At this point I was going to thank my readers for sticking with me to the end of the trip.
Having finally figured out how to view the stats for the blog, I was amazed at how many people had wasted valuable seconds of their lives reading my drivel.
I'm proud to say that I've notched up more than 3,000 hits from countries as far-flung as Germany, Malaysia, the Ukraine, Singapore and Hong Kong. Those figures aren't going to worry the BBC News website, or leave the UK's national newspapers worrying about their online ad revenue, but I was humbled nonetheless.
I notice I even picked up one or two Russia-based readers once I started mentioning communism.
Привет comrades!
However, only once I cast my eye over the top-hitting blogs did I discover my readers' true intentions... namely to revel in my coming a-cropper.
The three top-ranking pieces involved my getting too close for comfort with a massive cockroach, being involved in a bus crash and finding "fame and misfortune" in Vietnam.
Well, thanks a million folks. I love you, too.
Of course, a fair few people will have stumbled across my ramblings by chance - perhaps looking for things to do in Bolivia, or a good hostel in Chile.
I studied the various ways people arrived at the site.
And I can only assume the people who landed via search engines, having used the terms "Scunthorpe red light district" and "Titicaca sex tube", were disappointed.
(Incidentally, would it betray a shocking naivety were I to admit I have not the faintest idea what a "sex tube" is? Sounds painful to me.)
Most people, of course, arrived at the site via Facebook. But I'm honoured to know that - at some point, at least - there was a link to the blog from iteethwhiteningguide.com. However, I'd like to point out that at no stage has the hapless backpacker suggested reading his missives could improve anyone's dental health or complexion.
Sorry it took so long to rattle out these final entries but important things got in the way - like work and shaving off a ridiculous beard.
Yes, the beard has gone - followed swiftly by most of my hair when I realised that without the balance of facial hair my barnet made me look like an extra from a Bon Jovi video.
Anyway, I hope I have entertained you a little, informed you a smidgen and perhaps even educated you an iota.
As for the countries and people mentioned, I hope I've done them justice. I endeavoured not to insult or belittle, though that can be tricky when you're tired after weeks on the road.
Even those who downright annoyed us added a little something to the experience - and doubtless gave us a tale or two that will outlast the memories of many wonderful places.
However, they were greatly outnumbered by the friends we made along the way who helped make the experience so special... Respect, dudes. You know who you are.
So, that's it. Thanks, readers, for travelling with me.
But it be wrong to wrap things up without some pointless lists and figures:
Favourite three countries:
Bolivia
Cambodia
Cuba
Most breathtaking sights:
Perito Moreno Glacier, Argentina
Salar de Uyuni, Bolivia
View from a Laos service station
Best street food:
Pho noodle soup, Vietnam
Just about anything, Bangkok
"Potato egg", Bolivia
Favourite beer:
If I could remember that, it wouldn't have been a good trip.
Best long-distance buses:
Chile
Thailand
Colombia
Things I ate that still make me queasy thinking about them:
Fertilized duck egg, Cambodia
Guinea pig, Peru
Something green and wobbly - possibly lung, Peru/Colombia
Our trip in numbers:
Days away from home: 187
Countries: 17 (+3 in transit)
Bus trips: 75
Guidebooks: 6
Flights: 13
Marital rows: See number of bus trips
Reunions with old friends: 4
Beds (each): 77
Late-night toilet rescues: 2
Languages used to say "thank you": 6
Trips to doctor: 1
Border crossings by land: 13
By boat: 1
By air: 9
Bird species spotted: 123
Open-air emergency dumps: 3 (between us)
Swedes called Anders befriended: 3
Threats of divorce: 1
¡Adios!
Saturday 10 September 2011
Friday 9 September 2011
...homeward bound
As I woke up on the cold, hard floor of the Guatemala airport's check-in lounge, I became aware of movement.
The sight of hundreds of indigenous men filing in silently, each carrying identical white plastic bags and document folders, brought to mind some sci-fi dystopia.
They were being herded around by three comparitively huge Canadians in bomber jackets and my groggy imagination - it was 2.30am - pictured them being taken to a dark room to suffer some unspeakable cruelty.
Among the 300-or-so men, I spotted one woman. Pity her.
I'm sure they were simply flying off to work somewhere but it was certainly creepy.
It did, however, explain why we had arrived in Guatemala City to be swamped by indigenous families. They had evidently come to bid farewell to their husbands, fathers and sons.
Finding ourselves outside check-in, amid a sea of people in rural dress - all staring at the funny-looking pale couple - had proven an unnerving experience after a day aboard aircraft.
You might wonder what we were doing in Guatemala, given our journey was taking us from Cuba to Mexico City.
It was a quirk of flight pricing that meant the cheapest route was to fly to the capital of Costa Rica, San Jose, board another flight to Honduras which proceeded to Guatemala City, spend the night there, and then catch a morning plane to Mexico.
We had not wanted to waste money at an airport hotel and travelling to a hostel in the city for just a few hours seemed daft, so we asked a nice security guard if we could stay in the airport and he agreed.
Unfortunately, there was no transit lounge and so we remained on the floor - close to the front doors - of check-in. We were woken at 5am by a massive security guard who evidently didn't want his clean floor sullied by a couple of scruffy backpackers.
The flight to Guatemala - aboard an old twin-prop - had been quite an experience.
It's been a while since I 've been in one of these small planes but I've never experienced taxiing at about 80mph before.
And we were kept entertained by a group of 40-something businessmen who spent the trip swatting mosquitos and pestering the pilot to sit up at the flight deck.
The crew kept popping back to use the loo, while numerous children were treated to a trip up front to see them at work.
One young lass sat behind the controls during both landing and the subsequent take-off in the Honduran capital, Tegucigalpa.
The whole escapade lent the flight something of a party atmosphere, which is not something I'm sure I want at several thousand feet.
Still, you don't get that sort of experience with Ryanair - nor BA, for that matter.
So, Mexico... Desert heat, sombreros, burritos.
Or none of the above.
The soundtrack to our stay in Mexico City was the occasional clap of thunder and the relentless pounding of torrential rain on the town's roofs.
We caught the tail of the season's first hurricane and it's fair to say it rained almost non-stop for the three days we were there, meaning I felt like I was back in Manchester.
We spent much of our stay in the hostel and only really achieved two things in the city.
One was a tour of the palace, where we read about the country's fascinating history - I never knew it had once incorporated large sections of modern-day USA, for example.
The other was discovering that burritos are not a part of Mexican cuisine - in this city at least. The snack of choice is the torta, a kind of spicy toasted sandwich. They were delicious, even if they did come back to haunt you the next morning.
To be honest, our hearts weren't really in it from the moment we arrived in town - and had a row with a taxi driver.
He'd never heard of the hostel we'd booked, barely knew of the district and then, when police blocked off the road he was about to drive down, he waved in a general direction and told us to get out.
Bearing in mind this is one of the most dangerous places on Earth, we sat tight and told him to find an alternative route.
His agitation at being plunged into rush-hour traffic boiled over when he again tried to drop us in the wrong place.
"Can you not read?" he asked showing us the map, with our hostel's road name on.
I pointed out I could read and that the road he was talking about was not the one where he'd parked up.
In the end, we didn't win. He dropped us on the right road but at the wrong end of it - meaning a walk through the protests that had caused the roadblock in the first place.
Only afterwards did we read a guide book that said you're better getting out where the taxi driver wants to leave you. Oops.
BA's boarding staff had arrived and passengers were milling around when the announcement came.
"We are sorry to announce your flight has been delayed by twenty..."
'Ah, 20 minutes. No probs there,' we thought.
"...twenty-four hours," the announcement ended.
The gasp was audible. Then the tears started among some of our fellow passengers as realisation hit that they would miss onward flights.
The shock was most evident among those who had geared themselves up to cope with babies and young families during a long flight, coaxing them into good behaviour for three hours before take-off, only to face the prospect of doing it all again tomorrow.
The pilot, it transpired, had taken ill and there was no back-up.
It didn't really matter to us because we had no desperate need to get home.
And we relished the chance to live it up in a swanky (at least by our standards) hotel, with free all-you-can eat meals, courtesy of BA. Although we noticed with regret that they emptied the minibar ahead of our arrival.
My only real disappointment was that it forced the cancellation of an important date I'd made with friends for a curry in Surbiton (half-price for cash), where my beard was to make one of its few British public appearances.
Still, I suppose it was only fitting that our trip should end with a mishap.
The sight of hundreds of indigenous men filing in silently, each carrying identical white plastic bags and document folders, brought to mind some sci-fi dystopia.
They were being herded around by three comparitively huge Canadians in bomber jackets and my groggy imagination - it was 2.30am - pictured them being taken to a dark room to suffer some unspeakable cruelty.
Among the 300-or-so men, I spotted one woman. Pity her.
I'm sure they were simply flying off to work somewhere but it was certainly creepy.
It did, however, explain why we had arrived in Guatemala City to be swamped by indigenous families. They had evidently come to bid farewell to their husbands, fathers and sons.
Finding ourselves outside check-in, amid a sea of people in rural dress - all staring at the funny-looking pale couple - had proven an unnerving experience after a day aboard aircraft.
You might wonder what we were doing in Guatemala, given our journey was taking us from Cuba to Mexico City.
It was a quirk of flight pricing that meant the cheapest route was to fly to the capital of Costa Rica, San Jose, board another flight to Honduras which proceeded to Guatemala City, spend the night there, and then catch a morning plane to Mexico.
We had not wanted to waste money at an airport hotel and travelling to a hostel in the city for just a few hours seemed daft, so we asked a nice security guard if we could stay in the airport and he agreed.
Unfortunately, there was no transit lounge and so we remained on the floor - close to the front doors - of check-in. We were woken at 5am by a massive security guard who evidently didn't want his clean floor sullied by a couple of scruffy backpackers.
The flight to Guatemala - aboard an old twin-prop - had been quite an experience.
