyard. The women were held in two houses a few hundred yards from the plaza. They could only listen to the gunshots as their menfolk were lined up against walls and killed by firing squad. Over the next three days, the women would be systematically and repeatedly raped by the soldiers. This incleded pre-teenage girls. They were then killed, but not before they suffered the anguish at the sound of their children being butchered in the churchyard. Over 700 people were murdered in this operation, 150 of them children.

A pall hangs over this town, as if it cursed. A strange atmosphere pervades the air...I felt it as we pulled into town. It feels like the people are waiting for something, but I don't know what. All eyes were on us as we crossed to a small hut to ask about guides. You could walk around the town without one, but you can't begrudge the inhabitants a few dollars for spending an hour telling the town's harrowing story.

Our guide spoke only Spanish. George's listening skills are better than mine, whereas I speak more...so we understood most of what she told us. Occasionally I wished we didn't. She began by showing us the memorials; telling us the story of the sole woman who survived to tell the tale, forced to hide as she listened to the massacre of the innocents. I can't begin to imagine the horror she felt. The names of the dead line the wall of the church, countless of them just 1 and 2 years old. How can you murder babies? I asked if the soldiers had been brought to justice, she told me not. Many of them were only youths themselves, high on drink and drugs during the slaughter. Much in the same way camp guards at German concentration camps were almost permanently drunk to deal with the tasks they were asked to perform, and American GIs were high during the My Lai massacre during the Vietnam War. The commander of the battalion was later killed when shot down in his helicopter over Perquin. The wreckage lies in the museum.

The derelict houses have not been demolished, and stand as permanent reminders. She showed us walls full of bulletholes where the men died; the house where the rapes took place; the churchyard ground where infants were put to death, many of them dismembered. Holes from heavy-calibre shells riddled the walls of other houses where fighter planes had strafed the town before the ground attack. Our guide had lost family. She was a year old at the time of the massacre, but her father had taken the family away to the coffee-growing regions for work. Her young cousins had not been so lucky. 12 of her family died in all.

You feel guilty being here, somehow complicit. Over the years, the US and British governments have interfered with the economies and politics of various countries. All in the interests of our multinational companies and their profits. No thought for the people who die in the process. A million died when Britain covertly backed a right-wing coup in Indonesia in the 60s. The consequences of America's involvement in Iraq are steadily coming to light, but the men responsible are not punished. A million people have died in Iraq in our name. For oil and control. Here in the Americas, there are millions more whose blood stains Western hands. No matter who is doing the killing, the trail always seems to lead back to our governments. And it's the innocents who suffer. In World War I, an estimated 10% of the total deaths were civillian. In WW2 it was 50%. In Vietnam 70%. In Iraq it is estimated that that 90% of the dead so far are non-combatants. And we at home are fed the same lies, and excuses when the truth is revealed. It sickens me.

We thanked our guide for her time, and saddled up. I headed out of El Mozote feeling quite gloomy, and deep in thought. It took 20 years before the people returned to this town. Maybe it would have been better to let the ghosts keep it, and start again elsewhere? But the Salvadoreans are proudly defiant people, and these returned to claim their ground, depsite the horrific atrocities carried out on it by their fellow countrymen.

My mood lightened as we headed back out onto the country road. On the way in, a small terrier had run into the road outside his house and attacked us...as he'd gone for our ankles, I'd lifted my foot up. It hit George's elbow and he, thinking it was the dog jumping at him, hit the gas. I flew back, pivoting on my coccyx and screaming at him to slow down. I could feel myself on the verge of falling off the bike backwards onto the stones, to be ravaged by the hound. Regaining my balance with relief, I told George to take it easy...it was only my foot. We were clear. Approaching the edge of town, I could see the dog standing sentinel at the end of his driveway, waiting for us. Little bugger likely knew it was one road in, one road out. "Ready?" shouted George. I slapped him on the shoulder in the affirmative. On came the dog, growling and yapping as he tried to bite us. The pair of us lashed out with our feet as George tried to keep the bike upright. I love dogs, but was quite happy to give this one a shoe-ing. He kept at it until George caught him good and proper under the chin with his heavy biker boots...the dog was launched to the grass verge, rolled twice and gave up the chase. I turned and laughed as he sat on his haunches and barked for all he was worth, furious. You have to admire his balls. He probably does on a daily basis.

The Road Less Travelled...

2011-07-09T11:35:00.006+08:00

...IS THE ROAD best travelled. I don't often envy people their trips; I'm lucky enough for it to occasionally be the other way around. But I envy Motorbike George his. I'd first met him when we'd dived the Blue Hole in Belize together. It was a disappointing dive, but a good day out. Besides, I made a pretty good mate out of it...so it wasn't all bad.

George is a Greek native, and has worked in the City of London for some time. He's probably one of those bastards responsible for the economic downturn...but if he is, he isn't letting on. He packedall that in in favour of a trip of a lifetime on a BMW 1200 motorbike he bought in Mexico. He's likely going to make it all the way to Patagonia, then get a boat to South Africa and work his way back to Europe and home. Now that is what I call a trip.

We'd followed the same route from Belize into Guatemala, George often a day behind. We traversed a river by ferry together: myself, Kneehead and The Bognorsin a sweaty minibus, George disappearing in a cloud of dusty freedom on the far bank. I could only watch green-eyed as he vanished over the horizon.

I've met a fair few bikers over the course of this trip, and indeed over the course of my last visit to the Americas. Stefano rates his best trip so far as being aboard a BSA across India. You can't match that freedom in a bus. If you shout to the driver "Hey...where does that road go?" as you pass an inviting, tree-lined stretch from a main road, he'll only think you mental. On a bike, you'd be braking and cutting off down it to investigate. I'm going to have to do it myself one of these days, and a short time on the road with George only reinforced that.

We left Suchitoto in the morning and took a back road uphill to another village, a route even the buses don't follow. This is where you really see the country and the people. Circumnavigating the lake, we enjoyed the valley from all possible vistas as we climbed higher on this winding dirt road. Cattle cooled off in the rivers; locals waved; screaming kids chased us as we passed through tiny villages; nervous dogs barked and ran us off their territory, slowing once satisfied we'd been shown who was boss.

Security is an issue with a bike. You're certainly a target on $15K's worth of shiny mechanical wonder in the middle of nowhere; particularly in places like Colombia and Brasil. You need to find hostels with somewhere to get the bike out of sight overnight, too. We'd been through one small puebleo and asked directions, only to find we had a tail a few miles out of the town. Two men on a smaller bike, the pillion hunched behind the rider. I didn't say anything, but saw George double-take in the mirror and accelerate a little. Was he thinking what I was thinking? I'm a nervous enough pillion passenger as it is, so I didn't want to voice my fears and have George put his foot down on these dodgy roads; I'd already seen how cars, buses and trucks could take a racing line in the oncoming lane, drifting over onto our side without a thought for us and our fragility. On the straights, we outpaced the duo. But on the bends, they started catching up. Closer. Closer still. I kept turning around nervously. The passenger was still crouching behind the rider, and he was eyeing me as they began to draw level. What was he holding out of sight? A gun? I pictured them alongside us, an arm with pistol outstretched as they forced us to pull over. They were right next to us now, and the pillion shifted his weight a little as we approached a bend. Shit...he's got a...he's...he's got...a chicken? I had to chuckle at my paranoia as they passed us and the passenger gave me the thumbs-up as he checked the bike out. I smiled and returned it. The chicken just looked at me, nonplussed. We started racing each other for a while, taking turns to recklessly overtake...and he waved again as they took a side-road and disappeared.

We hit the Panamerican Highway and headed east, myself navigating from the folded-up map stuffed inside my hooded top. The wind buffeted me as George accelerated, the road slightly better here. Trees zipped past, and I reflected on how my body would be smashed against one should one of these potholes prove too much for my friend's skill. But I started to relax, and George said he could feel this. I enjoyed the view, nerves disappearing. El Salvador has 18 volcanoes, and I could see four from my vantage point...the scenery was incredible.

I'd done my research on the region we were roaring towards, and George was quite happy to follow my itinerary as he hadn't read up on it. He's a lazy bugger, couldn't even be arsed getting up for the sunrise at Tikal. So we headed for the town of Alegría via Berlin. Here is where the beauty of bike travel really hits home; as we rode around the town square, surveying the groups of suspicious-looking locals with eyes glued to the bike, George tossed over his shoulder "What a shithole!" I laughed and pointed the way out of town. Alegría it was, then...a far more pleasant town of gorgeously-painted murals. Had I been on a bus, I'd have been stuck in Berlin an hour or two, with possible unwanted attention. We were lucky it was a Sunday in Alegría, though...the square was packed with diners; a small band played traditional music as we ate. The next morning the place was dead...not a soul around. So we mounted up, and cleared out...no waiting for public transport.

On the way out we visited a volcanic crater lake, described by the Lonely Paranoid as beautiful, and a great place to swim. It was neither. Underwhelmed after a circuit of it on the bike, we headed for the road out of town. Our next destination was the Morazán province, scene of the heaviest fighting, and the worst atrocities of the civil war.

Pot Luck

2011-07-08T10:40:00.007+08:00

THE BUS WAS jam-packed heading through San Salvador's main streets; heat-shimmer on the blistering tarmac; sweating locals navigating the cracked, hole-strewn pavements and avoiding the gaping manholes, covers nowhere to be seen. If you don't look where you're going in Salvador, it could literally be your downfall. I was keeping my eye out for the the Occidente terminal which serves destinations east of the capital. More and more people crowded onto the 7A bus, the aisle now two people deep. My hair was soaked, sweat trickling into my eyes and stinging as I gauged where I was on the map. So far so good. A couple of yellow buses up ahead at a gas station were marked Suchitoto: I was close. We meandered through traffic and the endless blaring of horns. I still couldn't see the terminal, as we rounded a junction and headed down a highway hill. Coming up the other side, we hit another dense metropolitan sprawl of burger joints, roadside stalls and crowds of people. The signs said Soyopango Centro. Soyopango? Shit. Gangland Central, in other words. I started to sweat even more as we turned left into a side road of markets; several people looking up at me with curiosity, others with mild hostility. This was not good. I asked a man stood in the aisle if we were near the terminal. I couldn't decipher his answer, aside from understanding that it was in the negative...it's amazing how a bit of fear scrambles your comprehension of Spanish. He intimated that I had to get off and pointed in the general direction I was to go. I apologetically climbed over the old woman I was sat next to, and scrambled to the back of the bus as it picked up speed. I'd memorised the way we'd come from the highway. As the bus slowed in traffic, I'd barged my way to the rear door and jumped. Cutting through the cars, I avoided the groups of youths hanging out on the corners, and tried not to look like a hunted animal, despite feeling precisely like one. A man across the street shouted something to me and looked for a gap to cross and approach me. I quickened the pace, shouldering my bag...painfully aware that, despite travelling light, all my valuables were in it. As I walked across the next junction, a small battered bus swung around a bend, the magical word Occidente across the top of the windscreen. The lights changed to green, but I waved at the driver as I ran in front of it, gratefully boarded and sat back in relief as Soyopango disappeared in the rearview mirror.

The terminal was a dump. The bus for Suchitoto wasn't ready to leave, and I sat in the dust on top of my bag as I waited. I'd asked a few drivers stood around which one left next, and they'd directed to me to an empty one. The one next to it was filling up, and I jumped on that one, instead. They stood and watched, laughing amongst themselves...having a bit of fun with the gringo, no doubt. Still jittery after my trip to Soyopango, the joke was wasted on me. Just wanted the bus to get moving and leave this squalid place behind.

I rarely time it so that I arrive in a new place after dark, as it makes me a little uncomfortable. But Suchitoto is a delightful little pueblo. The cobbled main square is flanked by delicate trees, the white iglesia a pretty focal point. Small cafes and shops are dotted around. It's rather like a smaller Antigua de Guatemala, with far less tourists. The streets are quiet and clean, pastel-painted, most stencilled with a blackbird and a message decrying violence against women. Locals sit on their steps at all hours of the day, whiling away life. Strolls around town are pleasant, momentary shelter from the sun gained under manicured trees. Things move too slowly to even be called lazy. You could while away some of your own life here.

Laying in a hammock translating some Truman Capote from Spanish, I was admiring the view of the valley and the lake when two fellows came into the tiny garden. We exchanged Hellos. They were Mexican, and one of them was about to start puffing on a chillum. "Que fumas?" I asked, smiling. "Hashish...quieres?" "Claro que si" I said gratefully as he passed it over. We smoked awhile. The lads, Andreas and Emiliano, are both animators from Mexico City. As they were heading down to the lake, I tagged along; the afternoon was pleasant, and we rounded it off with a few beers. They told me that they were heading all the way to Argentina if possible, but would be around in Mexico when I headed back up. It'll be good to have a couple of guides, particularly as they live in the Mexican equivalent of East London: lots of cool bars and bohemian hangouts. I offered to teach Emi to dive if we cross paths; they mentioned that they'd possibly leave their car in Panama if I fancied driving it back up to Mexico? Sounded like a good idea in principle, but in reality I'd be a target for every corrupt bastard on the route up. And it's a long way.

We had a Belgian of my age at our guesthouse, and he came along for a drink one night. His topics of conversation varied, and he always came back to Poverty. And if the Mexicans spoke to him in English, for my benefit, he'd always answer in Spanish. He stayed out while we headed back for beers in our ramshackle garden, and a smoke. "Belgians are weird" decided Andreas, exhaling a cloud of brown smoke. I laughed and agreed. I certainly met a few rare ones in Asia; the best one in the Philippines on a diveboat, who'd loudly declared "I have fought a man in every country I have visited" and bellowed with laughter. Judging by his 50-year old, muscled frame and scarred, weathered face, you believed him. He looked every inch the brawling seaman.

Suchi is definitely on the touristy side, and Apple Mac laptops were in abundance around the square in the mornings. What kind of fool travels with a $2000 laptop? Insane if you ask me. My tiny Acer cost me $300 and, even if it was stolen tomorrow, I'd have paid that by now in web cafe fees. A 15" MacBook Pro getting lifted, on the other hand, would be no laughing matter. I was translating the newspaper one morning, over a cup of coffee. A woman with the naffest, hairiest little dog imaginable was shouting into her Mac's screen on the next table.

"Heeeeeey...how you doing?"
I was fine thirty seconds ago.
"I'm in Suchitoto. Suchitito. No...no. S-U-C-H-I-T-O-T-O. El Salvador.EL. SALVADOR. I can't hear you very well...I sure wish I had headphones."
You and me both.

Hopefully your Skype credit is low?
She fed the little dog, which had climbed from her lap onto the table, a piece of meat from her fork.
"Rene is here...say Hi, everyone..."
Rene, understandably, seemed more interested in the meat.
"Oh yeah...yeah...she's having a great time. I'm just updating her blog."
Sounds like a must-read? I think I'd rather read John Grisham's back-catalogue in one sitting. Could be interesting if the dog writes about its solo travels in Korea, though?

"I'll upload some of her pictures to her Facebook...I have some of her in front of all the sights."
This woman was clearly deranged. I suddenly remembered my iPod in my pocket. But playing loud techno to drown out deranged nonsense is not conducive to comprehending Spanish. I left.

There was no respite back at the guesthouse. A scruffy Czech had been there for a few days and was sat at the small table under the shelter facing the lake. He was making a distracting scratching noise. I looked up from my books to see him rolling handfuls of hair between his hands, trying to help them form dreddlocks. Spare me.

He turned and spoke. "Have you got a Nokia smartphone?"
Bizarre opening. "No, mate...why?"
"It's just that I logged into Foursquare, and there is another user nearby..."
"Why would you use an app designed for cities in a remote Salvadorean town?"
"It would be interesting to meet other users here."
"Oh. Good luck finding the other user here."
I noticed he was wearing a Ramones tee-shirt, and couldn't resist.
"So...who's your favourite Ramone?"
"Ah" he paused "I kind of like them all equally. I don't have a favourite."
I doubt you have their records, either.
"So what are you doing in Suchitoto?" he asked, changing the subject.
"Just relaxing, learning a little Spanish. You?"
"I'm looking for peace."
"Well...I hear the war's been over for years, mate."
"No...I mean I want to get into another state" he insisted.
"Get yourself down to the bars tonight, we'll be getting into a right old state" I told him.
"No...like meditation and stuff."
Straight over his head.

The Mexicans departed for Honduras. I was pondering my next move when Motorbike George, the Greek I'd met diving in Belize and had spent some time with in Guatemala, mailed to say he was on his way. Over a few beers, he told me he had no concrete plans in El Salvador, besides heading South. I told him I was travelling light, and he suggested I jump on the back of the bike. I didn't need asking twice.

¡Barato!

2011-07-08T03:06:00.002+08:00

ON THE ROAD you constantly hear fellow backpackers comparing the costs of living in various countries; prices of street food, hostels and the like. I too have a budget. I go over it occasionally, but can balance it out by having a day or two where I'm doing nothing: staying in to read, learn more Spanish or write this blurb. I'll just deny myself a night or two on the tiles if I've treated myself to a day of diving. What I refuse to do is travel for longer at the expense of the local people, whether that's a low-paid trek guide or a waitress in a cafe. Their employers may be getting them cheap, but this doesn't mean you should follow suit. So this means helping people out with a dollar or two where you can. A small amount of cash for good service you receive is not a high price to pay. Make someone's day: give them a bit extra. People here can feed their family for a day on what you or I would spend on beer in an evening. So it gets on my nerves when people refuse to tip, or try to haggle someone down to the bare minimum they can accept on an item or service and still turn a measly profit, before bragging to others about their negotiating skills. I'd ask those people to put themselves in the place of the people they are dealing with. How would you feel if someone with more available money than you could earn in ten years turned up and spent ten minutes trying to knock you down a dollar or two? I'll tell you how I would feel: I would depise them. I've seen the looks on people's faces when dealing with foreigners who are adamant they'll fight for the best possible deal. It's not a case of haggling, as they'll give you a gringo price initially, but offer them 3/4 of this and they'll give it to you...haggling is expected. In some countries, they respect you more for it. But starting negotiaiting at a quarter of the price is just downright rude, in my book. Saving yourself the price of a sandwich each day back home is a tasteless victory.

I've met people who are travelling on a much tighter budget than myself. Others with far more to spend. Personally, if service is not included on something then I'll give 10%, and more if the service has been really good. Speaking better Spanish has been useful in this respect; when using a tourist shuttle between cities or countries, I'll chat with the drivers...ask about their families, how many days of work they get a week, and whether or not they own the vehicle, or drive it for a firm. I've met some really nice drivers, and they've helped me with my Spanish. So if I've had a pleasant chat at the end of an journey, I don't consider it a bind to give a man a dollar for a beer as he's passing my bag down from the roof. I don't see enough people doing it. A smile and a gracias is worth a dollar of anyone's money when you've been looked after. Never forget that you are an ambassador for your country. I've talked to locals in many countries about various nationalities of backpacker; they have an opinion on each one, dependant on their experience of them. If you make time to speak to people, pay them what their service is worth, then you are smoothing the way for your fellow countrymen in the future.

I've had moments of mortal embarrassment when people I've met randomly on the road and eaten with have exclaimed "Oh...they've put 10% service on?" when the bill has arrived, and their share is a dollar over what they'd pulled out of their purses. Calculators come out, the proprietors frown as they wrongly think they are suspected of pulling a fast one. It's unpleasant. Other travellers write a budget diary, itemising to the last cent exactly what they have spent. This is no way to travel, for me. If I have a week less on a trip because I've given people their due in tips along the way, then so be it. When you're back home after travelling, spending $100 on a night out with friends, these people are still here trying to make ends meet.

The Israeli guy in Tacuba made my blood boil. He waxed lyrical about his favourite spot in Central America.

"Guatemala is so good...a great country. Better than El Salvador, for me."

"I liked it, too...lots of sights. But El Salvador has far less tourists, and the people are friendlier" I replied.

"Yes, but in Guatemala you can get a dorm for $3, a meal for $2 on the street...an amazing country..."

"Is that your definition of an amazing country, then? How cheap it is? Not how exciting it is to travel, or how stunning the scenery is?" I spat. "What about the people...did you like them?"

I didn't need to ask whether the people liked him...I saw the look on the old lady's face sour when she saw he'd left a ten cent coin after we'd eaten lunch on our return from the waterfall trek. The food was cheap enough, and tasty, so myself and James left a dollar each. They ran for a bus as I finished; as the lady cleared our table, she picked up the dollars...the dime was left where it was. She looked at me and I shrugged, pointing to where the tight bastard had been sat. She snorted, then laughed as I raised a forearm and slapped the elbow with the palm of my right hand. "Barato!" she agreed. Cheap.

I had a favourite breakfast place in El Tunco. Guacamole with coriander, beans and rice with fried plantain...washed down with a massive orange juice. Wasn't on the menu, I just told the waiter exactly what I wanted. And it was delicious. On leaving the first time, he said I owed $3. I told him I'd had orange juice, too...but he told me it was included. Figuring the meal was worth more, I gave him $4. He grinned. I ate there at least once a day, and was always greeted with a "Senor!" and a handshake. I was served pretty damn quick, too. Look after people, and they will look after you.

In Tacuba I'd met a couple at the opposite end of the spectrum to these spendthrifts. Two Canadians: Gary the bug-collector and his wife Maryanne. Bug Boy was out day and night collecting ugly specimens with his net, while his wife was content to take it easy around the hostel. They were quite reserved when I first arrived, but I later realised that they are content to see who they gravitate to, and vice versa. As it turns out, in the current crop it was myself and a Basque fellow named Nacho. We were all very similar in outlook, and got on very well. The Canadians were two of the most selfless people I've ever met. They don't have children of their own, but have brought up their niece and nephew after a series of tragic events in the family. Gary paints murals in the town in his spare time, Maryanne looks for volunteer work, and donates money and supplies to the local school. (I was due to leave from San Salvador to head for Nicaragua a few weeks later, and the couple generously donated one of the nights they have stored up at the Marriott so I could spend a night in luxury. If you're reading, Maryanne...thanks, it was heaven in a bed.) What goes around certainly comes around.

I was heading for Suchitoto that morning, but was hanging on for the party to arrive from the beach. Maryanne was in agreement that there would be some fallout as regards the women on the trip. I was told that a girl had turned up a couple of weeks back, after a fling with Manolo. Thinking there was something special between them, she'd arrived back to surprise him in a big romantic gesture...only to get a severely frosty shoulder in return. Oh dear...some people move on quickly, don't they? I couldn't wait any longer, despite the comedy potential, as I had a long journey ahead. So I sought the quiet local woman who'd been working each day at the hostel, and found her washing up. I thanked her for all her help, and gave her a $5 bill. She looked shocked, and accepted it in quiet embarrassment, saying "For me..?". I smiled. "Si." She recovered a little as I picked up my bag and went to leave the kitchen, thanked me and wished me a good trip. Sitting with Maryanne, I relayed what had just happened. "Good for you" she said "that lady earns $5 a day, for 12 hours. I gave her five myself this morning." I'm sure that $10 made a big difference to her family that week, and that makes me feel good...and less guilty for being a comparatively rich man in a poor environment.

So put your hand in your pocket. So what if you spend a few more dollars a day? Make somebody smile and oil the wheels for the next traveller passing through. Besides, you don't want a frowning, disgruntled Latino vigourously slapping his elbow as you leave the premises, do you?

Hot-Blooded Latin Stereotypes & Cooling Off

2011-06-30T12:00:00.002+08:00

ESCAPING LA RUTA, we headed for Tacuba, a small town at the end of the line in northwestern El Salvador. The place itself is pretty dead, and drunken zombies stagger around the time at all hours. Unemployment is high, and some people have given up...notably the men of the town; the women seem made of sterner stuff. In Tacuba, behind every drunken man, there's a strong woman. Wandering the town one afternoon, in search of coverage of Honduras v El Salvador, we'd ended up walking into the drunk tank. Seeing faded hand-painted beer ads on a dirty wall, I shrugged at Andy, and he nodded: worth a look. The smell of unwashed bodies hit us in the face like a fist as we entered. Three men got up to greet us with a cry which was the desperate primeval call of "The free beer has arrived". They staggered towards us, arms outstretched in frightening welcome, and I noticed another man laid out on the dirt-packed floor. Another was kicking the pinball machine. We backed up rapidly towards the doorway, explaining we needed the football, and they obviously had no TV. They were too drunk for any realistic pursuit of us, and we quickly found a bakery with a telly which they gladly put on as we started knocking the beers back. It seemed no-one in the town gave a toss about the game; funny when you think that a football game between these two sparked a war. Not just the football, mind...but the land reforms in the region had favoured Honduras, and border tensions boiled over after the next football game, hence it being named the Football War. I refuse to use the S Word bandied around in these parts.