It's been a while since I 've been in one of these small planes but I've never experienced taxiing at about 80mph before.
And we were kept entertained by a group of 40-something businessmen who spent the trip swatting mosquitos and pestering the pilot to sit up at the flight deck.
The crew kept popping back to use the loo, while numerous children were treated to a trip up front to see them at work.
One young lass sat behind the controls during both landing and the subsequent take-off in the Honduran capital, Tegucigalpa.
The whole escapade lent the flight something of a party atmosphere, which is not something I'm sure I want at several thousand feet.
Still, you don't get that sort of experience with Ryanair - nor BA, for that matter.
So, Mexico... Desert heat, sombreros, burritos.
Or none of the above.
The soundtrack to our stay in Mexico City was the occasional clap of thunder and the relentless pounding of torrential rain on the town's roofs.
We caught the tail of the season's first hurricane and it's fair to say it rained almost non-stop for the three days we were there, meaning I felt like I was back in Manchester.
We spent much of our stay in the hostel and only really achieved two things in the city.
One was a tour of the palace, where we read about the country's fascinating history - I never knew it had once incorporated large sections of modern-day USA, for example.
The other was discovering that burritos are not a part of Mexican cuisine - in this city at least. The snack of choice is the torta, a kind of spicy toasted sandwich. They were delicious, even if they did come back to haunt you the next morning.
To be honest, our hearts weren't really in it from the moment we arrived in town - and had a row with a taxi driver.
He'd never heard of the hostel we'd booked, barely knew of the district and then, when police blocked off the road he was about to drive down, he waved in a general direction and told us to get out.
Bearing in mind this is one of the most dangerous places on Earth, we sat tight and told him to find an alternative route.
His agitation at being plunged into rush-hour traffic boiled over when he again tried to drop us in the wrong place.
"Can you not read?" he asked showing us the map, with our hostel's road name on.
I pointed out I could read and that the road he was talking about was not the one where he'd parked up.
In the end, we didn't win. He dropped us on the right road but at the wrong end of it - meaning a walk through the protests that had caused the roadblock in the first place.
Only afterwards did we read a guide book that said you're better getting out where the taxi driver wants to leave you. Oops.
BA's boarding staff had arrived and passengers were milling around when the announcement came.
"We are sorry to announce your flight has been delayed by twenty..."
'Ah, 20 minutes. No probs there,' we thought.
"...twenty-four hours," the announcement ended.
The gasp was audible. Then the tears started among some of our fellow passengers as realisation hit that they would miss onward flights.
The shock was most evident among those who had geared themselves up to cope with babies and young families during a long flight, coaxing them into good behaviour for three hours before take-off, only to face the prospect of doing it all again tomorrow.
The pilot, it transpired, had taken ill and there was no back-up.
It didn't really matter to us because we had no desperate need to get home.
And we relished the chance to live it up in a swanky (at least by our standards) hotel, with free all-you-can eat meals, courtesy of BA. Although we noticed with regret that they emptied the minibar ahead of our arrival.
My only real disappointment was that it forced the cancellation of an important date I'd made with friends for a curry in Surbiton (half-price for cash), where my beard was to make one of its few British public appearances.
Still, I suppose it was only fitting that our trip should end with a mishap.
Saturday 16 July 2011
... at the side of the motorway
I'm used to the One With the Common Sense nodding away like Red Rum in her sleep during bus journeys, so it took me by surprise when she leaped to her feet and shunted me out of the way.
Moments later, a wild-eyed driver had pulled over at the side of Cuba's Autopista Nacional and watched as she noisily emptied the contents of her stomach into the roadside bushes.
Fellow passengers stood up to get a better view of the impromptu sideshow, with audible "ooohs" and "eeuurghs" accompanying each fresh hurl.
It was typical. This was our 75th - and last - inter-urban bus trip and we had survived the previous 74 without any such emergencies, despite our being ill during a number of them.
Meanwhile, I was in a dilemma. I could feel the eyes of the onlookers burning into me, no doubt querying why I hadn't rushed to her aid.
However, with any travelling partner, it's good to have a fair idea of what they'll need in a crisis.
And I have learned that The One With Common Sense rarely appreciates sympathy. My attempts at providing comfort over a stubbed toe more usually land me in hot water than earn brownie points.
So, feeling slightly useless, I busied myself by preparing a hankie and a carton drink to help wash the taste away.
After she climbed back aboard, red-faced and uttering apologies, several chivalrous Latino men enquired as to her wellbeing.
I swear they shot me looks of disdain.
Later, the One With the Common Sense claimed she wouldn't have shouted at me for offering assistance.
I have my doubts but sometimes you just can't win.
The One With the Common Sense blamed one too many mojitos but I reckon it was the 30p-a-glass beer that did it.
To round off our time in Cuba, we had spent two very pleasant days in the laid-back city of Cienfuegos.
Founded by the French in 1819, the city's wide avenues are home to many handsome buildings and in parts it feels like a much cleaner, less-decayed version of Havana.
Both evenings we strolled along the malecon, or promenade, which was where we discovered a little bar selling drinks in national pesos.
One of the more intriguing - and confusing - aspects of visiting Cuba is its dual currency system.
As a tourist, you spend most of your cash in convertible Cuban pesos (CUCs) which are roughly pegged to the dollar and divided into centavos.
However, most workers are paid in Cuban national pesos (CUPs) and it takes 24 of them to make one CUC.
So, with cans usually costing between 1 and 2 CUC, it doesn't take Carol Vorderman to work out that getting the same quantity on tap for just 6 CUP is pretty good value.
It tasted pretty good, too. Too good, some might suggest.
Nonetheless it was great to sit among the locals, listening to music thumping from an outdoor stage next door and watching couples and families sit and soak up the waterfront atmosphere (and the rum).
With our funds running low, we had tended to buy our lunch in national pesos.
Occasionally this involved some dubious sandwiches but more likely it would be simple "pan con pasta" - bread roll with delicious garlic paste - followed by a 12p ice cream cornet.
Our favourite, however, had to be the pizzas.
Evidently, supply shortages meant the little shops at the front of people's homes could not make proper pizza bases.
But they improvised splendidly to create something akin to a large crumpet, before slathering it with strong-tasting cheese, chorizo and tomatoes, and serving it folded in half.
They can't be good for you - but for 40p, who cares?
It is when you hear that Cuba's renowned doctors - like most state employees - can earn as little as 10 CUC a month, you realise the power of the tourist buck.
That sort of monthly income would buy a main meal and a can of beer in a state-run restaurant.
Of course that is not the full picture. Food staples are doled out as part of the rationing system, while we understand housing, water and power costs are relatively low but it's obvious that most Cubans don't have a lot.
So it's unsurprising that hundreds of people lucky enough to have the best homes - and some are beautiful - are clamouring to rent rooms to tourists.
Success is not guaranteed from this private enterprise - the taxes are heavy and must be paid regardless of whether visitors turn up or not - but the advantages are clear.
It will be interesting to see how this affects Cuban society in the future.
The state clearly relies on taxes brought in through the tourist trade but it seems inevitable to me that the profits available via this fledgling private enterprise will create a new tier in society and undermine the ruling party's philosophy.
Part of it seems to come down to the lottery of which home you live in.
We never got to the bottom of how homes are allocated.
While it's illegal to sell houses for profit, there's nothing to stop people swapping homes with others (no doubt with a bit of cash changing hands on the side).
Every Sunday in Havana, hundreds of people gather on the Prado where people offer home exchanges, with each's house's features listed on a bit of card.
We spoke to one guy who said he and his girlfriend wanted to swap their two apartments for a larger house.
There may not be much money to be made on Cuba's housing ladder but the system can't be much worse than the ridiculous runaway market we have at home.
Perhaps inevitably, we left Cuba with more questions than answers about the way its society works.
We were careful not to ask anything that would put people in a difficult situation - who knows what the repercussions of careless talk might be, we thought.
Yet we found people surprisingly open.
One casa owner talked freely about the pitfalls of communism, saying it clearly couldn't work in its purest form.
Yet he seemed happy enough with the current regime and suggested it had the backing of 80% of the population.
I can't help feeling that the US embargo in some ways strengthens the regime by encouraging solidarity among Cubans in the face of a common foe.
The most impressive propaganda posters certainly concerned "El Bloqueo".
There weren't quite as many of these Party billboards around as I expected but the ones we saw did little to portray the regime as forward-looking.
Che Guevara's face - and quotes - remain a common sight for Havana's commuters, despite him having left the country in 1965.
And the continued reference to the regime as "La Revolucion", half a century after the actual revolution took place, means it retains something of a temporary air.
Society may be opening up, as its ageing leaders look for ways to prop up the economy, but it still difficult to see what will happen next for Cuba.
Unsurprisingly, perhaps, we saw no great stirrings of upheaval.
But neither was there a suggestion of a downtrodden people - the abiding image of Eastern European communism.
In fact, the overall impression was of a fun-loving nation making the most of life.
If happiness could be objectively measured, I'd love to know where the Cuban people would stand in the world rankings compared to us Europeans or US citizens.
(Mind you, you'd need to take into account the fact us Brits are never happy unless we're moaning... and the Scandinavians would inevitably come out on top regardless.)
One British expat we met talked about just how poor some children were in rural areas, with some surviving on sugar water and rice, but we saw little of the abject poverty we had seen elsewhere.
The shortages are noticable. Fresh milk is available only to mothers with young children, while everyone else gets powder, and beef or lamb are pretty much unavailable to anyone other than tourists.
However, no-one seemed to be without a home or truly going hungry.
The few beggars we saw were invariably well-dressed and healthy-looking, unlike those starving and grubby street children of south-east Asia or Bolivia's heartbreakingly thin pensioners.
The great irony is that 50 years of hard-line socialism has bred a nation of entrepreneurs.
Everyone is willing to sell a service - finding tourists rooms, offering them a tour or acting as a taxi driver - or else has a little sideline in buying and selling something.