I'd come to the town due to its proximity to the Nacional Parque El Imposible (No...I'm not translating that for you, either). The main hostel in town organises all the tours. Mama and Papa run the hostel, and their son deals with the tours. The elderly couple are lovely, and the house is probably the most cosy I've stayed in. The exuberant Manolo is the life and soul, and the perfect host; if you are a female travelling alone, that is. If you're a man, you're pretty invisible unless you want to sign up for a tour. He's a good-looking lad in his thirties, but those looks aren't going to last forever, and he doesn't seem in a rush to settle to down. Yes, I know I'm hardly the one to talk. But then I'm not the one trying to shag everything available, hot or not. He'd been seeing a young Jewish girl from NYC when we arrived. She'd asked another English lad at the hostel if she should be sleeping with Manolo or not, and did he think the latino did this with a lot of guests. James didn't want to tell her that, yes...of course he did. But that would become obvious in a painful way. Besides, he's mentioned in the Lonely Planet as the insatiable Manolo. And there's enough mentions of him online. He's a very naughty boy. We didn't talk much, and he seemed a little cagey around me; I think he knew that I recognised the player behaviour and the macho posturing, wandering round the place in his vest with a pump-action shotgun. But the girls fall for it, hook, line and sinker.

Myself and Andy had returned from the game half-cut, to find Manolo and the guests trying to finalise the plans for the bike ride through the jungle to the coast, where the idea was to spend the next couple of nights in a lodge. It was a bun-fight. Some wanted to stay one night, not two. Some didn't want to ride a bike. After twenty minutes of debate, it was noted that there weren't enough bikes to go round. One person had to drop out. I hadn't met James at this point, an Englishman my age, but turned to him as he was sat right next to me, asked if he was going. He shook his head and said he was doing the six-hour waterfall hike with one other fellow. Smaller group? Count me in. I didn't fancy the Big Gringo Bike Ride, despite the opportunity to witness what I knew was going to happen: there was another single girl in the group. It'd be like watching a car crash in slow-motion: the shark would be smelling blood.

Next morning, we waited around while the guides prepared the bikes. I smiled to myself, as I'd obviously made the right choice: the bikes were youths, and not designed for rough terrain, with street tyres. Riding those would be a nightmare for anyone non-midgets in the group. The look James gave me told me he was thinking the same. So off we went, heading up the rough road the the jump-off point. We were joined by an Israeli, who was actually OK, apart from being a tight bastard. We said our Goodbyes to the rest of the group and dropped downhill into the forest. A meandering, treacherously wet path soon had us at the river's edge. A little further ahead, we came to the first jump. The river ran through a tight gorge, and our guide pointed out the footholds we'd need to get across to the rock face we'd jump from. It was precarious, and needed one fluid movement to get across: one slip and you'd fall into the river via some nice rocks below. I began wondering what I'd been thinking to sign up for this...hardly therapeutic for a fractured rib, is it? James volunteered to go first, and the guide wedged himself into the area below, the better to catch us should we mis-time it and fall. He must have been insane, as he was half my size. Following James across, we prepared ourselves for the 5m leap as the guide lobbed a stone to tell us where to aim for. In James went, myself following 30 seconds later. The water was England Cold, and very refreshing after the sweaty climb downhill. After the Israeli clumsily leapt in, the guide pointed out the way to swim to the next fall.

The falls got bigger each time, and we reached Jump 3. Inching out over the slimy rocks, we looked at the drop...a good 6m. There was a clump of jagged rock at the bottom. Hitting those was going to mean serious trouble. The guide told us that only one person had broken an ankle recently, and it took them six hours to help him hobble out. That made me feel a lot better, obviously. James went first again. The trainers I was wearing were so old that there was no tread on them, making me more nervous about slipping. My legs were leaden. Physics was telling me that forward motion would carry me well clear of the rocks with an outward leap; but it's one thing your brain telling your legs that, quite another for the legs to agree, what with the restless butterflies fluttering around in your testicles. But shakily obey they did, and I hit the water hard; it took a few seconds to suface, visiblity in the brown water limited, and a grateful breath was inhaled through a grin. This was exhilarating. I swam on my back to the shale slope at the mouth of the gorge, the rocky edifice above me dripping water from the foliage through shafts of sunlight. The Israeli chickened out, and climbed to a lower perch before nervously launching himself into space. Warming ourselves in the sun on a large flat rock, we agreed that this was one of the best trips any of us had taken while travelling.

We arrived at our next jump, skipping one which looked tempting, had the guide not wagged a finger and told us it was shallow. You could do this trip yourself, but that was the point where you'd break something and rename the river gorge Shit Creek; your paddle would be nowhere to be seen. This next jump was bigger, maybe 6-7m. The rock to leap from was a mere foot across, between a tree and a bush. Trepidation fought my will. James went in immediately: valiant Englishman to the core. My foot was slipping on the rock whenever I put weight on it, and my legs started trembling. The Israeli shook his head and followed the guide down the rocks to the edge of the churning pool. I went to follow him, then steeled myself: I'd regret it if I left the valley without completing the set. I stared at the spot, didn't think about it too much, and launched myself. Hanging in the air, I could see James grinning at me. I popped up out of the water facing the jump...it looked even higher from the pool. My pink palms stung from slapping the surface as I hit. James said he was doing it again, and I followed him. Much easier the second time around...so much that we actually did it again.

The last jump was a different prospect. We stood on the lip of a slab or rock atop a 60m plunge. I assumed, correctly, that we were not to leap from here. With the help of the guide, we abseiled down to a lower point next to the falls where we could drop 8m into the raging pool. This one had less rocks to potentially cripple us, so myself and James were straight in. We jumped a further three times before we made the steep uphill trek to our pickup point...it was just too good not to. Our soaking tee shirts were steaming as we panted our way up through the undergrowth. Before the last waterfall we'd been discussing what the guide likely earned. At $25 a head, I said I hoped it was $10 per person, Manolo keeping $15. James scoffed and said he'd be lucky to be earning $10 per day. We agreed we'd tip him $5. The Israeli quickly dropped out of that conversation, understandably.

Heading back in a pickup through the forest, I noticed a small dog running after us. Tan and black, it obviously had some Dobermann and Rottweiler in it. He was a beautiful animal, maybe 6 months old. It had followed us for some time when I turned to another of Manolo's staff who was stood in the back of the truck and asked him where the dog had come from. "The beach." I was flabbergasted. He then told me they'd come some 18km with him running behind. Some kid was going to be heartbroken tonight, I thought. We lost sight of him on some stretches as the truck picked up speed, but he caught us on rougher ground, running past and awaiting us at the next bend, tail wagging. I fell in love with this feisty little character. Every time I feared we'd lost him, he'd regain the ground. Everyone in the truck was grinning and looking out for hi. Just when I was beginning to picture life on the road with this ballsy little chap, we rounded a corner and drove through a small village we'd passed on the way up. There was a workshop there, with two muscular, mean junkyard dogs roaming the road. We stopped to let someone out, and I was praying the dog would make it past. No chance. One attacked him, and he fled beneath the nearest car. As he came out, he tried to slink away with his tail between his legs. The other dog was simply watching him, waiting his turn. As our truck set off again, he looked after us. I was heartbroken. The latinos would have thought me an idiot, but I felt like jumping out and going to his rescue. But what would I do with a dog in tow? To be honest, as difficult as it could have made border crossings and the like, I very much regret not going back for him. I have a lump in my throat just writing this. As we turned a bend out of sight, I could only gaze backwards, hoping to see him legging it around the corner. He'd have been mine to keep. James could tell I was upset "That's the trouble with life...there's always a bigger dog."

Travelling Light

2011-06-30T10:29:00.007+08:00

THERE ARE ADVANTAGES and disadvantages to carrying your own dive gear across the planet. Whileit's great to have equipment you trust and are familiar with, as opposed to taking your life in your hands with a leaking BCD and rasping regulators rented out by a sketchy dive shop, the stuff weighs a bloody ton. My main pack is 20kg+, mainly dive gear, with limited clothing. So after knacking my rib on the surfboard, I decided I'd do a tour of El Salvador without the big bag; Sean kindly agreed to mind it, as he was staying in El Tunco 5 weeks. I lent him my laptop in return for the favour. Packing three tee shirts, my shorts, one pair of swim-shorts, a book, my notebook and camera, I was ready for some serious chickenbus action. The big bag would be a weight off both my mind and my rib.

LAGO DE COATEPEQUE is an hour outside of San Salvador, then a further bus from another junction with El Congo gets you shoreside. It's a varied mix around the lake; walled villas of the rich sit as empty playthings until the weekend, while poorer locals eke out a living from dilapidated, tiny homes alongside the dusty road. I'd travelled up with a trio from Tunco, and we headed for the only hostel which seemed to be operational. And it had certainly seen better days. A couple of workmen were sweeping leaves from the pathways around a cloudy swimming pool. Talk about polishing a turd. The majority of the buildings were in urgent need of repair, it looked like the owners had bitten off more than they could chew. Having said that, this is Latino workmen we're talking about...get a team of Polish lads in there, and the placewould be completely refurbished in a week. But maybe the locals like to save a bit of work for tomorrow, and I don't suppose you can blame them.

We were greeted by the local woman who ran the show. She showed us the main building with pool table and TV, and rusting multi-gym in the gardens. The jetty to the lake was a little patchy, but safe to negotiate your way across slowly. The boss disappeared and returned with a laminated menu for dinner. I was observing the wide variety of food stains on her sweatshirt, silently musing on the age of them, as she passed it to me, leaving a greasy smudged thumbprint in the corner. Like I was going to eat there? I played safe and ate at Oscar's pizza shop; a tiny place dominated by his huge oven. He was a really nice fellow who made 5" pizzas for the local kids for just $1. There are not enough people like that in the world. Two impossibly cute little locals had been waiting for their pizza, and we offered them the slices of ours we couldn't eat. The poor little mites even ate the crusts we'd bitten into; that small detail made me feel really sad. Travel makes you realise how lucky you are.

COATEPEQUE should be a serene place. The lake is best swum in the morning when the wind is low, there are no waves and the water is clear. We were down there early for a day of swimming and reading. Said serenity was broken within minutes by the annoying buzz of approaching jetskis. The owners made figure-of-eight passes around the jetty, trying to catch our eyes. A smile and a No, gracias didn't seem to do the trick. They'd go no further than 30 yards away before heading back, gesturing at the machines and then pointing at you. Like one of us, after an hour of badgering, was suddenly going to leap up in a state of frantic excitement and shout "You there, my good man with the jetski...nothing would complete my life more than renting one of those at this very moment...do bring it over and force yourself upon my wallet, dear boy!?" About as likely as us taking the boat tours which tried the same tactic after the jetskis had given up. In he sailed, pointing down at his craft "Boat!" he cried. "Barco" I answered back. You name it in my tongue, I'll match you in yours. And no ta, I don't want a joyride.

Having had pizza for lunch, our dinner options were limited. We walked to the edge of the village to look for a local comedor, basically a kitchen run from someone's home. Seeing one that looked atmospheric and softly-lit, we headed in. I regretted my haste immediately as the woman jumped up from her dinner, swept bits of food onto the dirty floor with a greasy rag, and bade us sit. A stinking dog begrudgingly shifted its carcass from the floor to let us pass. English manners prevented me bolting for the door. A rictus grin adorned my face. As we ordered and waiting, I took in the surroundings. Unidentifiable animal skins splayed on the walls; lethal-looking wooden traps; faded photographs; huge machetes. Several weird relics dotted the room, laced with cobwebs; it looked like a set from the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Grandpa was probably out back, weakly trying to hammer a tourist to death over a bucket. Thankfully the food wasn't as grim as the surroundings. The worrying thing for me was that my companions said that they'd eaten in far worse places on their trip? Like where...prison?

SANTA ANA was the next logical place to stay, being the gateway to the Ruta De Las Flores. The Lonely Paranoid describes it thus: "Hints of a wealthy yesteryear linger in the colonial backstreets...lively nightlife and proud enterpreneurial spirit...the plaza is among the finest in El Salvador..." The only way a local would be proud in this grimy, pointless dump would be if he'd saved enough for a car to drive out of there in. The main square is nothing to look at during the day, and gets very sketchy at night. None of the bars stayed open later than 8pm in that area. I wandered out around 9pm the first night, after smoking weed on the roof terrace with a genial 60-year-old Italian fellow. He'd been travelling on-and-off for years, had no ties, just enjoyed seeing the world...and getting stoned. I felt like Scrooge meeting the Ghost Of Christmas Future. Except he wasn't pointing at my grave, just passing me a joint. Gracias. Hunger got the better of me, and a girl named Kerry was peckish, too. Out we headed through the deserted backstreets to the plaza, encountering only various spectres in the shadows, most looking like rejected extras from Thriller. After a fruitless walk around the darkened square, we escaped the beggars and headed back...reduced to a Pollo Companero for dinner. Think KFC but ten times worse. I'd have been happily back at the lakeside smelling wet dog and playing Guess The Dead Animal Pelt while waiting for my undercooked chicken. It's just a shame that the Casa Verde hostal happens to be the best accomodation I've used, while being situated in the worst town in El Salvador.