Casa owners get around the high taxes by encouraging - or, in some cases, forcing - guests to buy breakfast or evening meals, without telling the taxman.
And while Cuba's advanced health system is undoubtedly one of La Revolucion's most significant achievements, in some areas doctors have started illegally charging to let people jump the queue.
According to one Cuban we met, the state is fully aware of all this Del Trotter-esque wheeling and dealing going on under its nose but won't act against people who are only trying to make life a bit better.
(Though it's a different story with opulence, he reckons.)
It's funny that there was only place we visited where we experience more cunning or heavy-handed sales techniques...
Communist Vietnam.
Moments later, a wild-eyed driver had pulled over at the side of Cuba's Autopista Nacional and watched as she noisily emptied the contents of her stomach into the roadside bushes.
Fellow passengers stood up to get a better view of the impromptu sideshow, with audible "ooohs" and "eeuurghs" accompanying each fresh hurl.
It was typical. This was our 75th - and last - inter-urban bus trip and we had survived the previous 74 without any such emergencies, despite our being ill during a number of them.
Meanwhile, I was in a dilemma. I could feel the eyes of the onlookers burning into me, no doubt querying why I hadn't rushed to her aid.
However, with any travelling partner, it's good to have a fair idea of what they'll need in a crisis.
And I have learned that The One With Common Sense rarely appreciates sympathy. My attempts at providing comfort over a stubbed toe more usually land me in hot water than earn brownie points.
So, feeling slightly useless, I busied myself by preparing a hankie and a carton drink to help wash the taste away.
After she climbed back aboard, red-faced and uttering apologies, several chivalrous Latino men enquired as to her wellbeing.
I swear they shot me looks of disdain.
Later, the One With the Common Sense claimed she wouldn't have shouted at me for offering assistance.
I have my doubts but sometimes you just can't win.
The One With the Common Sense blamed one too many mojitos but I reckon it was the 30p-a-glass beer that did it.
To round off our time in Cuba, we had spent two very pleasant days in the laid-back city of Cienfuegos.
Founded by the French in 1819, the city's wide avenues are home to many handsome buildings and in parts it feels like a much cleaner, less-decayed version of Havana.
Both evenings we strolled along the malecon, or promenade, which was where we discovered a little bar selling drinks in national pesos.
One of the more intriguing - and confusing - aspects of visiting Cuba is its dual currency system.
As a tourist, you spend most of your cash in convertible Cuban pesos (CUCs) which are roughly pegged to the dollar and divided into centavos.
However, most workers are paid in Cuban national pesos (CUPs) and it takes 24 of them to make one CUC.
So, with cans usually costing between 1 and 2 CUC, it doesn't take Carol Vorderman to work out that getting the same quantity on tap for just 6 CUP is pretty good value.
It tasted pretty good, too. Too good, some might suggest.
Nonetheless it was great to sit among the locals, listening to music thumping from an outdoor stage next door and watching couples and families sit and soak up the waterfront atmosphere (and the rum).
With our funds running low, we had tended to buy our lunch in national pesos.
Occasionally this involved some dubious sandwiches but more likely it would be simple "pan con pasta" - bread roll with delicious garlic paste - followed by a 12p ice cream cornet.
Our favourite, however, had to be the pizzas.
Evidently, supply shortages meant the little shops at the front of people's homes could not make proper pizza bases.
But they improvised splendidly to create something akin to a large crumpet, before slathering it with strong-tasting cheese, chorizo and tomatoes, and serving it folded in half.
They can't be good for you - but for 40p, who cares?
It is when you hear that Cuba's renowned doctors - like most state employees - can earn as little as 10 CUC a month, you realise the power of the tourist buck.
That sort of monthly income would buy a main meal and a can of beer in a state-run restaurant.
Of course that is not the full picture. Food staples are doled out as part of the rationing system, while we understand housing, water and power costs are relatively low but it's obvious that most Cubans don't have a lot.
So it's unsurprising that hundreds of people lucky enough to have the best homes - and some are beautiful - are clamouring to rent rooms to tourists.
Success is not guaranteed from this private enterprise - the taxes are heavy and must be paid regardless of whether visitors turn up or not - but the advantages are clear.
It will be interesting to see how this affects Cuban society in the future.
The state clearly relies on taxes brought in through the tourist trade but it seems inevitable to me that the profits available via this fledgling private enterprise will create a new tier in society and undermine the ruling party's philosophy.
Part of it seems to come down to the lottery of which home you live in.
We never got to the bottom of how homes are allocated.
While it's illegal to sell houses for profit, there's nothing to stop people swapping homes with others (no doubt with a bit of cash changing hands on the side).
Every Sunday in Havana, hundreds of people gather on the Prado where people offer home exchanges, with each's house's features listed on a bit of card.
We spoke to one guy who said he and his girlfriend wanted to swap their two apartments for a larger house.
There may not be much money to be made on Cuba's housing ladder but the system can't be much worse than the ridiculous runaway market we have at home.
Perhaps inevitably, we left Cuba with more questions than answers about the way its society works.
We were careful not to ask anything that would put people in a difficult situation - who knows what the repercussions of careless talk might be, we thought.
Yet we found people surprisingly open.
One casa owner talked freely about the pitfalls of communism, saying it clearly couldn't work in its purest form.
Yet he seemed happy enough with the current regime and suggested it had the backing of 80% of the population.
I can't help feeling that the US embargo in some ways strengthens the regime by encouraging solidarity among Cubans in the face of a common foe.
The most impressive propaganda posters certainly concerned "El Bloqueo".
There weren't quite as many of these Party billboards around as I expected but the ones we saw did little to portray the regime as forward-looking.
Che Guevara's face - and quotes - remain a common sight for Havana's commuters, despite him having left the country in 1965.
And the continued reference to the regime as "La Revolucion", half a century after the actual revolution took place, means it retains something of a temporary air.
Society may be opening up, as its ageing leaders look for ways to prop up the economy, but it still difficult to see what will happen next for Cuba.
Unsurprisingly, perhaps, we saw no great stirrings of upheaval.
But neither was there a suggestion of a downtrodden people - the abiding image of Eastern European communism.
In fact, the overall impression was of a fun-loving nation making the most of life.
If happiness could be objectively measured, I'd love to know where the Cuban people would stand in the world rankings compared to us Europeans or US citizens.
(Mind you, you'd need to take into account the fact us Brits are never happy unless we're moaning... and the Scandinavians would inevitably come out on top regardless.)
One British expat we met talked about just how poor some children were in rural areas, with some surviving on sugar water and rice, but we saw little of the abject poverty we had seen elsewhere.
The shortages are noticable. Fresh milk is available only to mothers with young children, while everyone else gets powder, and beef or lamb are pretty much unavailable to anyone other than tourists.
However, no-one seemed to be without a home or truly going hungry.
The few beggars we saw were invariably well-dressed and healthy-looking, unlike those starving and grubby street children of south-east Asia or Bolivia's heartbreakingly thin pensioners.
The great irony is that 50 years of hard-line socialism has bred a nation of entrepreneurs.
Everyone is willing to sell a service - finding tourists rooms, offering them a tour or acting as a taxi driver - or else has a little sideline in buying and selling something.
Casa owners get around the high taxes by encouraging - or, in some cases, forcing - guests to buy breakfast or evening meals, without telling the taxman.
And while Cuba's advanced health system is undoubtedly one of La Revolucion's most significant achievements, in some areas doctors have started illegally charging to let people jump the queue.
According to one Cuban we met, the state is fully aware of all this Del Trotter-esque wheeling and dealing going on under its nose but won't act against people who are only trying to make life a bit better.
(Though it's a different story with opulence, he reckons.)
It's funny that there was only place we visited where we experience more cunning or heavy-handed sales techniques...
Communist Vietnam.
Wednesday 13 July 2011
... in the beautiful, sun-kissed (boring?) Caribbean
The Caribbean... crystal clear water lapping gently over fine white sand, backed by palm trees and under a cloudless blue sky.
It's the travel agent's dream and there's no denying that Playa Ancon, one of Cuba's top beaches, is a beautiful spot.
We had decided to head there for our beach time, rather than the package holiday destination of Varadero - on the Atlantic coast, because this could be the only chance I ever get to dip my toes in the Caribbean sea.
However, while Ancon's beauty is undeniable, I couldn't help but find its calm, lukewarm waters, well... a bit dull.
To me, a good beach involves crashing waves, nipple-numbing seas and the wind whipping sand into your sandwiches.
Still, I was glad to sprawl on a sun lounger by the time we got there.
Typically, rather than allowing ourselves a day of complete relaxation, we had opted to walk the 10km or so from our base in the little fishing village of La Boca.
At least we had been able to punctuate the journey with some snorkelling at one of the little "playitas" along the road.
These rocky bays were pretty, rather than stunning, but I almost preferred them to their more famous neighbour.
In fact, we ended up spending more time on the stony sands at La Boca than anywhere else.
A stone's throw from our casa - Cuba's B&B-style private homes - the beach was perfectly placed for a twice-daily dip to cool off and chat to friendly Cubanos spending their holidays shoulder-deep in the sea while passing a bottle of rum between them.
Not a bad life.
We had been determined to get in a bit more beach time before we returned home, not least to finally put some colour into our pasty-white complexions.
Having spent most of our trip in the relatively chilly Andes, then hit the equator in time for the sweltering but largely overcast rainy season, four sun-kissed days in La Boca were just what we needed.
What made the experience for us, however, was the company of casa owners Guillermo and Viola.
Rather than facing the pressure we had experienced elsewhere to book taxis or fishing trips with casa owners - for a commission, of course - we were left to our own devices during the day.
They even loaned us their bicycles without charge one day when we needed to get to the bank in nearby Trinidad.
It was a pleasure to eat in their house. They served delicious meals on the terrace, where we watching little fishing boats head out for the night under a sky tinged pink by the sunset.
Cuban cuisine is often criticised for lacking imagination, no doubt partly because of the shortages.