ATACO is a beautiful little town where no-one pays much attention to Westerners. No-one, that is, apart from a few buses full of schoolgirls who ran over en masse when they saw us, politely demanding to have their photos taken with us. One said I looked like Paul McCartney. I asked if she meant in the 60s or in his 60s? The German girl with us was popular, blondes being a rarity in these parts. While his girlfriend was occupied being photographed I muttered under my breath to Andy, pointing out a shy girl stood at the back of the pack; she was far and away the most incredibly stunning young woman I've seen in Central America...jet-black hair and cheekbones you could slice bread with. If she walked down the street in London, no doubt she'd have a modelling contract by the end of the afternoon. Andy agreed, but said I was a dirty old bugger...she was only 15. But I honestly wasn't even thinking impure thoughts, simply wowed by the vision of her.

We used Ataco as a base to discover the Ruta De Las Flores (if you need that one translating, don't bother taking up Spanish, will you?), a network of small towns and villages linked by a single bus route. This area is supposedly prettier in the summer when the flowers are in full bloom, but the views of the surrounding hills and valleys were enough for me as they were.

JUAYUA is famed for its weekend food fair, and we headed there under the misguided idea that there'd be everything from frog curry to barbecued lizard. Unfortunately for us, it was the usual fayre of rice, beans and fried chicken. This food really is going to be the death of me. I've never had a bad meal in Thailand, and never had a good one in the Americas...bar the trout in San Gil, Colombia, and breakfast in El Tunco, El Salvador. Buy Phad Thai on the street in Bangkok, and it's far and away richer in taste than the shite forced on us here. Depressing. Anyway, Juayua isn't the most exciting place, but we had a great day there watching Barcelona stuff Manchester United in the Champions League Final. I think the locals expected us to support the Reds, but after the Fergusons crippled my football club this season, I was dancing with delight as the Spaniards humiliated them. Lovely.

Riding The Hog

2011-06-12T04:36:00.005+08:00

I WAS MOMENTARILY blinded, floating on my back amid a hissing white world, the glare of the sun burning my face; the leash on my right ankle taught as the wave dragged the board shorewards. Pulling the leash, I was clinging to the board when the second wave of the set crashed over me, the roar of water deafening. The world turned a deep green momentarily, and I gasped for air as the third one struck, winding me. This set over, I climbed back atop the board and started paddling back out. I could see Sean thirty yards away, a massive grin on his face as he sat waiting for another powerful set of waves to come in from offshore. I grinned back, wondering what the bloody hell I was doing out here?

Myself and Sean have a mutual friend in Leeds named Ash. We'd figured this much out on meeting in Tree one night. Sean was travelling down towards Colombia with his girlfriend from Medellin, and they're getting married next year. Nice trip. I'd never tried surfing, unless you count those crappy polystyrene boards you buy on holidays in Devon when you're ten years old? Anyway, we'd been on the same boat out of Utila and headed to Copan, Honduras, together. They were heading for El Tunco in El Salvador, whereas I was heading for the capital.

The bus pulled out of La Ceiba, bound for San Pedro Sula. We were hardly out of the terminal when other passengers were flagging down the bus. A young woman in her mid-twenties came aboard. She was tall and well-dressed, and likely one of the most beautiful women I've seen in the Americas: stunning does her an injustice. I was one seat from the back, and she sat behind me, near a family. She played with a little girl for a while, but kept catching my eye. She asked if she could sit next to me. I wasn't going to say No, was I? My Spanish was rusty after 2 months on Utila, so I only got half the conversation we had. She asked where I was going, and if I was travelling alone? Did I have a girlfriend? She told me she was single. My antennae twitched at this, and alarm bells rang when she showed me all her family photos on her phone before offering me a drink. I've experienced this before, in the Philippines. I turned down her drink, as I had my own. I was offered candy. Smiling, I told her that they were bad for the teeth. She kept up sporadic smalltalk while sending and receiving a few texts. On reaching the halfway point, she went into the restaurant, whereas I stayed on the bus. I had to laugh when she reappeared with a couple of apples. Obviously better for the teeth. I shook my head and told her I wasn't hungry. She flashed me a winning smile and tried to insist; several times. I declined. The smile faded rather rapidly. As the bus set off, she made a call, turning her head away from me to speak. I listened in and overheard "I told him I do not have a boyfriend...no...no...meet me at the other side of the terminal." When the bus came to a stop, she was up and away without even a glance in my direction. A little odd, considering she'd wanted to be friends earlier? I considered calling her name and giving her a sarcastic wave, but didn't know who, or how big, her accomplice was. On exiting the bus, she was out of sight. My Dad's brought me up to question things which look too good to be true, because you usually find that they are. And believe me, this gorgeous siren truly was too good to be true. Bit of a nasty streak though, don't you think? I've since heard that this bus route is notorious for drugging-and-robbing. You can't be too careful.

After a night in Copan, I was waiting for a shuttle bus to El Salvador. Sean and Susannah turned up, and we were joined by another Yorkshireman and a loud Welshman I nicknamed Brad Pits, due to the noxious stench coming from under his arms every time he leaned forward to rest his forearms on my headrest. Repugnant. The conversation was a banal mix of laddish one-upmanship and out-and-out bullshit. My headphones were soon on, and Sean told me at the border that he'd followed suit: it was unbearable.

We crossed the border into El Salvador, the Immigration men bemused at our requests for a stamp. The CA-4 Agreemement between Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador and Nicaragua means that we are supposed to get a 90 day visa for all four countries, but most people get a fresh stamp in each country and a further 90 days. It makes more sense to us. And besides, being a graphic designer, I wanted a nice Salvadorean stamp for my passport collection.

Heading through the countryside, it soon became clear I'd swapped one country full of small men in big hats for another country of small men in big hats. But El Salvador has a slightly different feel to it, a charm which I can't quite put my finger on just yet. A tiny gas station with a bashful, bored attendant blasting salsa from a tinny radio; two beautiful female traffic cops checking a driver's papers by the side of the road, one catching my eye as we passed...an excuse for breaking the law if ever I saw one; an old woman walking roadside, a huge bundle of firewood atop her head, secured by a headband of cotton; corrugated-rooved lean-to huts giving way to concrete houses as we neared San Salvador's beating heart; street vendors alongside the Pan Americana highway, leaping aboard schools of slowing buses to sell everything from cakes to toothbrushes; the constant blare of horns and traffic belching fumes; an old caballero atop his horse amongst the stalls, white-hatted in a spotless shirt and trousers, blanco pony immaculate beneath him...a proud, defiant anachronism, oblivious to the cacophony of this modern life raging about him.

Night fell as we neared the capital, and I decided to head for the coast first. Tunco is a tiny one-street village, dead during the week but busy at the weekends when Salvadoreans come to party. It's not a picturesque beach, it's black volcanic sand and piles of rocks and dead trees strewn across its length lending it a post-apocalypic air, akin to a Mad Max set. But people are just here for the surf. And it's a relaxed place to hang out, I got waylaid for a week. So I decided to try surfing. Sean's a surfing evangelist in much the same way I promote the undersea experience. He lives for it. So he was to show me the ropes. We rented boards and headed out. I wasn't expecting an epiphany, but would certainly settle for a physique like some of these regular surfers, if this was the way to get it? Not that that would likely happen, what with my beer habit.

Catching a wave is not a problem. Paddling out to the waves is the problem. The rip currents here are strong, and you can be carried halfway back down the beach before you're even 20 metres out to sea. It's absolutely shattering, and it's no wonder the loacals are built as they are. My shoulders were aching within a few minutes. My problem was that Tunco's wave is not ideal to learn; my arrival coincided with the biggest swells for some time, and some of the olas were twice head-height. Heading out to try and ride these was perhaps a little foolhardy. I was content to sit out there on the shoulders of the waves and watch the experts. Day Three was to change things for me. The surf was impossible to get past, I didn't have the experience nor the stamina to break through to the waves offshore. I was being carried towards the central spot on the playa where the waves smash a huge mound of rocks; better to abandon this and go for a pint, I reckoned. Almost at shore, and making a right spectacle of myself, I was trying in vain to reach the safety of the beach. A big wave caught me, and I desperately tried to cling to my board as I was flung toward the boulder-strewn sand. I was thrown onto the edge of it, and tried to climb aboard once the set passed. Immediately I felt one of the five ribs I broke in Thailand, November 2008, aching acutely. Oh shit, this was going to interfere with my diving somewhat. And travelling around with a heavy pack was going to limit my recovery. Happily I was provided with Plan B.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

2011-06-12T04:26:00.003+08:00

THE BIGGEST LIE on Utila is, apparently, "I'm leaving tomorrow" and, despite my aforementioned disdain for the island as a whole, it had a magnetic pull which was difficult to break free from. Not due to the place itself, rather the people I made friends with while there. Stefano, a tall, thoughtful Italian, had been the main man keeping me sane. We'd met on a boat out to a dive site on the south of the island; I always watch other divers kitting up, note their equipment choices, and hazard a guess as to their diving ability. You learn to do this as a working Divemaster. Stef was as good as I'd guessed, his diving effortless. I respect a good diver. Being 37, he was as exasperated as me about the average age of the single females we were surrounded by on Utila. I lost count of the number of times we moaned about this. But we got on with it. The Third Amigo was a mop-haired Glaswegian named Maxy. I'd assisted Juicy on the Open water, Advanced and Rescue Diver courses. Maxy had been on all three, and was a pretty good diver, too. I was obviously pleased he's decided to take his Instructor course elsewhere, after getting some more varied experience. But what I liked about being around Maxy was the Scots banter. Never short on a laugh with him, and I'd pass by his place on the way to the beach, always seduced by his first question of the day "Fancy a spliff, wee man?" That's my boy. Tempy had been the other in my core trio of mates. Intelligent, beautiful and generally good company, she made my time on that godforsaken patch of rock bearable. She took me into subterranean caves on the island one morning, lighting our way by candles as we got further inside. And then she made me swim in the black pools inside, bats whirling around our heads; despite my primal fear of the Cave Monster which was obviously lurking below the surface. I preferred our deserted beach on the north side that afternoon, if I'm honest. Call me chicken.

I'd tried to leave the day previous. Maxy and Stef had gone down the dock to say goodbye at 6am. Thankfully another friend of ours, a German named Thomas, had been leaving too. So their early start wasn't in vain. I packed that night, and drank a lot less than I did on my previous Last Night At Tree. Next morning I was up at the crack of dawn. I headed for the dock, and was halfway down the road when Maxy and Stef came walking towards me waving their hands at waist height. "No ferry....you missed it." I swore. Mainly as I'd have to carry my heavy pack back uphill; another night out with these boys was no bad thing. I looked at the local on the wall nearby and he shook his head "Gone. Tomorrow." Then the lads started laughing. I joined in, and we headed for the boat. I asked if they'd put the local to it, but they said he'd just joined in unprompted.

Reaching the boat, I was fighting back the tears; I was really going to miss these two. They'd made me a very amusing leaving card about our time on the island. I was touched. Stef pulled out a monster joint for breakfast. Stoned at 6.30am on a rough ferry crossing? Thanks, fellas. I'd asked Tempy not to come to the dock, as I hated goodbyes, and always got upset. But I was pleased to see her cycling down the jetty. It was the nicest send-off I've ever had. As the boat pulled away, I was biting my lip. But as we headed out to sea, I felt relief to be on the road again. It's always easy to get stuck somewhere, and harder to get going. If the island was mainly Spanish-speaking, and the diving a lot better, I'd likely still be there. But it was definitely time to go. Besides, we're going to meet up in Nicaragua to dive with hammerheads...so something more to look forward to there.