However, we found the ingredients made up for the lack of variety. The pork - cooked however simply - was easily the tastiest I've eaten, while a whole red snapper served up by Guillermo was tender, subtle and cooked to perfection.
Each night after dinner, we sat in the terrace's rocking chairs and chatted about everything from life in Cuba and the British and Irish economies to pop music and, inevitably, football.
It was so comfortable and really gave us the feeling of being free to relax - something that doesn't happen that often when you're travelling.
It made for the perfect break to recharge our batteries and at the end of our stay, they even presented us with a gift of a garden ornament. We were both very touched.
It's only a shame we are unlikely to see them any time soon.
We were glad of the rest, having been at the end of our tethers by the time we got to La Boca.
One of the drawbacks to the casa system, which allows homeowners to let rooms, is that this relatively new form of private enterprise has created a cut-throat culture.
Everyone wants their share of the highly lucrative tourist dollar.
Tourist information workers may "recommend" one casa, then phone ahead to tell the owner they expect a commission, while your taxi driver might drop you at a different place entirely in a bid to get a fee.
In both cases, it's the guest who's expected to foot the bill.
It all gets a bit wearing when you just want to get to a place you've heard is good.
So when we stepped off the bus in Trinidad, tired and grumpy, to be surrounded by touts trying to lure us to whichever casa would tip them, we just weren't in the mood.
We successfully fended off a few but one guy persisted, following us up the road.
When my unconvincing denials that we spoke English or Spanish failed to shake him off, the One With The Common Sense told him in perfect Spanish that we had a reservation elsewhere.
"It's a good price," he argued.
But it was when he turned to the One With The Common Sense and said: "Baby, listen..." that my patience finally snapped.
"Don't call my wife 'baby'," I warned, pointing aggressively and marching towards him.
I'm not proud of getting so aggro, it was all a bit childish, especially thinking back to how we'd found dealing with nuisances with a smile on your face had worked so much better at the start of our trip in Asia.
But I was tired and had had my fill of the high-pressure approach. While I was sworn at for the first time in a while, I must have looked a bit wild because he retreated to grumble from a safe distance.
We knew the restaurant was a mistake the minute we walked in.
A beautiful colonial building, its courtyard was about as pleasant a dining area as you could find.
But the table was set with too many knives and forks for my liking and it was only after being handed an plush menu that we noticed the wrought-iron furniture was of the size normally found in a primary school.
Meanwhile, feet away, a woman was doing a bizarre dance to the music of the house band. I think she was trying to act sultry but to me she looked like a demented belly-dancer.
While state ownership ensured prices were similar to elsewhere, the elegant decor and overbearing waiting style hinted at the opulence most of its clientele might enjoy.
It just made us uncomfortable - like when a hotel bellboy carries bags when you're perfectly capable of doing it yourself. (Not that we've experienced that too often).
Nothing was troubling the other diners, however, who were bantering with the band. A hefty Italian guy, a few too many chiantis down the line, was proclaiming "Viva Cuba" to anyone who would listen.
The One With Common Sense and I looked at each other and something very odd happened; we acted decisively.
Ditching the menus, we skulled the beers we'd ordered on arrival, paid up and left for somewhere a little less grand where we could relax and enjoy ourselves.
We had intended to visit the Casa de la Musica - the home of the fantastic live music we were keen to hear.
However, we didn't need to.
We walked out of our second restaurant and straight into the path of a carnival march.
It was the first we'd come across since being in Latin America and we watched white-clad musicians pass, followed by guys twirling huge upright batons with gold streamers.
Tagging onto the end of the parade, we marvelled at how the Cuban kids seemed to be born with rhythm - even their pudgy-footed shuffles looking better than the cringeworthy efforts of the few tourists who tried to join in.
Recognising our inability to find time with the thumping rumba beat, we walked at the back until half way along its route the parade stopped.
There began a spectacular display of the most lethal fireworks I've seen since the Catherine Wheel flew off its mounting and rolled across the field, scattering onlookers, at the Guy Fawkes display at my Auntie's hospital when I was a nipper.
Mothers carrying children dived for cover under balconies as loud crackers sent bits of flaming pyrotechnic floating onto the crowd below. It was brilliant.
Then we were off again until we reached Trinidad's main square, where - having played and danced around half the town - our musicians and dancers went through an even more energetic and varied repertoire of Latino music.
It was pretty impressive, especially given they were just one of perhaps a dozen groups in the parade.
The atmosphere was fantastic - with the sort of pure, uninhibted and fervent joy you usually only find at football matches and gigs - and it proved a great way to end our stay in the area.
It's the travel agent's dream and there's no denying that Playa Ancon, one of Cuba's top beaches, is a beautiful spot.
We had decided to head there for our beach time, rather than the package holiday destination of Varadero - on the Atlantic coast, because this could be the only chance I ever get to dip my toes in the Caribbean sea.
However, while Ancon's beauty is undeniable, I couldn't help but find its calm, lukewarm waters, well... a bit dull.
To me, a good beach involves crashing waves, nipple-numbing seas and the wind whipping sand into your sandwiches.
Still, I was glad to sprawl on a sun lounger by the time we got there.
Typically, rather than allowing ourselves a day of complete relaxation, we had opted to walk the 10km or so from our base in the little fishing village of La Boca.
At least we had been able to punctuate the journey with some snorkelling at one of the little "playitas" along the road.
These rocky bays were pretty, rather than stunning, but I almost preferred them to their more famous neighbour.
In fact, we ended up spending more time on the stony sands at La Boca than anywhere else.
A stone's throw from our casa - Cuba's B&B-style private homes - the beach was perfectly placed for a twice-daily dip to cool off and chat to friendly Cubanos spending their holidays shoulder-deep in the sea while passing a bottle of rum between them.
Not a bad life.
We had been determined to get in a bit more beach time before we returned home, not least to finally put some colour into our pasty-white complexions.
Having spent most of our trip in the relatively chilly Andes, then hit the equator in time for the sweltering but largely overcast rainy season, four sun-kissed days in La Boca were just what we needed.
What made the experience for us, however, was the company of casa owners Guillermo and Viola.
Rather than facing the pressure we had experienced elsewhere to book taxis or fishing trips with casa owners - for a commission, of course - we were left to our own devices during the day.
They even loaned us their bicycles without charge one day when we needed to get to the bank in nearby Trinidad.
It was a pleasure to eat in their house. They served delicious meals on the terrace, where we watching little fishing boats head out for the night under a sky tinged pink by the sunset.
Cuban cuisine is often criticised for lacking imagination, no doubt partly because of the shortages.
However, we found the ingredients made up for the lack of variety. The pork - cooked however simply - was easily the tastiest I've eaten, while a whole red snapper served up by Guillermo was tender, subtle and cooked to perfection.
Each night after dinner, we sat in the terrace's rocking chairs and chatted about everything from life in Cuba and the British and Irish economies to pop music and, inevitably, football.
It was so comfortable and really gave us the feeling of being free to relax - something that doesn't happen that often when you're travelling.
It made for the perfect break to recharge our batteries and at the end of our stay, they even presented us with a gift of a garden ornament. We were both very touched.
It's only a shame we are unlikely to see them any time soon.
We were glad of the rest, having been at the end of our tethers by the time we got to La Boca.
One of the drawbacks to the casa system, which allows homeowners to let rooms, is that this relatively new form of private enterprise has created a cut-throat culture.
Everyone wants their share of the highly lucrative tourist dollar.
Tourist information workers may "recommend" one casa, then phone ahead to tell the owner they expect a commission, while your taxi driver might drop you at a different place entirely in a bid to get a fee.
In both cases, it's the guest who's expected to foot the bill.
It all gets a bit wearing when you just want to get to a place you've heard is good.
So when we stepped off the bus in Trinidad, tired and grumpy, to be surrounded by touts trying to lure us to whichever casa would tip them, we just weren't in the mood.
We successfully fended off a few but one guy persisted, following us up the road.
When my unconvincing denials that we spoke English or Spanish failed to shake him off, the One With The Common Sense told him in perfect Spanish that we had a reservation elsewhere.
"It's a good price," he argued.
But it was when he turned to the One With The Common Sense and said: "Baby, listen..." that my patience finally snapped.
"Don't call my wife 'baby'," I warned, pointing aggressively and marching towards him.
I'm not proud of getting so aggro, it was all a bit childish, especially thinking back to how we'd found dealing with nuisances with a smile on your face had worked so much better at the start of our trip in Asia.
But I was tired and had had my fill of the high-pressure approach. While I was sworn at for the first time in a while, I must have looked a bit wild because he retreated to grumble from a safe distance.
We knew the restaurant was a mistake the minute we walked in.
A beautiful colonial building, its courtyard was about as pleasant a dining area as you could find.
But the table was set with too many knives and forks for my liking and it was only after being handed an plush menu that we noticed the wrought-iron furniture was of the size normally found in a primary school.
Meanwhile, feet away, a woman was doing a bizarre dance to the music of the house band. I think she was trying to act sultry but to me she looked like a demented belly-dancer.
While state ownership ensured prices were similar to elsewhere, the elegant decor and overbearing waiting style hinted at the opulence most of its clientele might enjoy.
It just made us uncomfortable - like when a hotel bellboy carries bags when you're perfectly capable of doing it yourself. (Not that we've experienced that too often).
Nothing was troubling the other diners, however, who were bantering with the band. A hefty Italian guy, a few too many chiantis down the line, was proclaiming "Viva Cuba" to anyone who would listen.
The One With Common Sense and I looked at each other and something very odd happened; we acted decisively.
Ditching the menus, we skulled the beers we'd ordered on arrival, paid up and left for somewhere a little less grand where we could relax and enjoy ourselves.
We had intended to visit the Casa de la Musica - the home of the fantastic live music we were keen to hear.
However, we didn't need to.
We walked out of our second restaurant and straight into the path of a carnival march.
It was the first we'd come across since being in Latin America and we watched white-clad musicians pass, followed by guys twirling huge upright batons with gold streamers.
Tagging onto the end of the parade, we marvelled at how the Cuban kids seemed to be born with rhythm - even their pudgy-footed shuffles looking better than the cringeworthy efforts of the few tourists who tried to join in.
Recognising our inability to find time with the thumping rumba beat, we walked at the back until half way along its route the parade stopped.
There began a spectacular display of the most lethal fireworks I've seen since the Catherine Wheel flew off its mounting and rolled across the field, scattering onlookers, at the Guy Fawkes display at my Auntie's hospital when I was a nipper.
Mothers carrying children dived for cover under balconies as loud crackers sent bits of flaming pyrotechnic floating onto the crowd below. It was brilliant.
Then we were off again until we reached Trinidad's main square, where - having played and danced around half the town - our musicians and dancers went through an even more energetic and varied repertoire of Latino music.
It was pretty impressive, especially given they were just one of perhaps a dozen groups in the parade.
The atmosphere was fantastic - with the sort of pure, uninhibted and fervent joy you usually only find at football matches and gigs - and it proved a great way to end our stay in the area.
Friday 8 July 2011
... with a horse and cart
You don’t expect impartiality when you visit a museum in a communist state but you would think it would be well ordered.
Given the nature of the regime, I imagined Cuba’s Museum of the Revolution to chart a relentless chronology of key events in the revolution.
But while it did contain lots of fantastic photographs, many artefacts such as weapons and, bizarrely, a large collection of trousers worn by Revolutionary heroes, there were massive gaps in the displays.
For example, there was nothing about how unpleasant life had been under Batista’s dictatorship.
And there was no mention of the Florida gangsters who used the island as their playground in the first half of the 20th century. I’m surprised they missed that chance to take a pop at the Yanks.
Instead, there were ill-ordered and confusing references to incidents in the run-up to the revolution in which many of the guerrillas lost their lives.
What was fascinating was the language used in the displays.
You can never get a totally unbiased view of history but this photo caption gives you a flavour of things:
“Butcher commander Arcadio Casillas Lumpuy presented charges against the heroic combatants on April 22, 1957.”
Meanwhile, you’d think from the displays that the socialist leaders had done all the fighting themselves.
In the grounds of what was the presidential palace prior to 1959, preserved military vehicles included a makeshift tank used to destroy railway lines. It had been driven, of course, by Revolutionary commander Camilo Cienfuegos.
The display next to the aircraft used to fight off US-sponsored forces during the Bay of Pigs invasion suggested Castro himself had shot down one of the enemy bombers.
Call me a sceptic but I thought Fidel left the front-line dirty business to his pal, Che.
Backpacking in Cuba is very different to any of the other countries we’ve visited on our trip.
There are no hostels and the only hotels - outside those on package holiday resorts - are state-run and ludicrously expensive.
As a result, the only option open to us was to stay at casas particulares - the homes of ordinary people, allowed to rent out a room as the government relaxed rules on private entreprise.
It’s like a more intimate B&B, giving you an insight to the lives of Cubanos. And while it would be unfair to ask them too much about their opinions of life under communism, most are surprisingly eager to talk.
Our first stop was a beautiful apartment overlooking Havana’s central strip, the Prado.
Hosts, Luis and Fifita, sat us on the balcony and set us straight on a few things.
“You’ve been in Central America, which can be dangerous. But here there is no violence and you can walk anywhere,” said Luis.
It might sound like it comes straight from the Party’s tourist manual but it was no idle boast.
During our few days in Havana, we walked along all sorts of shady streets and dark roads where groups hung around.
Anywhere else, we’d have made a quick U-turn but you always get a feel for a place and here the buzzing atmosphere with so many people out enjoying themselves told us there was no danger.
It seems to be generally accepted that crime levels are low in Cuba and the penalties against those who target tourists are apparently so harsh they prove an effective deterrent.
However, Luis was quick to warn us that it is a quite different story with scams and not to believe anyone with any sob story, such as needing milk for a child.
Indeed, to walk Havana’s streets is to run a gauntlet of jineteros - kindly folk keen to part you from your cash.
These disarmingly charming guys strike up a conversation before offering to help you find a good restaurant or accommodation - who they then charge a commission which is added to your bill.
In other cases, they might just be hoping you’ll buy them a mojito or two in exchange for their company.
Had this been the start of our trip, we might have seen this as a good way to meet locals and improve our Spanish.
But with funds running low and Cuba being one of our more expensive destinations, our patience was limited.
I also have a natural dislike for having things forced upon me, so while I might appreciate being shown a good salsa club I don’t necessarily want to be frogmarched there immediately.
One time we did fall for their charms was when a couple stopped us to ask the time and, when I replied, complimented our use of Spanish.
They twigged that we were headed to an alley famous for its rumba dancing, performed by followers of the Afro-Cuban Santeria religion.
Having led us there, they then introduced us to some people selling CDs, obviously hoping for a commission.
But while it’s interesting to watch the dancers thrusting about to tribal beats, a manic look in their eyes, I can’t imagine anything I’d rather listen to less in the comfort of my own home. Except James Blunt.
So they left disappointed, as we pondered how a religious event could turn into a tourist circus.
The best bit of the show for me was watching a huge woman in bright African dress in the crowd light a massive cigar.
What makes these jineteros bearable is that they are invariably pleasant, often funny and never get aggressive if you bat them off with a stock line about only walking around admiring the architecture.
Some don’t feel the need to explain themselves, however. We met one American guy - on his seventh visit - who said he was known as “Senor No Gracias” on account of his reply to of any kind of conversation.
Another aspect of travel in Cuba is that tourists are pretty much separated from locals.
This makes bus travel less fun for those used to squashing into seats next to people in indigenous dress, people carrying livestock or goods to sell at market.
It means you come across tourists on a much greater budget and can end up visiting places you wouldn’t normally go.
On one such trip, which took in rum and cigar factories, we came across an Aussie couple, senior in years, who gave off the whiff of wealth.
We had marked them out as a pair of eejits when the woman commandeered the tour guide, Marta, to get her to ask for more milk in her coffee at a snack bar.
Fair enough, she might not have any Spanish but a caveman could have conveyed that with a bit of simple miming.
Later, her husband - clad from head to toe in Route 66 merchandise to show off his trip to the states - made a beeline for “Martha”, as they insisted on calling her.
He launched straight in: “What I don’t understand is, you had this revolution to get rid of a dictator but you’re worse off now than you were before.”
You could feel the collective cringe from anyone within earshot.
Marta was unimpressed: “How do you know?”
- “Well, from what I’ve read...”
Now maybe he has studied the subject extensively - and he’s entitled to his opinion - but it strikes me as pretty offensive for any tourist to claim to know what life was like under Batista.
The ultimate irony was that pinned to his Route 66 baseball cap - alongside badges extolling the virtues of the US military - was an image of Che Guevara.
You get so used to saying “no” to all offers that when a farmer stopped his horse and cart to offer us a tour of the area we instinctively refused.
It was only as he rode off that we realised it would have been a really nice way to spend the short time we had in the country town of Viñales.
So, we called him back, agreed a price and hopped aboard.
Think of Cuba and it’s hard to picture much other than beaches and Havana music bars.
But the scenery in Pinar Del Rio province is stunning and our slow ride with Carlos, the farmer, was the perfect way to take in the mogotes - high limestone mounds covered in vegetation.
Carlos also told us about the various crops grown in the area, including coffee, yukka and corn, and explained how its farmers worked in a co-operative, selling their produce to the state.
It was a relaxing ride and Carlos proved a more interesting guide than Marta, giving us a deeper insight into rural life.
Sadly, the view of one part of the mogotes has been obscured by one of Fidel Castro’s more bizarre initiatives.
Years ago, he commissioned a “prehistoric mural” to be painted across the cliff face of one of the mogote's.
It's massive and is supposed to represent the island's evolution but to me it looked like something you might see in a playschool.
Painted in bright blues, greens, reds and yellows, it shows a couple of crummy dinosaurs and blotchy humans.
Still, all the locals seemed very proud of it.
Given the nature of the regime, I imagined Cuba’s Museum of the Revolution to chart a relentless chronology of key events in the revolution.
But while it did contain lots of fantastic photographs, many artefacts such as weapons and, bizarrely, a large collection of trousers worn by Revolutionary heroes, there were massive gaps in the displays.
For example, there was nothing about how unpleasant life had been under Batista’s dictatorship.
And there was no mention of the Florida gangsters who used the island as their playground in the first half of the 20th century. I’m surprised they missed that chance to take a pop at the Yanks.
Instead, there were ill-ordered and confusing references to incidents in the run-up to the revolution in which many of the guerrillas lost their lives.
What was fascinating was the language used in the displays.
You can never get a totally unbiased view of history but this photo caption gives you a flavour of things:
“Butcher commander Arcadio Casillas Lumpuy presented charges against the heroic combatants on April 22, 1957.”
Meanwhile, you’d think from the displays that the socialist leaders had done all the fighting themselves.
In the grounds of what was the presidential palace prior to 1959, preserved military vehicles included a makeshift tank used to destroy railway lines. It had been driven, of course, by Revolutionary commander Camilo Cienfuegos.
The display next to the aircraft used to fight off US-sponsored forces during the Bay of Pigs invasion suggested Castro himself had shot down one of the enemy bombers.
Call me a sceptic but I thought Fidel left the front-line dirty business to his pal, Che.
Backpacking in Cuba is very different to any of the other countries we’ve visited on our trip.
There are no hostels and the only hotels - outside those on package holiday resorts - are state-run and ludicrously expensive.
As a result, the only option open to us was to stay at casas particulares - the homes of ordinary people, allowed to rent out a room as the government relaxed rules on private entreprise.
It’s like a more intimate B&B, giving you an insight to the lives of Cubanos. And while it would be unfair to ask them too much about their opinions of life under communism, most are surprisingly eager to talk.
Our first stop was a beautiful apartment overlooking Havana’s central strip, the Prado.