The Doc, The Dude & The Factory

2011-06-11T22:43:00.003+08:00

I SAT ON the examination table, waiting for Doctor John. Looking around the room at the old anatomy charts, faded malaria posters and photographs of the man over the years; the kidney dish stuffed with cigarette ends. No BUPA here. The queues outside his quiet practice testify to the islanders' trust in him. They say that if you're run down by a bike, shot or stabbed, then Dr John is the man who is going to save you. He'd been the one picking the bullets out of the shot waitress. I'd been lucky enough to turn up on a tranquil afternoon and got an appointment within 30 minutes. In he walked, Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned to the waist (to hide his gut, he said), Guevara-esque beret atop his greying mop of hair; faded cargo shorts and a pair of glasses kept around his neck with a length of transparent tube from an oxygen cylinder or similar. The dachshund he'd arrived with was out back somewhere, yapping in the sunshine. I'd heard the Doc had been here awhile, and read an article from a magazine which was pinned to the wall while he prepared a few bits for my medical. He's a laconical character, and has a reputation for partying harder than most half his age. And with his access to and knowledge of pharmaceuticals, then why the devil not? I'd actually seen him in Tree one night, using a nasal spray every fifteen minutes...I'm pretty sure it wasn't for a cold. Beechams doesn't make you dance like a madman.

He asked me how I liked Utila. He wasn't surprised my answer was so negative, as he said things have changed quickly here. I bemoaned the low average age, and said the choice of women for a single man my age was limited. He chuckled and said he didn't let that bother him. I've seen the evidence to back that up, too. Asking where I was diving, and hearing my answer, he muttered "Hmmm...The Factory" I laughed. The shop was churning out a high volume of divers, alright. He rated a few of the instructors there, but was dismissive of the attitude and ability of some of the others. I concurred. "So. You're taking the instructor course and getting the fuck off the island?" he asked as he listened to my heart with his stethoscope "Good plan." Over the last 3-5 years, he told me, the reefs had suffered from being over-dived and heavily over-fished. It'll take decades to even start to recover. Pretty depressing when I was going to be spending the next two months diving here. Cursory examination over, I thanked the Doc and left.

My main problem with the way the diving system works is that it only takes 100 dives to become an instructor. That is fine, as long as the candidate has experience in other areas and diving conditions. The fact that someone can go from novice to instructor in one easy diving location doesn't sit well with me. Utila and Koh Tao are the biggest training bases in the world, with the least testing conditions. For a new instructor to be able to qualify as a Drift Dive Specialty instructor here, when there are hardly any currents around the island, is a bit of a joke. If they went somewhere like Pulau Weh in Indonesia, they'd be as green as the people they were supposed to be teaching when they submerged in her ripping currents. So is that safe for the student? I think not. I shadowed Juicy, one of the shop's best instructors on one of these courses, and the drift was simulated. They were shown how to deploy a marker buoy which a boat captain would use to follow the divers' location, but didn't get the chance to try this themselves. What's the point? As we made a three minute saftety stop before surfacing, the newly-minted English instructor along with us was unfurling his DSMB as he swam beneath us. Without looking up, he deployed and inflated it...sending this orange rocket shooting up through our group. Had this caught on anyone's gear, they would have been dragged to the surface...not the safest situation. Juicy and I exchanged a knowing look. This Englishman, Ed, was one of the biggest loudmouths on the island; the type of instructor who wears it like a badge, walks round with his shirt off all the time, and sports a dive computer for bed. He surfaced last, and everyone, students included, gave him a sarcastic round of applause as he tried to untangle the lines of his and Juicy's markers. "How not to deploy an SMB on a drift dive" I said to him. I don't think he liked it a bit, especially coming from a Divemaster. But he should be setting an example to students, and a good example at that. I was to see a lot of iffy instructing from the newbies over the next few weeks, and practices which go outside the standards set by the organisation we work for. I saw students belittled and sworn at on some occasions. Some dive staff tend to look down on new divers, but everyone has to start somewhere...and seeing people get a thrill out of their first dive excites me. If it doesn't then you shouldn't be in the job. My instructor had the patience of a saint, as I was all over the place on my first Open Water dives. Very few are naturals. So I'll be patient, too.

I'm not going to bore you with the details of the instructor course. In a nutshell, you take lectures about the business of diving, the commercial side of things and the like. It can be tedious for someone like me who just wants to dive to travel. I'm not interested in money beyond the amount it takes for me to live somewhere exotic and dive every day. The teaching side of the course was obviously more fun. There are two parts of teaching someone to dive: Confined Water, which is where skills are learned and practiced in water shallow enough to stand up in, and Open Water, where the skills are repeated on a deeper dive. Instructor candidates get marked on their ability to demonstrate the skills in a controlled and exaggerated manner for a student diver to follow. We are also marked out of 5.0 for teaching scenarios in each environment. Points can be lost for not briefing correctly, not demonstrating properly etc and a minimum of 3.5 must be achieved to pass. There are also five written examinations to pass in Physics and Physiology, Environment and Equipment and more. The worst part for me was Classroom Presentations, as I've never been a fan of public speaking, especially when you have to look like you know what you're talking about. So there's a lot of pressure. No pun intended.

We had a pretty good group, with various backgrounds and experience. Even the HDIs (Hundred Dive Instructors, as I call them) were pretty good in the water. Emotions were up and down day by day if any of us seriously balls-ed up a mock exam or in-water presentation. The group got tighter and more supportive by the day, and things were going pretty well. Then the fly in the ointment turned up. Kate was a middle-aged, naturalised Canadian, originally from island. She knew everything about diving, and how we should teach. This, despite failing her last Instructor Development Course. After our first few Open water presentations, we were open-mouthed at her diving skills (or lack of). Surely, if you're going to teach someone to dive, you should be able to actually do it yourself? She was all over the place. Clueless. Surely our staff instructors were going to see how bad she was and tell her she wasn't ready for this? In the event, this was exactly what happened. A few of us, concerned that she could make a mistake while playing the role of a student for another candidate's exam, and therefore cause them to fail the course, had a quiet word. We were assured that this wouldn't happen, and just to concentrate on her own performance. It was a weight off our minds.

After ten intensive days, during which we all improved, it was time to meet our examiner. In walked The Dude from The Big Lebowksi. This guy even dived with his baseball hat turned around, wearing a shirt and shorts instead of dive gear. Bizarre. After a quick introduction and brief on the next two days of examinations, we were given our skills to present, and topics for classroom presentations. Mine weren't too bad. The most nerve-wracking bit was when they split us into three groups. No-one wanted to be in Kate's group, and thankfully they lumped her in with the divers from the other shops, only one of our group thrown in to suffer with them. So off we went to prepare.

We'd been told that the hardest bit was over, and that the final exams and tests were a walk in the park compared to our training. They weren't kidding. The staff had prepared us very well, I can't fault them at all. Especially our two main instructors, Simon and Suzy. So I was a bit surprised when our group of six was in the water a mere 24 minutes for our Open Water tests. We take the role of instructor in turn, and our peers have been briefed to make deliberate mistakes for the skills we've been assigned, common ones that new students make. If we spot them straight away, and make the student repeat the skill to the standard required, we move on to the next. In the course, the instructors had made things difficult for us, and we'd each had to deal with three or four students. Now, if we spotted the first problem straight away, The Dude made a scissors sign with his fingers to cut the exercise, and moved on to the next instructor. It was that easy. Disappointingly easy, in fact. A lot of us agreed that we might as well have just handed over the money at the end of the course? It felt like an anti-climax for many of us after the standards we'd achieved. How can you possibly tell that someone will make a competent instructor after seeing them in the water for 24 minutes, 4 of those minutes actually teaching? The sour icing on the stale cake was the fact that Kate had passed...we were gobsmacked. But then, anyone getting in the water with her in future would likely ask for another instructor if they didn't have confidence in her; I couldn't see her getting work anywhere, either.

So The Factory had churned out another load of new instructors, and were prepping the next batch. The wheel goes around, the money changes hands, and instructors like me try to temper their disillusion with the thought that they'll be living in a beach hut on a remote island someday soon; living a simple life, introducing people to a sport they live for and then watching the sun go down with a joint and a cold beer. This period on Utila has been a small price to pay for that freedom and lifestyle. My friend Grumpy had warned me before I undertook the course "Leave your personality at the door, and pick it up on the way out..." Wise words, Iain...wise words.

Diesel & Dustbins

2011-06-11T22:17:00.007+08:00

THEY SAY THAT Utila grows on you. It doesn't. I had a trio of good mates there who kept me sane, but if I hadn't already paid for my dive instructor course, then I'd have left after a week. The Bognors hadheaded up here while I'd stayed behind in Antigua, and the title of this tale comes from Kim's emailed description of the place. It ain't pretty. They'd expected somewhere a little more picturesque; as had I. But as you disembark from the ferry and walk down to the main intersection of Utila town, you see exactly what Kim meant. There are huge plastic dustbins on every corner, usually with the odd stray dog trying to tip it over to see what's rotting inside. Turn left and the road takes you past a patchof wasteland on which sit an ancient rusting bulldozer and an abandoned tractor, overgrown with weeds. The gutters are open, and filled with grotty-looking land crabs. This road eventually leads to thebeach (of sorts) which is hardly Ipanema. Turn tight at the intersection, and a long road takes you past a variety of cafes, two-bit restaurants and plenty of dive shops. Locals and tourists alike tear up and down this strip on scooters and ATVs. I'm surprised no-one is killed, especially at night. The nicest and quietest part of town lies straight ahead from the junction, with more Spanish-speaking locals and the only decent bar on the island, Treetanic. I was to spend most of my time there.

The arrival on the island is a feeding frenzy of dive shop employees eager for your business. It's never pleasant having peopleoverwhelm you when you have just disembarked after a rough journey, but it's the nature of the beast, I suppose. Utila is the second biggest training centre for divers in the world, after Koh Tao in Thailand. The latter is a far nicer place to hang out; you can get a green curry, for a start...and the grass is far superior. I spotted my name on a board amongst the throng, and headed for the cute Hondureña holding it. She led me to a waiting minibus, and we were ferried to our accomodation before being taken down to the shop. It's one of the bigger operaions on the island, and very professionally run, but it wouldn't have been my first choice if I'd just turned up to look and hadn't paid in advance for the course. I like smaller, laidback, scruffier shops. There's a slightly snotty attitude from some of the staff, almost as if they're doing you a favour by letting you dive with them; a definite clique, and I didn't want in. But I just got on with it, and triedto deal with the good people working there. There were enough to make it bearable.

I headed back to my room. On the way down the road, I stopped at a restaurant with several hand-painted signs outside advertising the seafood menu. The name made me smile: Babalu. I'll digress a little here and tell you why... and this one's for you, Fletch (after reading stories about my Dad on here, my mate Fletch says he likes my Dad better than me). In 1969, my Dad was a merchant seaman in Liverpool. His mate George was dating a girl called Brenda, whose friend Elaine was single. Brenda suggested George bring Dad out to a nightclub one night, as a blind date. Dad was smitten with my Mum: love at first sight. Mum, on the other hand, thought that Dad was a slightly posh, pompous twit who was a bit full of himself, and thought he knew everything about everything (I think she still does, but now she quite likes him). So now you all know who I take after? Anyway, credit to Dad...he refused to give up. Mum relented and they went to see Bonnie And Clyde at the flicks. Dad only had eyes for Mum, but she quite fancied Warren Beatty. So now you all know where I got my name (Thanks for not taking her to an Englebert Humperdinck gig, Dad...school could have been traumatic). Anyway, all went well, and Dad soon proposed. They got married on Valentine's Day 1970, and I popped up in August. Dad doesn't mess about. Like any couple, they've had ups and downs, but are still together all these years later. Dad's pretty good with his hands, and has taught me how to fix all my cars over the years. Well, when I say taught, Dad fixed the car...and after ten minutes I got cold/ bored and went round to my mate's for a smoke. Should have paid attention, really. Sorry, Dad. Anyway, my parents bought a Dutch barge, and my old fella fitted it out all by himself. It's now a beautiful houseboat, named after the Liverpool nightclub where they first met: Babalu. The concise version of that tale got me a free beer in the restaurant that evening. So thanks again, Dad.

The island is an odd place. Colonised by Britain several generations ago, the population are a mix of black, hispanic and caucasian. The local dialect is a strange, almost Jamaican, patois. It's not pleasing to the ears, I can tell you. And if they pass a friend in the street, they say Bye instead of Hi. I found that bizarre, but a local insisted that if you said Hi, you had to stop and chat. Eh? The older locals sit on the porches of their wooden houses lining the main streets and chat late into the evening. It's a struggle to understand a bloody word.