Hosts, Luis and Fifita, sat us on the balcony and set us straight on a few things.
“You’ve been in Central America, which can be dangerous. But here there is no violence and you can walk anywhere,” said Luis.
It might sound like it comes straight from the Party’s tourist manual but it was no idle boast.
During our few days in Havana, we walked along all sorts of shady streets and dark roads where groups hung around.
Anywhere else, we’d have made a quick U-turn but you always get a feel for a place and here the buzzing atmosphere with so many people out enjoying themselves told us there was no danger.
It seems to be generally accepted that crime levels are low in Cuba and the penalties against those who target tourists are apparently so harsh they prove an effective deterrent.
However, Luis was quick to warn us that it is a quite different story with scams and not to believe anyone with any sob story, such as needing milk for a child.
Indeed, to walk Havana’s streets is to run a gauntlet of jineteros - kindly folk keen to part you from your cash.
These disarmingly charming guys strike up a conversation before offering to help you find a good restaurant or accommodation - who they then charge a commission which is added to your bill.
In other cases, they might just be hoping you’ll buy them a mojito or two in exchange for their company.
Had this been the start of our trip, we might have seen this as a good way to meet locals and improve our Spanish.
But with funds running low and Cuba being one of our more expensive destinations, our patience was limited.
I also have a natural dislike for having things forced upon me, so while I might appreciate being shown a good salsa club I don’t necessarily want to be frogmarched there immediately.
One time we did fall for their charms was when a couple stopped us to ask the time and, when I replied, complimented our use of Spanish.
They twigged that we were headed to an alley famous for its rumba dancing, performed by followers of the Afro-Cuban Santeria religion.
Having led us there, they then introduced us to some people selling CDs, obviously hoping for a commission.
But while it’s interesting to watch the dancers thrusting about to tribal beats, a manic look in their eyes, I can’t imagine anything I’d rather listen to less in the comfort of my own home. Except James Blunt.
So they left disappointed, as we pondered how a religious event could turn into a tourist circus.
The best bit of the show for me was watching a huge woman in bright African dress in the crowd light a massive cigar.
What makes these jineteros bearable is that they are invariably pleasant, often funny and never get aggressive if you bat them off with a stock line about only walking around admiring the architecture.
Some don’t feel the need to explain themselves, however. We met one American guy - on his seventh visit - who said he was known as “Senor No Gracias” on account of his reply to of any kind of conversation.
Another aspect of travel in Cuba is that tourists are pretty much separated from locals.
This makes bus travel less fun for those used to squashing into seats next to people in indigenous dress, people carrying livestock or goods to sell at market.
It means you come across tourists on a much greater budget and can end up visiting places you wouldn’t normally go.
On one such trip, which took in rum and cigar factories, we came across an Aussie couple, senior in years, who gave off the whiff of wealth.
We had marked them out as a pair of eejits when the woman commandeered the tour guide, Marta, to get her to ask for more milk in her coffee at a snack bar.
Fair enough, she might not have any Spanish but a caveman could have conveyed that with a bit of simple miming.
Later, her husband - clad from head to toe in Route 66 merchandise to show off his trip to the states - made a beeline for “Martha”, as they insisted on calling her.
He launched straight in: “What I don’t understand is, you had this revolution to get rid of a dictator but you’re worse off now than you were before.”
You could feel the collective cringe from anyone within earshot.
Marta was unimpressed: “How do you know?”
- “Well, from what I’ve read...”
Now maybe he has studied the subject extensively - and he’s entitled to his opinion - but it strikes me as pretty offensive for any tourist to claim to know what life was like under Batista.
The ultimate irony was that pinned to his Route 66 baseball cap - alongside badges extolling the virtues of the US military - was an image of Che Guevara.
You get so used to saying “no” to all offers that when a farmer stopped his horse and cart to offer us a tour of the area we instinctively refused.
It was only as he rode off that we realised it would have been a really nice way to spend the short time we had in the country town of Viñales.
So, we called him back, agreed a price and hopped aboard.
Think of Cuba and it’s hard to picture much other than beaches and Havana music bars.
But the scenery in Pinar Del Rio province is stunning and our slow ride with Carlos, the farmer, was the perfect way to take in the mogotes - high limestone mounds covered in vegetation.
Carlos also told us about the various crops grown in the area, including coffee, yukka and corn, and explained how its farmers worked in a co-operative, selling their produce to the state.
It was a relaxing ride and Carlos proved a more interesting guide than Marta, giving us a deeper insight into rural life.
Sadly, the view of one part of the mogotes has been obscured by one of Fidel Castro’s more bizarre initiatives.
Years ago, he commissioned a “prehistoric mural” to be painted across the cliff face of one of the mogote's.
It's massive and is supposed to represent the island's evolution but to me it looked like something you might see in a playschool.
Painted in bright blues, greens, reds and yellows, it shows a couple of crummy dinosaurs and blotchy humans.
Still, all the locals seemed very proud of it.
Thursday 30 June 2011
...under a communist regime
We had been in Cuba a matter of minutes when the nature of its government hit home.
I had been hoping it would be the one place my beard would be welcomed unreservedly, given how all Cuba´s revolutionary heroes seemed to sport one.
No such luck, however.
Perhaps they thought I was taking the mick because I was immediately singled out at customs.
The One With the Common Sense - suffering by association - was also pulled to one side while a very pleasant man conducted the kind of rigorous interview usually heard on BBC Radio 4´s Today programme.
My profession as a journalist evidently set off his counter-revolutionary alarm because he was eager to know who I worked for, why I was in Cuba and what equipment I had with me.
I had read that declaring yourself a journalist can present problems when entering some countries but I´m a terrible liar and would have been found out within minutes had I claimed to be an insurance salesman, or something.
The extent to which access to information is restricted in Cuba was demonstrated by the fact my interrogator had never heard of the BBC.
He seemed very keen for me to admit that I wanted to see the country´s very different social system, which of course I did.
However, speaking those words aloud made me sound like some sort of ardent right-winger, bent on inspiring an uprising.
What made matters worse was when the One With the Common Sense revealed she worked in the human rights field and he began to ask whether she was planning to extend her work to Cuba.
At this point, I began to picture the concrete walls of the cell that would be my home until we regime-changers could be safely deported.
After about 20 minutes, however, we were told not to worry and sent to have our visas stamped.
Breathing a sigh of relief, we made our way to he luggage carousel to find our bags intact.
However, no sooner had we picked them up than we were approached by another official who explained he wanted to conduct another little interview.
We were then asked all the same questions in a perfectly non-threatening but equally probing way before being made to empty our entire rucksacks.
Once again, I was forced to quite literally air my dirty laundry in public.
Ignoring the underpants in various stages of decay and questionable cleanliness, he focused instead on an odd collection of items.
The injection pen for use should the One With the Common Sense accidentally eat a nut and suffer an allergic reaction occupied him for a while.
Then his attention turned to my portable hammock, which he was keen to probe, and a little packet of Chinese New Year Lucky Money envelopes I picked up in Vietnam.
And he studied the pages of every book I was carrying - even the innocuous bird field guides - lest it should contain some counter-revolutionary material.
I was just glad he didn´t ask about the shorthand notes in my little pad because I would never have been quick-witted enough to think of what I could say they were for, other than publication in this blog.
In total, we spent two hours waiting to be handed back our passports and released from the airport, by which time they had turned off the lights in the arrivals hall and most of the staff had gone home.
Just like Bangkok, where we started our trip, Havana is the kind of city where you really feel like you´ve stepped into a different world.
It´s beautiful, dirty, vibrant, fun and a little sad, all at the same time.
The modern heart is the old town where, despite careful renovations to many of its smartest squares and most historic buildings, the overall impression is one of not so much fading but crumbling grandeur.
Yet it remains full of life.
Salsa rythmns pump from five-story blocks lining the narrow streets as pedestrians dodge bicycle taxis or ageing sidecars, and elderly people watch the world go by from laundry-covered balconies.
Walk past buildings of similar age in Leeds or Liverpool on a Saturday night and you might find a goverment office, bereft of workers, or a department store with its shutters down.
Here, if you peek into the ground floor of an elegantly decaying 18th or 19th century block you will most likely be staring into someone´s front room, TV on and shutters open to the world.
There´s a complete lack of self-consciousness which allows people to dance in the streets and sit on doorsteps shouting to neighbours or playing chess or dominos.
The restored buildings are undoubtedly handsome.
But it´s the tired yet beautiful apartments where ordinary people live - amid original elements like intricate tiling or artful stonemasonry surrounded by peeling paint - that give the place its special character.
Neighbouring central Havana might not have the same quality of buildings but is no less fascinating for it.
Walking up one of its main shopping parades is like stepping back into the 1960s, with long-forgotten brand names or logos displayed within bricks above the windows.
Shop signs that must once have seemed so glossy and futuristic now offer only a retro charm.
Add to this the hundreds of classic American cars on the streets and you really feel you´re getting a glimpse of the past.
It´s amazing that these cars have survived so long, with many in use as taxis, although the secret to their longevity can often be found under the bonnet - where a more modern engine hauls around the bulky chassis.
Some of these things are so huge, they look big enough to fit the Anthill Mob of Wacky Races fame.
There are plenty of modern cars in the city - mostly state-owned taxis - and they form an unusual mix alongside dozens of Coco taxis (tuk-tuks shaped like coconuts) and seemingly every Lada ever made.
Indeed, for every ancient Chevy, Oldsmobile or Cadillac, there are about a dozen little motors that emerged from behind the iron curtain.
One Polish bloke we met was beside himself with excitement after seeing a tiny Fiat originally made for the streets of communist Warsaw.
I´ve been called a lot of things over the years but El Comandante has to be one of my favourites.
My ridiculous beard has been attracting increasing numbers of comments as it has grown - usually from mickey-taking wags - but I could definitely get used to being saluted in the street.
I reckon I look more like Fidel´s late, lamented revolutionary pal Camilo Cienfuegos than Castro himself but I guess he´s less likely to get a laugh.