As on any island, strange people abound. There's a local called Jimmy, who is possibly the world's most unconvincing tranny. He minces down the road, calling out to tourists he fancies, in a pair of cut-off denim shorts and skimpy tops; distended belly overhanging the waistband, a mass of pubic hair crawling to his navel. His ravaged, pock-marked face is usually half hidden by a huge pair of shades. He's always drunk or high. Can't be easy being like that on an island, though. The irony is that, though Jimmy is shunned by many, he is often most young mens' first sexual experience amongst the locals. Creepy. Otherwise, some young boys are still known to interfere with animals to experiment sexually (direct flights from Cardiff available soon). And this was locals telling me, so I'm not doubting it. Jimmy can hold his own, though. I was in a cafe one day, and a big Trinidadian instructor made a homophobic remark as Jimmy walked in. "That's OK" spat the tranny "I don't like fat man..." I had to laugh at that one.

Utila's economy is awash with drugs. Cocaine, crack, MDMA and grass are the mainstays. It says something of the island's lack of charm when one of the tourist attractions is a downed Colombian plane in the jungle. These take off and land at all times of the night, as the airfield is a refuelling point for aircraft en route to Miami from South America. Several locals can be seen during the day, naked to the waist and sweating, wide-eyed and high as a kite. One local restaurant below a rickety old house is a front for a bunch of dealers who sit below the property on worn-out sofas. A couple I met went into the house to seal a weed deal one evening. The owner was completely wired and sat at a table, on top of which were several pounds of grass, coke and a snub-nosed .38 Smith & Wesson. Sketchy, indeed. The local police and the mayor allegedly know what is going on, but palms are regularly greased....so everyone is kept happy.

It's usually the case that ex-pats are crazier than the local lunatics, and Utila's are no different. There are a handful of bars where they hang out, most notably Skid Row and La Cueva. A week before my arrival, at the latter bar, there was a shooting. A German who'd been on the island a good few years had lost his dog to the spate of poisonings in the town. Locals regularly kill off the stray dogs left behind when their selfish western owners depart after a prolonged period here. His dog died after eating baited meat. A tourist in the bar said that most of the dogs on Utila were better off dead. The man left the bar and returned with a pistol. A barman reacted quickly as the gun was pointed at his head, knocking the German's aim off with an ice bucket; the bullet grazed his forehead. The girl who made the comments was shot twice in the back as she cowered behind the bar. After loosing off a few more shots, the bloke calmly handed the gun to a customer and said "I don't care what they do with me now, so you might as well kill me." There were no bullets left. German police later extradited the man from Honduras, as he was wanted for a murder there.

The rest of the oddballs were unarmed, thankfully. The aptly-monikered Skid Row was a magnet for the dregs washed ashore over the years. Several runaways frequented the joint, all faded baseball caps, ragged shorts and stretched tee-shirts. In their 30s to 60s, this crew spent their afternoons drinking beer, telling tall tales and leering at any young woman who walked in. Some even made lewd remarks which they thought made them look cool to the others. A harmless character there was an American named Phil. In his 50s, Phil was well-known for telling extremely tall tales, and was therefore nicknamed "Phil Of Shit". Brilliant, I thought. A nice enough man, but only in small doses, as his stories were just too much. I'd met him at a BBQ, while talking to a local drug dealer about the lame grass on the island; he was kindly letting me smoke his finest Jamaican. Phil was a mate of his, and struck up a conversation with me...all about him. I learned all about his fancy place on the island, and his property back home. After showing me his horrendously gaudy and likely perversely expensive watch, he informed me that he'd bought a property in Grosvenor Square, London, in 1970. For the princely sum of £1, he said. Yeah, right.

By far my favourite Phil Of Shit story was one I overheard in Skid Row one lunchtime. I was one end of the room, Phil at the other. The proprietor was engaged in a conversation with a couple across the bar. Dangerous airports were the topic. Tegucigalpa, Honduras's capital, has a notorious landing strip which neccessitates a rapid decceleration and steep drop over a mountain to land. The couple had flown in there, and had a terrifying landing. The owner told them about a crash in the 90s. Phil, who'd been constantly butting into the conversation, said he'd been on that flight...he'd run for his life and was one of the few survivors. The couple looked at each other, the owner merely rolled his eyes at me, having his back to Phil. When Phil left the bar, I remarked on how quiet things became whenever he left; the owner laughed knowingly. I looked up the air crash on the Web later, and discovered that there had been no survivors in the incident. And he'd got the year wrong. Quality bullshitters get their facts straight.

The place wasn't all bad. I was in Treetanic every night, a psychedlic trip of a bar amongst a huge garden, the main bar amongst a huge tree out front. It's beautiful, a labour of love built by Neil Keller in tribute to his favourite artist, Comfort Tiffany. There's hints of Gaudi there for me, too...the place is covered in a colourful mosaic of broken tiles; artifacts both nautical and animal, decorate each structure. Created over the space of 3 years, this unique bar is listed as one of the top five bars in the world. I was happy enough to be asked to play music from my iPod there, in return for drinks. So I spent most nights happy, a G&T in one hand, a joint in the other, talking to the owner's stunning daughter, Tempy. We became very close, and because of her the place didn't seem so bad most days. She showed me some nice spots and remote beaches on the island's far coast when we rented a motorbike. Along the way she pointed out various local people and told me stories. My favourite concerned a wealthy westerner who bought a huge tract of land and, when he'd built the ideal house he wanted, donated the excess of the plot to the local council to do something for the local community; obviously grateful, they made it the town dump. I can almost picture his face on a hot day as the stecnh drifts across his garden as he has lunch. Priceless.

In fact, that was probably the best day I had there. It's always good to get a motorbike and head out, even if they aren't as cheap as Asian rentals here. I recall myself and Jocky getting a bike each and a full tank of fuel in Vietnam for $3 a day. On Utila it was $35. But I won't complain...we certainly got the use out of it. In fact I think we went right around the island five times in all.

So I've painted a negative picture of Utila, but then travel is subjective. So maybe you have to go see the place for yourself. You might have the second best time of your life. Just don't say I didn't warn you if you don't.

Hasta Luego, Guate...

2011-05-23T08:28:00.001+08:00

MY LASTING MEMORY of Guatemala? The sun rising over the temples at Tikal? Dramatic, but no. A lazy afternoon in the Parque Central, Antigua? Very pleasant...but no, not that, either. It would be too much to ask for one of those to be the most vivid image I can recall. Instead, the sight of a homeless man at the side of the road to the border, coat over his face, trousers open and furiously masturbating, was the horrific snapshot burned into my retinas. I'd actually thought him a corpse as we rounded the bend, him lying half out of a bush on a patch of wasteland near a cement factory. I quickly realised that his circulation was fine, thanks very much. Now we've all been there, haven't we, boys? It's early in the morning, and cracking one off sometime eases the pain of getting up for work. In fact, my mate Ferg once told me that the best thing about working from home was that he could have a cheeky wank in the afternoon before the wife came home. And getting paid for it? But out in the open at the side of a dusty road? It's not even like he was an exhibitionist, having covered his face with said coat. Bizarre. So thanks for the memory, chico. I wouldn't say you despoiled your country in my eyes, but you've certainly given me a few nightmares.

Guatemala, like most Latin American countries, is a country of contrasts: shiny SUVs cruise by desperate families in the gutter; ready smiles hide the harsh realities of living in this beautiful, violent country; it's difficult to marry the surroundings in a tranquil town like Antigua with the horrific images in the newspaper from Guatemala City, less than an hour away. Daily murders, beheadings, the ever-present drug war. Femicide is also a major issue here, and the statistics are staggering: 97 women have been murdered in the first two months of 2011. In one newspaper I read, there were graphic images of a fruit-seller shot dead for refusing to pay a $20 protection fee to a gang; a young girl found butchered in an industrial area of the city; a woman with her head crushed by a paving stone in Chichicastenango, apparently murdered in broad daylight. Is there something in the latino psyche which deems brutality like this acceptable? It seems a part of daily life here, and nothing shocks the locals.

When in Caye Caulker, Belize, an English diver Kneehead got chatting to had summed up Guatemala: "In a word, mate...fackin' dirty..." While the country is certainly poor, and rough round the edges, I find his summary a little harsh. It's a beautiful place with many natural wonders, stunning vistas and a warm welcome from the majority of the population. I've been told there are more glares than smiles in some places off the beaten track, but we can't bemoan a little hostility from people living for a year on the same money we earn in a week. And we're obviously not welcome everywhere. But I really enjoyed this country, and know that I'll be back.

The Hippy Hippy Shakes

2011-05-23T08:23:00.003+08:00

I HAD BEEN told that you really have to see San Marcos La Laguna to believe it. You certainly do. It's a tiny village on Atitlan's shores which attracts a certain type of person. And I got a glimpse of that type of person on the boat over from San Pedro. I noticed I was the only person wearing trainers, whereas everyone else was wearing those sandals which make you look like a German sex offender; most of them made from hemp, probably. And it seems I'd forgotten my brightly-coloured, ethnic shoulder bag. Thankfully, it's only a short hop across the lake. Any longer, and I'd have felt queasy, and not from the motion of the boat. A crusty woman with matted hair was waxing lyrical about the "special energy" of the place to all who'd listen. Which pretty much meant everybody in the small boat. As she droned on, and I attempted to zone out, her toddler bounded across the bench to her and lifted her tee-shirt. I didn't know where to look as the little mite began sucking on a tattoed tit. Grim. She didn't bat an eyelid as the toddler suckled away, kneading her other breast with his podgy hands. If the shore hadn't been a few hundred metres away, I'd have jumped overboard and swam for my sanity.

We pulled up on a small, rickety wooden jetty. I think I was off the boat before it came to a halt. Heading up the narrow pathway I was accosted by a local boy, who said he could show me the way to the village centre. I thanked him, but said I didn't think I would get lost on the three pathways. This didn't deter him, and as we passed a fruit stall he'd tell me I could buy fruit there. A little further on, and he helpfully pointed out that I could buy books in the bookstore. Enough was enough. Thanking him again, I said I wasn't looking for a guide. He stopped, snorted, and regarded me from under his furrowed brow, hands on hips. "Pues...no propina?" Cheeky bugger. I wasn't tipping someone I'd been politely trying to lose for the last ten minutes. He kicked up some dust in a huff and backtracked to the jetty to find another sucker.

I hung a left down an arid path, walking slowly and taking in the hand-painted and drawn signs for various things. Soya shakes. Lactose-free milk. Taste-free cookies. Fun-free lives. Various types of non-invasive treatments for anything ranging from stress to cancer. First back rub I've heard of which kills tumours? I was shaking my head at some other nonsense posting when the crunch of gravel drew my attention to someone's approach. A long-haired man with round glasses and a beaded necklace (de rigeur in these parts) was walking towards me. I half expected a talentless, screeching Japanese woman to be scuttling behind him. Where's Mark Chapman when you need him? As he closed on me, I saw he had the sign to beat all signs hanging around his neck. I cannot speak, as I have taken a vow of silence. Brilliant. I fought the urge to laugh as he nodded and passed. It looked almost more of a fashion accessory than a serious statement. Let's face it, if you really wanted to avoid talking to people, you'd rent a cave on a mountainside for a few weeks? Far easier than walking round looking like a pretentious pillock.

I'd walked round the village twice, so headed out to the rocks. Climbing along the path, I reached the point where it's possible to leap into the lake from a wooden platform. I hadn't brought my shorts, so had to be content with watching. It's a pretty long drop, and I was wincing as a couple of the lads there jumped in with their feet apart. One clever clogs decided to take a run up and do a forward flip; hitting the water feet-first, his momentum saw him slap the water face-on. There was a collective gasp as everyone waited for him to surface. Surface he did, red-faced and in visible pain. Served him right, show-off.

Not even the pair of naked blondes sunbathing at the water's edge could keep me hanging around, though. The last straw came in a cafe on the perimeter of the village. I'd stopped for a cold fruit juice, and couldn't help but overhear a conversation a couple of tables away. One of them was explaining that Inshallah meant "if something is kind of destined to happen", and then someone used the C-word. No, not that one...the Cosmos. I shuddered involuntarily. Sighing in surrender, I noisily drained my glass with the straw, and headed for the jetty and the relative sanity of San Pedro.

The Lake Of The Irish

2011-05-15T10:08:00.002+08:00

THE LATE WRITER Aldous Huxley once wrote that Lago De Atitlán, mere hours from Antigua, was the most beautiful lake in the world. I respect the man's writing but, as he was off his mash on LSD most of the time, I chose to reserve judgment until I'd witnessed the place for myself. As let's face it, a quarry in Scunthorpe would probably look good on acid. As the minibus meandered down the hillside to San Pedro La Laguna, the lake surrounded by volcanoes certainly looked picturesque enough. But I've have been interested to know what Aldous would have though of tripping along the shores of lakes Windermere, Coniston, Garda or Loch Lomond? He might have re-arranged his Top 5. But it's a nice enough place to hang out.

Surrounding the lake are the volcanic peaks of Atitlán, Tomilán, San Pedro and Cerro De Oro. It's estimated that the lake is 4500-8500 years old, and is the deepest in Central America. One disputed theory is that the lake bed in actually a collapsed mega-crater. I wouldn't sit around arguing about it, but it's certainly vast. The waters suffered from blooms of cyanobacteria in 2008 and earlier this year, causing government warnings about the safety of swimming in the lake. It didn't seem to deter many people, although jumping off a cliff with legs akimbo stopped one English lad doing it again. I chuckled as I watched him swimming back to the rocks with a grimace; it certainly was a long way down. Feet together, my son...feet together.

I've never been one for Irish bars, especially when not in Dublin. But Clover in San Pedro is an exception. It's not full of flags, Beamish and Guiness ads...it's low-key, and the food is great. The permanently half-cut owner, Paul, is a great lad, too. I'd stuck to the excellent samosas for most of my stay, and had to laugh when I asked Paul what the chicken curry I'd just ordered was like. "Ah bollocks, that's the shittest thing on the menu...I've been meaning to take it off for ages. I'll go see if I can change it for you." He came back with a shrug and told me it was almost done, so I was stuck with it. You've got to admire a man that honest, as he was right...it was pretty shit.

Atitlán is swimming, literally pickled, in alcohol. It's not just the presence of a few Irishmen, simply that there's little else to do. I was worried I'd end up pissing out my shrivelled liver by the end of the week. You don't need an excuse to drink, and it's always an early start. The town is linked by a few small roads and tight dusty paths. A bunch of good places to imbibe, live music, decent food and a half-decent pool table means it's easy to get waylaid. And drunk. I met another Irishman named Rob who I hit it off with straight away. He reminded me a little of Liam Neeson. Together we drank ourselves into stupors, smoked ourselves senseless and hammered all comers at pool. Apart from Henry, that is...a local lad who grows his own weed, and gets better at the game the more stoned he becomes. I can't complain, as he graciously took me up to the roof every half hour to let me sample his new strains. We also caught Match Of the Day live, which is just about the only taste of home I need when away. A couple of cans of Boddingtons and fish and chips from Victoria Park wouldn't have gone amiss, either.

Due to Antigua's relative expense, the cheap bastard Israelis tend to head for the lake after a day or two. So I was dreading a miniature Jerusalem-On-Sea, especially as Bognor Kim had told me he'd seen plenty heading down there. But, he'd also told me, they keep themselves to themselves. On my first day wandering around the dusty paths, I discovered that he wasn't kidding. There's an Israeli hostel with an adjoining restaurant at the far end of town. Surrounded by high bamboo walls, they've even constructed a bridge over the pathway to give immediate access to their pool without leaving the premises. This place couldn't be more of a ghetto if a bunch of Germans ringed it with barbed wire: the inhabitants never leave. Fine with me, mindyou...the only ones I ever saw outside of a bus were a trio of crusties who hung around the main junction, spending their days juggling and making ethnic bracelets. What a life.

I enjoyed wandering the local part of town, on the hill above. There was a lovely woman who made fresh juice drinks in the shade of a church, and I made a point of sitting and chatting to her during the siesta each day. Only the basic conversations: home, family, travel and the like. But she was easy to understand, so very good practice for me. It was after one such break from the sun that I wandered back to the main pathway and came across a local legend. A sign proclaimed "Tony's Book Exchange: Over 3000 books". I had a recently finished Murakami in my back pocket. Surely I'd find a decent swap here? The door was locked, and I peered though the grimy windows. Stacks of yellowing books everywhere: on the floor, on tables, along sagging shelves. In the middle of the shop, a pile of rags shifted and resettled. I tapped the window, and a squinting face peered in my direction. A figure reluctantly arose and shuffled towards the door. Tony, a Dutch expat, let me in. Another customer followed me in and struck up a conversation with the proprietor. I didn't listen in, scanning the shelves for something readable. Almost three thousand crimes against trees. I sighed heavily as my eyes dismissed the Crichtons, Grishams and Cusslers adorning the shelves. Books from the 60s and 70s I'd never heard of, some unreadable due to the mould infesting the middle pages. There were one or two of interest, but only ones I'd previously read. Walk into any bookshop in Asia, and you are going to be there for hours, spoilt for choice. Deciding which book to take can be a painful choice, as you'll find books you've been meaning to read for years. It's no coincidence that the majority of travellers in Southeast Asia are European, as you can discern this from the choice of books on offer. The majority left here seem to be "beach books" and "easy reads" picked up in US airports. Losing interest in the books, I took in Tony's surroundings in disbelieving horror. His bed was a pile of rags in the middle of the shop; the kitchen was part of the open-plan room, the hob brown with grease, various pots and pans encrusted with filth; dirty cutlery scattered across every surface, including the floor; a cat squatted atop the worktop, finishing a long-abandoned meal. What happens to a man to enable him to live like this? I never got to know Tony's story, but have no doubt he's a very intelligent guy. Rob was on his pub quiz team, and there wasn't much Tony didn't know...which led me to believe that he's got a basement full of decent books tucked away somewhere. But Murakami was staying with me, in the meantime.

Visit the lake, and another local character you'll meet is Little Juanita. She's at least 60, and at least 4 feet tall. On any given night she's wandering through the bars at just the right time, in her indiginous dress, a wicker basket of cakes and cookies atop her head. With an infectious smile as wide as the Rio Dulce, this old lady is absolutely adorable. She loves to give you a hug and a kiss when you buy her baking; I've not seen many people warmer. She knows everybody, and everyone knows her. A genuinely happy character. And her baking isn't bad either, let me tell you.

Downtime In A Colonial Jewel

2011-05-15T09:42:00.002+08:00

AS THE SUN begins to drop behind the Acatenango volcano, the town slows down. I take another rich mouthful of Guatemalan coffee, and watch life lazily take its course in the Parque Central. Elderly locals sit on painted benches beneath lovingly manicured trees, elegant and cool despite the sultry afternoon heat; groups of youths vy for attention from the self-conscious, coquettish young latinas congregating amongst the equally pretty flowers in the square; child shoe-blacks, hands soaked with the polish of years, ply their trade to a background music trickle of the fountains; in the cool, shadowy archways of the municipal building, homeless beggars sleep amid the activity; a breeze catches, whispering leaves mix with the burble of chatter. The only other sounds the roar of the espresso machine, the clatter of hooves on cobblestones as buggies pass by and the laughter of liberated schoolchildren running from class.

There can be fewer towns more beautiful than Antigua De Guatemala. I knew within minutes of arrival that I would stay awhile, and that I would return. I like to get to know a place, befriend a few locals, eat and drink in regular spots and pass the time of day with them. Having a coffee from the same roof terrace day after day, observing the volcanoes. Simple pleasures. Routine is missing when on the road, and it's sometimes nice to actually just be in a place.

Antigua was once the capital of the Americas, and it shows. Earthquakes and time may have faded her beauty, but still she oozes class. The Conquistadors brought Spanish culture and architecture with their bitter victory. I lost count of the days I was content to aimlessly wander the cobbled streets, marvelling at the adobe buildings lining the streets; bell towers and acrchways; strong colours and washed-out pastel adobe, ornate barred windows and heavy, iron-studded wooden doors. Ancient, derelict, tremor-damaged structures sit adjacent to well-tended properties in stunning contrast. Shocking pink bougainvillea flowers cascade from roof terraces. Falling in love with a house became an hourly occurence, as open doorways gave glimpses of shady, peaceful courtyards off the street. I've not seen a town this photogenic since Cartagena, Colombia.

I fell into a pleasant pattern over a fortnight: coffee on Fat Cat's roof terrace in the morning, watching mushroom clouds in miniature erupt silently on the distant Acatenango, the other peaks slumbering; authentic French crepes before an afternoon of Spanish tuition with Mayra, finishing with Scrabble for four, another tutor and her Brasilian charge joing in...obviously the teachers won every time, getting creative with the slang, I suspected. I'd found a great place to stay, El Jardin De Lolita, run by a dotty old lady who could talk for Guatemala, and her sons. I took a room with a communal terrace which was almost private, my room being at the end of a second floor row. It overlooked the garden populated by all manner of caged tropical birds. With views of volcanoes on all sides, and plenty of shade in which to read, write and generally contemplate my good fortune in being out here, it was very easy to get stuck.

At the far side of town sat my usual haunt, Cafe No Sé. I loved this scruffy little place. The first room is tiny, tea-stained walls covered in signatures, scribbles and doodles. A cute bar sits in the corner, while musicians perform in the other. It's very intimate. On passing into the back room, a long bar sits on the right, miniscule tables to the left. Candle-lit and atmospheric, I enjoyed many an evening here; reading a book or drinking with the locals. I was at the bar one evening, a little worse for wear and chatting to a Canadian bartender, when a local man to my right turned and said "Eres de Liverpool?" I laughed. In England, most people take me for a Mancunian, as I have a Lancashire accent with a Scouse lilt. It amuses me how foreigners pick up on my Merseyside heritage where my countrymen fail to. In fact, leaving a Thai island a few years back, I said my goodbyes to a delightful Thai couple who'd been very hospitable; as I left their cafe, I overheard a elderly German fellow asking them "Ist he from Liverpool?" He was old enough to have been around for The Beatles and Liverpool FC's dominance in Europe, no doubt. Stranger still for this Guatemalan, Julio César, to pick it up, though. As he turned to face me in the gloom of the bar, I noticed that he was blind. Perhaps this accounts for a more acute sense of hearing? Despite speaking no Inglés, it turns out that Julio is quite the Anglophile. My Spanish helped by a few beers, we chatted about his favourite bands, which hilariously turned out to be Duran Duran and The Cure, both of whom I grew up with. He even knew that the former had taken their name from a character in Barbarella. I was impressed, and we chatted for a good hour over an almost drinkable Chilean red. Wandering home with a smile on my face that night, I mused on the wonders of travel. You just never know what, or who, is waiting for you around that next corner.

Paranoid Gringos

2011-04-28T08:14:00.004+08:00

IF YOU BOTHER to learn a little Spanish while travelling the Americas, it goes a long way: you'll find that the negative label of Gringo doesn't appy to you any longer. The wide grins you receive from the locals when chatting to them, even in broken Spanish, makes it worthwhile. As an Englishman, I feel we ignorantly expect foreigners to speak English; our school system wrongly allows us to drop languages altogether at high school. The limited French I recall has certainly helped me learn Castillian, and also made me wish I'd followed Mr Walton's advice, and not given it up at 13. When I have kids (if, more like) then I'll ensure they're bilingual. I meet plenty of Europeans who speak three or more languages, putting us to shame. The picture of the English abroad isn't helped by a recent article I read online, about ex-pats living in Spain; they have English cafes, bars and every other amenity you can think of to save them the trouble of integrating or learning a language; it's pig-ignorant, quite frankly.

So I've taught myself a little over the years. Michel Thomas has helped, and Madrigal's Magic Key To Spanish has been indispensable. I try to read the local papers with the help of a dictionary (Guatemala's El Diario, with multiple lurid double-page spreads of drugs and murder, is enough to put me off breakfast) and use shops and cafes owned by Spanish-speakers when in tourist-saturated areas. Besides becoming a diving instructor, improving my Latin lingo is my main aim for this trip. I'm getting there; you know you're improving when you can make people laugh in their tongue. They'll go out of their way to be more sociable and help you, as they appreciate the effort.

This region is awash with Americans, and you don't meet many who bother to learn Spanish...despite them having a massive latino population. I've met some pretty cool ones this trip, but they're a rarity. In fact, as far as the locals are concerned, you're American until you open your mouth; they dominate the tourist market out here. Europeans speak at a massively reduced volume compared to them, too...why does everyone in the bar need to hear your conversation? It's not like many of them are interesting.

I've been sat in several coffeeshops in Guatemala and witnessed plain ignorance. One middle-aged woman was trying to order lunch there, and was mouthing her words slowly, while leaning over the counter towards a puzzled waitress. "Don't you people speak English?" she asked, incredulous. "They don't even speak English..." she said to her husband, who whistled through his teeth. I was sat next to another couple one morning, who had asked for the bill by rubbing fingers together and saying "How much?" Delightful. The waitress gave them a figure in Spanish, which was met by bemusement and a request for repetition. After a minute of confusion, I turned and said "It's sixty-five..." I wasn't being clever, merely trying to be helpful. But she ignored me and turned away. When her husband returned and asked if she'd paid, she told him "I don't know how much it is." Eventually the waitress had to write it down for them. Imbeciles. Did she think I was running a scam in my local cafe, where I translate prices and include a fee for my services? The waitress rolled her eyes at me as they left.