On other occasions I´ve been nicknamed Hemingway´s son and Robin Hood (no, I don´t get that one either), while one bloke even called out Shalom to me. I´m not sure what to make of that.
The lady who ran the first place where we stayed said it was "very pretty" and that I shouldn´t shave it off. I´m not sure how I feel about that, either.
Meanwhile, the One With the Common Sense continues to attract a legion of followers, including one young lad who asked if she wanted a boyfriend.
Her biggest fan, however, was an elderly man who serves up water - drawn from a well and sent through a 17th century filtering system to make it potable - in Havana´s old town.
Clearly a couple of pints short of a full gallon, he greeted us noisily before asking from where we hailed.
A recurring theme of this trip has been that when the One With the Common Sense says in Spanish that she´s from Irlanda, it is inevitable confused with the Netherlands (Holanda, with a silent "H").
So, the old gimmer immediately chirped up with a chant of "Holanda campeon, Holanda campeon" and insisted on having his photo taken with her.
Neither of us had the heart to point out that she was actually Irish, and that the Netherlands had in fact been beaten in football´s World Cup final.
I eagerly awaited our return the next day for another clog-fest.
However, the barmy bloke seemed in no mood for more chanting.
And he clearly had no recollection of us because the first thing he asked was where we were from... before insisting on having his photo taken with The One With the Common Sense.
I had been hoping it would be the one place my beard would be welcomed unreservedly, given how all Cuba´s revolutionary heroes seemed to sport one.
No such luck, however.
Perhaps they thought I was taking the mick because I was immediately singled out at customs.
The One With the Common Sense - suffering by association - was also pulled to one side while a very pleasant man conducted the kind of rigorous interview usually heard on BBC Radio 4´s Today programme.
My profession as a journalist evidently set off his counter-revolutionary alarm because he was eager to know who I worked for, why I was in Cuba and what equipment I had with me.
I had read that declaring yourself a journalist can present problems when entering some countries but I´m a terrible liar and would have been found out within minutes had I claimed to be an insurance salesman, or something.
The extent to which access to information is restricted in Cuba was demonstrated by the fact my interrogator had never heard of the BBC.
He seemed very keen for me to admit that I wanted to see the country´s very different social system, which of course I did.
However, speaking those words aloud made me sound like some sort of ardent right-winger, bent on inspiring an uprising.
What made matters worse was when the One With the Common Sense revealed she worked in the human rights field and he began to ask whether she was planning to extend her work to Cuba.
At this point, I began to picture the concrete walls of the cell that would be my home until we regime-changers could be safely deported.
After about 20 minutes, however, we were told not to worry and sent to have our visas stamped.
Breathing a sigh of relief, we made our way to he luggage carousel to find our bags intact.
However, no sooner had we picked them up than we were approached by another official who explained he wanted to conduct another little interview.
We were then asked all the same questions in a perfectly non-threatening but equally probing way before being made to empty our entire rucksacks.
Once again, I was forced to quite literally air my dirty laundry in public.
Ignoring the underpants in various stages of decay and questionable cleanliness, he focused instead on an odd collection of items.
The injection pen for use should the One With the Common Sense accidentally eat a nut and suffer an allergic reaction occupied him for a while.
Then his attention turned to my portable hammock, which he was keen to probe, and a little packet of Chinese New Year Lucky Money envelopes I picked up in Vietnam.
And he studied the pages of every book I was carrying - even the innocuous bird field guides - lest it should contain some counter-revolutionary material.
I was just glad he didn´t ask about the shorthand notes in my little pad because I would never have been quick-witted enough to think of what I could say they were for, other than publication in this blog.
In total, we spent two hours waiting to be handed back our passports and released from the airport, by which time they had turned off the lights in the arrivals hall and most of the staff had gone home.
Just like Bangkok, where we started our trip, Havana is the kind of city where you really feel like you´ve stepped into a different world.
It´s beautiful, dirty, vibrant, fun and a little sad, all at the same time.
The modern heart is the old town where, despite careful renovations to many of its smartest squares and most historic buildings, the overall impression is one of not so much fading but crumbling grandeur.
Yet it remains full of life.
Salsa rythmns pump from five-story blocks lining the narrow streets as pedestrians dodge bicycle taxis or ageing sidecars, and elderly people watch the world go by from laundry-covered balconies.
Walk past buildings of similar age in Leeds or Liverpool on a Saturday night and you might find a goverment office, bereft of workers, or a department store with its shutters down.
Here, if you peek into the ground floor of an elegantly decaying 18th or 19th century block you will most likely be staring into someone´s front room, TV on and shutters open to the world.
There´s a complete lack of self-consciousness which allows people to dance in the streets and sit on doorsteps shouting to neighbours or playing chess or dominos.
The restored buildings are undoubtedly handsome.
But it´s the tired yet beautiful apartments where ordinary people live - amid original elements like intricate tiling or artful stonemasonry surrounded by peeling paint - that give the place its special character.
Neighbouring central Havana might not have the same quality of buildings but is no less fascinating for it.
Walking up one of its main shopping parades is like stepping back into the 1960s, with long-forgotten brand names or logos displayed within bricks above the windows.
Shop signs that must once have seemed so glossy and futuristic now offer only a retro charm.
Add to this the hundreds of classic American cars on the streets and you really feel you´re getting a glimpse of the past.
It´s amazing that these cars have survived so long, with many in use as taxis, although the secret to their longevity can often be found under the bonnet - where a more modern engine hauls around the bulky chassis.
Some of these things are so huge, they look big enough to fit the Anthill Mob of Wacky Races fame.
There are plenty of modern cars in the city - mostly state-owned taxis - and they form an unusual mix alongside dozens of Coco taxis (tuk-tuks shaped like coconuts) and seemingly every Lada ever made.
Indeed, for every ancient Chevy, Oldsmobile or Cadillac, there are about a dozen little motors that emerged from behind the iron curtain.
One Polish bloke we met was beside himself with excitement after seeing a tiny Fiat originally made for the streets of communist Warsaw.
I´ve been called a lot of things over the years but El Comandante has to be one of my favourites.
My ridiculous beard has been attracting increasing numbers of comments as it has grown - usually from mickey-taking wags - but I could definitely get used to being saluted in the street.
I reckon I look more like Fidel´s late, lamented revolutionary pal Camilo Cienfuegos than Castro himself but I guess he´s less likely to get a laugh.
On other occasions I´ve been nicknamed Hemingway´s son and Robin Hood (no, I don´t get that one either), while one bloke even called out Shalom to me. I´m not sure what to make of that.
The lady who ran the first place where we stayed said it was "very pretty" and that I shouldn´t shave it off. I´m not sure how I feel about that, either.
Meanwhile, the One With the Common Sense continues to attract a legion of followers, including one young lad who asked if she wanted a boyfriend.
Her biggest fan, however, was an elderly man who serves up water - drawn from a well and sent through a 17th century filtering system to make it potable - in Havana´s old town.
Clearly a couple of pints short of a full gallon, he greeted us noisily before asking from where we hailed.
A recurring theme of this trip has been that when the One With the Common Sense says in Spanish that she´s from Irlanda, it is inevitable confused with the Netherlands (Holanda, with a silent "H").
So, the old gimmer immediately chirped up with a chant of "Holanda campeon, Holanda campeon" and insisted on having his photo taken with her.
Neither of us had the heart to point out that she was actually Irish, and that the Netherlands had in fact been beaten in football´s World Cup final.
I eagerly awaited our return the next day for another clog-fest.
However, the barmy bloke seemed in no mood for more chanting.
And he clearly had no recollection of us because the first thing he asked was where we were from... before insisting on having his photo taken with The One With the Common Sense.
Thursday 16 June 2011
... at the customs checkpoint
I wasn´t too worried when I was called off the bus to undergo a customs check... but when I saw the officer pulling on a pair of rubber gloves, the panic definitely set in.
It was mid-way through the first of two days aboard an international bus from the Nicaraguan capital of Managua to Guatemala City when we pulled up at the El Salvador border.
We had already negotiated three customs checkpoints, having left Nicaragua to briefly cross into Honduras and then out again.
So we were well used to officers calling people at random to ask a few cursory questions about their luggage.
This tends to be something of a token effort among the tourists, whereas the natives of Central America seem to come in for a bit more scrutiny.
But when I stepped off the coach, I soon dropped my casual attitude as I realised from the tone of the officials´ voices that this wasn´t the routine.
They questioned me more aggressively than usual about my purpose of being in the country; we were only spending the night there before continuing to Guatemala the next day.
And when one guy asked my profession and I replied that I was a journalist, it aroused their suspicion further and they seemed to think I was planning to hang aroung to work.
I thought they were going to try to extract a bribe but instead I was led into an office and ordered to unpack my rucksack.
It is at such moments you realise just how daft your belongings look when they are laid out for all to see; dirty underpants sitting alongside a festering towel and an Asian shuttlecock football game.
Suddenly the little ceramic gifts I´d bought looked very suspicious, wrapped as they were in newspaper and then bound by sticky tape.
When a dog handler came in and started pulling on those medical gloves, I really began to get worried.
So I was thankful for having taken Spanish lessons, as I earwigged enough to figure out what was going on.
The dog had caught a scent in the bus´s luggage hold, evidently in the area where my pack - and that belonging to a young Aussie lad - had been stowed.
They obviously reckoned he´d got some drugs on him because while they didn´t examine my bag for long, they were really thorough with his.
One of the less stern guys came over for a chat and seemed fascinated by the little calculator-type gadget that banks send you to obtain internet banking codes.
Meanwhile, the poor Aussie lad´s panic increased when the dog pounced on a document folder that fell from the table onto the floor.
The official started searching - perhaps thinking something was folded up in the paper - and then reading each letter.
No doubt he could understand next to nothing but his eyes lit up when he noticed an Australian police letterhead.
It was only proof that the lad had no criminal record - a document he needed to allow him to work in Canada - and I did my best to convey this to the border guard.