The other thing which strikes me about several US travellers is their paranoia and limited (or blinkered) world view. When I told one the other day that I was heading for El Salvador next, he asked me where it was. Next door, I told him. While island-hopping in Belize, a trio aboard a privately-chartered catamaran were flabbergasted that we'd come down from Cancun. They told me I should stay out of Mexico. When I asked why, they said "Drug murders." Oh. Didn't see much of that in Cozumel. The north of Mexico can be dodgy, and I'm not about to visit Juarez anythime soon...but we had no problems whatsoever. Even the Lonely Planet scaremongers sometimes, and we all know which nation publishes those guides? By far the funniest were a couple we met at the Tikal ruins. Finishing dinner, a wide-eyed woman approached us and asked how we'd got to the site. When we told her by bus, she began quizzing us as to what kind, and was it a local bus? Turns out that her and her fella wouldn't travel in shuttle buses, as they had the word Turismo plastered across them; which obviously meant bandits would jump out of bushes at the side of the road and gun everyone down. As a result, they were still wandering around trying to find a way of there hours later...conferring with each other in whispers and nervously approaching various locals. They're all in on it! They're going to get you! If you're going to get robbed, you're going to get robbed. No point worrying about it all the time. I think that if I was shitting my pants that much, I'd feel safer just not leaving the house...maybe just watch Whicker's World re-runs, or something? Judith Chalmers never got mugged.

And just try talking to a Texan about US involvement in right-wing coups in developing countries over the last 40 years. I read The Shock Doctrine, a superb expose by Naomi Klein. Milton Friedman, the Chicago School Of Economics and the CIA have all been involved in creating misery for millions of people in developing countries, while lining the pockets of Western multi-nationals. From Indonesia, where Suharto's western-sponsored takeover triggered the deaths of 140,000 people, to Chile in the 70s, when a democratically-elected president was effectively murdered by a right-wing coup backed and instigated by the US. Argentina and Brazil suffered from western make-overs to their economies; people lost jobs and plunged into poverty, social services were cut, and trade barriers broken down...leading to cheap foreign imports and the decline of national industries. These were then bought up at knockdown prices by western businesses when they collapsed. In Argentina, thousands of people were "disappeared" by the police state in the so-called Dirty War. The brutal secret police would turn up in the dead of night in their trademark Ford Zodiacs (supplied free by Ford, naturally) and take people away to be tortured and murdered. When the country's car producers collapsed in the face of western competition as trade was thrown open, guess who generously bought their plants for peanuts? The book is equally fascinating and repellent. The IMF and World Bank are exposed as the profiteers they really are. After loaning Brazil billions to get off her knees in the 70s and 80s, the head of the Federal Reserve raised the interest rates in the States, effectively doubling Brazil's debt overnight. Can't pay us back? No problemo...just sell us your oil and mineral reserves. Corporate piracy.

So there I was, arguing with a Texan diver named Jeremy, all buzz-cut and brawny arms. He didn't want to listen, and was horrified I was suggesting the CIA had blood on their hands. This fool was arguing that the US invaded Iraq to get Saddam's WMDs. I started laughing, and pointed out that war makes money for Halliburton, and the likes of Rumsfeld and Cheney laugh all the way to the bank. That's why Vietnam went on so long; why the Lusitania was allowed to be sunk by a U-boat to bring America into WWI; why Pearl Harbour was allowed to happen to allow entry to WWII, despite Australian intelligence cables to Washington informing them about a huge Japanese fleet heading for Hawaii. Jeremy got off his bar stool, informed me of his origin, and told me I didn't know who he was connected to. He was taking all this very personally, despite me pointing out that I wasn't knocking Americans per se, merely those making money out of human misery. I stopped short of using 9/11 as an example, as he already seemed ready to start brawling with me. His next point was that they learned Colonialism from the British. Was this an excuse, I asked? Shouldn't lessons have been learned? And I suppose by that, I could say we learned from the Spanish and Portuguese? He told me that I was the most antagonistic person he'd ever met. I think I was getting to him. His next rant was all about how the US "saved your asses in the war". I thanked him, and said we were relieved to have finally paid off the money we owed them in 2006...61 years after the war ended. He then informed me that someone had to be the world's policeman, pointing to the threat from North Korea. He didn't appreciate me telling him that a Swiss company sold them the nuclear technology; the sole American on the board? Donald Rumsfeld.

Jeremy didn't speak to me at the dive shop the next day. And, shockingly, he didn't ask if he could borrow Naomi Klein's book, either. Ignorance, like they say, is bliss.

Hotel Peligroso & The Dawn Of Time

2011-04-04T08:21:00.003+08:00

AND THERE WAS ME thinking the Fonz was dead? Apparently not: alive and well, running a small hotel in Flores, Guatemala. I got quite a shock when I walked into the place and saw him. Then I realised it couldn't be him, as the Fonz was always smiling. This grumpy old sod looked like he was twenty years into a life sentence. We informed the Fonz we'd like to take a look at the rooms; with a raise of the eyebrows and a heavy sigh, he shuffled off up the stairs. Everything seemed to be an effort. I can't recall the name of the place, but after a few hours we'd renamed it Hotel Peligroso (Hotel Dangerous).

After the bus journey from the border, I was keen on a shower. It wasn't the hottest, and I was casting doubtful eyes at the dodgy-looking wiring above the shower head. Now you can ask my Dad, or any of my mates who've shared a flat with me, and they'll tell you I take ages in the shower. But I wasn't long in this one once I began to smell burning plastic. Conscious of Guatemala's reputation for electric shocks in the bathroom, I was out of there in less than a minute. Gingerly drying off while stood on my flip-flops while casting suspicious glances at the shower, I put some distance between myself and any water on the floor, trying to instantly forget the fact that electricity can leap through space, anyway. I mentioned it to Kneehead, but I believe he took it as exaggeration. He was in there a few hours later and I got a whiff of plastic again, followed by curses from him in the shower. Apparently the plastic tape around the wires had begun smoking, followed by a bright red glow above the shower head as the tape melted. He was out of there even quicker than I was, much to my amusement. We agreed we were leaving for Tikal in the morning.

Flores is a tiny little island in the middle of a lake, connected to the surrounding land by a causeway; the last point in Central America to fall to the Spanish Conquistadors in 1697. The short road is one-way, and as a result it's a Guatemalan Grand Prix of tuk-tuks, taxis and motorbikes going as fast as possible; not the quietest place. A quick walk around the town and a few drinks, and you've seen and done it. Besides, the four of us were too excited about seeing the ruins at Tikal to be hanging around. Dodging the tout who'd been hanging around, telling us sold-out stories to make us book with him, we went and booked transport for the next afternoon.

After the tat stalls in and around Chitchen Itza, Tikal was a pleasant surprise: there is absolutely nothing besides well-kept ruins and jungle here. We arrived late in the afternoon, soon enough to get in to see the sunset from Temple IV. This is the vantage point for two other nearby pyramids, as seen in Star Wars. One side was covered in scaffold, as the structure was undergoing renovation. Several guides and guards were sat at the top, and one said we could climb through the scaffold to see the sunset, for a bribe. It wasn't much, and through we went, along with a few photographers. I was chatting to the guide for a while, when Kim Bognor's knock-off Adidas bag from Belize began to disintegrate on him. Both straps had gone, and he was trying to tie it together. I chuckled, amused he'd had it less than a week, and said to the guide "Hecho en China?" while gesturing at it. Kim sniggered and cast his eyes left. I followed his gaze and swallowed a laugh when I saw two Asian photographers looking over at me. They looked Japanese. Or Korean. Hopefully. Still, if you'd make the stuff properly, I couldn't make detrimental remarks about it, could I?

The guide informed us that, if we wanted to see the sunrise at 6.30am, we could arrange to meet him and pay the guards off; the park only opens at 6am. Not enough time to get up to Temple IV and climb it, unless you sprinted and knew your way. He wanted 150 Quetzales, but I'd heard you could just pay the guards on the gate Q50 at 5am...no need for a guide. The Bognors and Kneehead were up for it, but our mate Motorbike George wasn't up for an early start. Lazy beggar...come all this way and not see the sunrise? No need for an alarm for us, I assured Kneehead that his nocturnal noises would no doubt have me up at some point.

The Bognors hadn't had much sleep. When I crept through the tented encampment to make sure they were up, there was a horrendous snoring coming from one tent...no-one could have slept through that. They hadn't. Bleary-eyed, they were ready in minutes. Guards bribed, and we were on our way into the pitch-black jungle. The previous day I'd taken a path which had skirted all the other ruins, and led directly to Temple IV. Nicola said we should go that way, but Kim and Kneehead argued for going right through the ruins, as they'd done. They assured us they knew the way; they clearly didn't. We were wandering at random for a while, just a crappy map and scant signage within the park to guide us. I'd stupidly forgotten to bring my torch, leaving it in my big bag in Flores. Kim's light wasn't very strong, and began dimming and flickering at one point. He switched it off to swap batteries, and luckily I had a cigarette lighter to illuminate the scene. If not, and he'd dropped the batteries, we'd have been buggered. With the light out, you couldn't see your own hand in front of your face. I was hardly reassured when Kim told me he'd bought the torch from a Pound Shop in Bognor Regis.

Eventually we reached Temple IV after a spectral walk through the mist. Nicola had clung to Kim, telling us that if the light failed she was going to start screaming hysterically. I'd never seen her so tactile. We scampered up the wooden stairs to the summit, and sat on the topmost steps of the pyramid. Out in front of us were expanses of vast jungle in every direction, shapeless in the pitch darkness. The outlines of the other temples were barely visible. So we sat and waited, soon joined by around 20 other people.

The sky turned deepest purple as light crept from behind the horizon. Outlines of distant trees appeared gradually with the light, swallowed in lakes of morning mist. This was the cue for the howler monkeys to begin the dawn chorus, roaring their message across the jungle, marking territory. Primates from miles away called back, their cries echoing through the dark; surrounding us. The sun broke the horizon, graduated blues replacing the purple above the foliage. No-one spoke. This felt like the beginning of creation; nobody wanted to spoil this intensely atmospheric moment, each of us alone with our thoughts. As the boiling orb crested in the distance the misty lakes receded; shadows retreated. All were smiles as we broke ranks to head back down. I've seen some amazing sights in the last three years, but this was right up there...a special, dramatic experience.

The ruins sprawl over a huge area, and it takes a full half day to see them all. Machu Picchu is a dramatic setting, but I think Tikal tops it, in my opinion. The jungle setting; the intact ruins themselves; and that amazing sunrise. We bumped into Motorbike George an hour later, and had to describe what he'd missed. He didn't care, he said he wouldn't get up at 4.30am for anything. More fool him. (I've bumped into George again recently, and he'd taken his new girlfriend up there to see Tikal and still didn't manage the sunrise)

We wandered over to Temple V and climbed some rickety, near-vertical wooden stairs. I don't normally suffer from vertigo, but this gave you those butterflies in the balls as you reached the top. It's a great view from there, but a hell of a way down if you slip. I don't know about you, but the only problem I have with tall buildings, waterfalls etc is the nagging urge I get to jump. It's nothing suicidal, more the notion that I have some degree of control over life and death from there; I could simply step off and soon cease to exist. Blackness. Nothingness. It sounds odd, I know...and I've only met one person in my life who has had similar thoughts, too. No need to have the men in white coats waiting at Heathrow with a big butterly net or anything, though...honest.

I started heading down the ladder backwards. A woman was making her way slowly up the adjacent ladder, when some idiot decided to climb up the one I was descending, so as to overtake her; a little reckless when we were all a good 90 feet off the ground. I shouted that he was going up the wrong ladder, but he simply climbed back across to the other one, completely ignoring me as he barrelled past at a cretinous speed. Getting a good look at his attire and sandals as he passed, I made an educated guess as to his nationality. Later, at the base of the temple, everyone was feeding the ravenous monkey-like creatures. George had seen me fuming on the ladder, and he asked the nearby sandal-wearer where he was from. "Israel" he said. "That figures" said George, as he turned back to us. (Incidentally, two intrepid travellers I know from the Philippines emailed me after The Unmentionables posting. They'd been in a tuk tuk in Luzon once and, mid-conversation with the driver, he turned round and said "I hate Israelis." Jon Boy asked him why and he replied "Because they never want to pay me.")

So, in summary. Fonzy: not dead. Tikal: incredible. Guatemalan showers: most dangerous since Belsen. Israelis: zero social skills and 90% horrible.