In the end, they found nothing and sent us on our way. It took a good half-hour for my knees to stop knocking, though.
Read a guide book about capital cities in this part of the world and there is a recurring theme.
"They aren´t very nice. Stay near the bus terminal and get out of town as soon as you can," is the general consensus.
This presents the budget traveller with something of a difficulty because the accommodation choice is limited, to say the least.
The One With The Common Sense and I are probably among the easier to please customers to visit guest houses but even our hearts sank at the state of our room in Managua.
It´s the only place we´ve stayed in where there was no door between the toilet and bedroom, giving it a sort of prison cell atmosphere.
Not only was it infested with ants but the wall fan was caked in grime and stains lined the walls.
At least it had a telly, however, so we were able to take our minds off the potential dangers of the neighbourhood outside by watching a couple of films.
If anything, the room in San Salvador was worse.
As it´s probably the most dangerous city in the region, we decided to stay in the hotel at the back of the bus garage.
Our room was on the top floor of this warren of a place but it was hardly what you´d call a penthouse.
Not only was it so small that only one of use could move around at any one time, it also smelled faintly of wee.
We tried to combat the odour lighting a mosquito coil, preferring the chemical smell of fly killer to that of old man´s underpants.
But even after lights out things got worse. I was too tall for the bed and could only just wedge myself between the headboard and the bars at the bottom.
I was glad to be rising at 4.30am for the second leg of our journey because sleep was evading me anyway.
By the time we got to Guatemala City we had already made up our minds to avoid a third grim city centre.
Instead we headed straight for the beautiful colonial city of Antigua, only an hour away.
It´s colourful buildings and cobbled streets seemed a world away from our previous two nights´ bases, while the sheer volume of tourists ensures plenty of competition among accommodation providers in the town.
Sadly for us, it hasn´t resulted in quality across the board.
Our guest house looked okay at first sight and we quickly dumped our bags to go in search of food.
It was only arriving back that night that we realised what we were in for.
I don´t know what the bed was made of but it felt like occasional strips of concrete interspersed with foot-wide gaps where the pathetically thin mattress sank and disappeared.
I woke up after a fitful night with so many kinks in my back, I thought I´d never stand up.
It´s the first time we´ve found accommodation so bad we´ve had to leave after a night. Horrendous.
Sitting on a balcony, working our way through a bottle of rum while overlooking Lake Atitlan, we were able to put any hostel nightmares out of our minds.
With heavily-forested volcanos rising out of the water and boats criss-crossing to the various remote villages, San Pablo de la Laguna really is a beautiful place.
Out-of-season and so short on the hoardes of travellers who flock here, it was the perfect place to relax for a couple of days.
We had a real holiday feeling as we swam each morning, wandered the little lanes behind our hotel and did little else but try to paddle off the rum hangover in a kayak.
You could not have picked a better location for the hotel - it being right on the water - and because it was the furthest away from the pier (though still only five minutes walk) it was cheaper than its rivals.
The owner was friendly and we enjoyed chats with her mischievous three-year-old daughter. It was just the relaxation we needed.
Best of all, however, had to be the "traditional" Mayan bedspread, which featured the cast of Scooby-Doo.
What with that and the Pooh bear bedsheet, I felt a bit wrong going to sleep sandwiched between Shaggy and Tigger.
Getting to the village had been something of a mission. It had involved four local buses over three hours.
It was a great laugh watching people go about their busy lives, including one candy floss seller who sat in front of me with about 100 bags clipped to a huge pole, all bobbing around our heads.
We passed through the Mayan village of Sololá, where local women wear elegant and colourful traditional dress.
Meanwhile, the blokes wear woven skirts over trousers (also woven - as is seemingly all their clothing), topped with brilliant cowboy hats.
Mind you, the boat ride to the village was a bit traumatic.
The wind had whipped up big waves on the lake and I felt like my internal organs where being mushed together inside my rib cage as the little fibreglass motorboat smacked against the water.
I definitely needed that rum.
It was mid-way through the first of two days aboard an international bus from the Nicaraguan capital of Managua to Guatemala City when we pulled up at the El Salvador border.
We had already negotiated three customs checkpoints, having left Nicaragua to briefly cross into Honduras and then out again.
So we were well used to officers calling people at random to ask a few cursory questions about their luggage.
This tends to be something of a token effort among the tourists, whereas the natives of Central America seem to come in for a bit more scrutiny.
But when I stepped off the coach, I soon dropped my casual attitude as I realised from the tone of the officials´ voices that this wasn´t the routine.
They questioned me more aggressively than usual about my purpose of being in the country; we were only spending the night there before continuing to Guatemala the next day.
And when one guy asked my profession and I replied that I was a journalist, it aroused their suspicion further and they seemed to think I was planning to hang aroung to work.
I thought they were going to try to extract a bribe but instead I was led into an office and ordered to unpack my rucksack.
It is at such moments you realise just how daft your belongings look when they are laid out for all to see; dirty underpants sitting alongside a festering towel and an Asian shuttlecock football game.
Suddenly the little ceramic gifts I´d bought looked very suspicious, wrapped as they were in newspaper and then bound by sticky tape.
When a dog handler came in and started pulling on those medical gloves, I really began to get worried.
So I was thankful for having taken Spanish lessons, as I earwigged enough to figure out what was going on.
The dog had caught a scent in the bus´s luggage hold, evidently in the area where my pack - and that belonging to a young Aussie lad - had been stowed.
They obviously reckoned he´d got some drugs on him because while they didn´t examine my bag for long, they were really thorough with his.
One of the less stern guys came over for a chat and seemed fascinated by the little calculator-type gadget that banks send you to obtain internet banking codes.
Meanwhile, the poor Aussie lad´s panic increased when the dog pounced on a document folder that fell from the table onto the floor.
The official started searching - perhaps thinking something was folded up in the paper - and then reading each letter.
No doubt he could understand next to nothing but his eyes lit up when he noticed an Australian police letterhead.
It was only proof that the lad had no criminal record - a document he needed to allow him to work in Canada - and I did my best to convey this to the border guard.
In the end, they found nothing and sent us on our way. It took a good half-hour for my knees to stop knocking, though.
Read a guide book about capital cities in this part of the world and there is a recurring theme.
"They aren´t very nice. Stay near the bus terminal and get out of town as soon as you can," is the general consensus.
This presents the budget traveller with something of a difficulty because the accommodation choice is limited, to say the least.
The One With The Common Sense and I are probably among the easier to please customers to visit guest houses but even our hearts sank at the state of our room in Managua.
It´s the only place we´ve stayed in where there was no door between the toilet and bedroom, giving it a sort of prison cell atmosphere.
Not only was it infested with ants but the wall fan was caked in grime and stains lined the walls.
At least it had a telly, however, so we were able to take our minds off the potential dangers of the neighbourhood outside by watching a couple of films.
If anything, the room in San Salvador was worse.
As it´s probably the most dangerous city in the region, we decided to stay in the hotel at the back of the bus garage.
Our room was on the top floor of this warren of a place but it was hardly what you´d call a penthouse.
Not only was it so small that only one of use could move around at any one time, it also smelled faintly of wee.
We tried to combat the odour lighting a mosquito coil, preferring the chemical smell of fly killer to that of old man´s underpants.
But even after lights out things got worse. I was too tall for the bed and could only just wedge myself between the headboard and the bars at the bottom.
I was glad to be rising at 4.30am for the second leg of our journey because sleep was evading me anyway.
By the time we got to Guatemala City we had already made up our minds to avoid a third grim city centre.
Instead we headed straight for the beautiful colonial city of Antigua, only an hour away.
It´s colourful buildings and cobbled streets seemed a world away from our previous two nights´ bases, while the sheer volume of tourists ensures plenty of competition among accommodation providers in the town.
Sadly for us, it hasn´t resulted in quality across the board.
Our guest house looked okay at first sight and we quickly dumped our bags to go in search of food.
It was only arriving back that night that we realised what we were in for.
I don´t know what the bed was made of but it felt like occasional strips of concrete interspersed with foot-wide gaps where the pathetically thin mattress sank and disappeared.
I woke up after a fitful night with so many kinks in my back, I thought I´d never stand up.
It´s the first time we´ve found accommodation so bad we´ve had to leave after a night. Horrendous.
Sitting on a balcony, working our way through a bottle of rum while overlooking Lake Atitlan, we were able to put any hostel nightmares out of our minds.
With heavily-forested volcanos rising out of the water and boats criss-crossing to the various remote villages, San Pablo de la Laguna really is a beautiful place.
Out-of-season and so short on the hoardes of travellers who flock here, it was the perfect place to relax for a couple of days.
We had a real holiday feeling as we swam each morning, wandered the little lanes behind our hotel and did little else but try to paddle off the rum hangover in a kayak.
You could not have picked a better location for the hotel - it being right on the water - and because it was the furthest away from the pier (though still only five minutes walk) it was cheaper than its rivals.
The owner was friendly and we enjoyed chats with her mischievous three-year-old daughter. It was just the relaxation we needed.
Best of all, however, had to be the "traditional" Mayan bedspread, which featured the cast of Scooby-Doo.
What with that and the Pooh bear bedsheet, I felt a bit wrong going to sleep sandwiched between Shaggy and Tigger.
Getting to the village had been something of a mission. It had involved four local buses over three hours.
It was a great laugh watching people go about their busy lives, including one candy floss seller who sat in front of me with about 100 bags clipped to a huge pole, all bobbing around our heads.
We passed through the Mayan village of Sololá, where local women wear elegant and colourful traditional dress.
Meanwhile, the blokes wear woven skirts over trousers (also woven - as is seemingly all their clothing), topped with brilliant cowboy hats.
Mind you, the boat ride to the village was a bit traumatic.
The wind had whipped up big waves on the lake and I felt like my internal organs where being mushed together inside my rib cage as the little fibreglass motorboat smacked against the water.
I definitely needed that rum.
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