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.
Monday 13 June 2011
... being civilised, for once.
With a name that has always hinted at a heady mix of fun and danger, Nicaragua was one of the countries I was most looking forward to visiting.
Partly it was because of half-remembered news reports from the 1980s.
I didn't understand them at the time but the mention of guerrillas, guns and Ronnie Reagan doing sneaky things left an indelible impression on my seven-year-old self.
Even the way it rolled off the newsreaders' tongues - Ni-ca-ra-gua - made it sound like a crazy, lawlwess and exciting place.
Obviously, I wasn't still expecting to touch down in Managua to find men in huge sombreros smoking cigars and firing pistols in the street but it still felt like I was doing something really cool just by going there.
At first glance, Nicaragua is fairly similar to other countries I've visited in the region. It's perhaps a little better developed, with sturdier-looking rural housing, good roads and the US-influence evident through the number of malls and chain retailers.
However, one quite startling thing no visitor to its capital could fail to notice is that it's Christmas every day - and by presidential decree. (Or at least the word of his missus)
You cannot arrive at a roundabout without finding a large steel cone, decorated with metal snowflakes, fairy lights in the shape of reindeer and topped by an illuminated star.
It has been thus for at least two-and-a-half years after President Daniel Ortega's wife, Rosario Murillo, decided to put a smile on citizens' faces year-round.
Personally, I can't imagine anything worse.
I'm one of those committed atheists who comes over all pious at Christmas, moaning about the festival's true meaning being lost amid a headlong rush to go shopping and get trolleyed.
(Actually, I'd support any cause that would help me avoid having to listen to that awful Mariah Carey Christmas tune in Sainsbury's in mid-September).
So, having to celebrate Christmas every time I approached a major traffic junction would probably lead me to plough straight into the tree and end it all there and then.
This is one of the more loony policies of the leftist Sandinistas, who still have wide support among many Nicaraguans.
Despite complaints about corruption and too strong a hold over the judiciary and police, they appear set to be in power for a while.
There's a lack of coherent opposition on the right, whose most powerful figure is the disgraced ex-leader Arnoldo Aleman (previously jailed for corruption).
Years of right wing dictators, hard-left revolutionaries and US interference must leave many ordinary Nicaraguans wishing they had some wishy-washy British-style moderate.
Mind you, there could be a few Lib-Dems looking for a seat in a year or two - and I fancy Vince Cable could salsa and merengue with the best of them.
Our primary reason for visiting this part of the world was to catch up with an old friend.
Antonio had studied for a year in Manchester with the One With The Common Sense.
The last time I saw him was to drop him off at the airport on his way home and in such situations you wonder if you'll see each other again.
So it was really great for us to find him waiting at the airport, together with his lovely wife Alina and their six-month-old "bump" - already named Maria-Victoria.
We stayed at their very smart condominium for the weekend. I'm still not sure exactly what defines a condominium but I've at least stopped having a schoolboy snigger at the word.
Antonio works incredibly hard in finance at a geothermal power plant, while Alina is covering for a colleague on top of her work at the US embassy while coping with the demands of pregnancy.
So we were doubly grateful for the lengths they went to in showing us around their country by car.
First stop was a fascinating tour of Antonio's workplace, where the power company drills for water which has been trapped 1km underground and vapourised by the region's volcanoes.
The steam is transported through miles of pipework, separated from any water in a kind of giant salad strainer and then used to power a turbine to generate electricity.
The waste water is sent back underground to repeat the process.
It was great to see this relatively new green energy process up close - and get an experience unavailable on the tourist trail - led by the plant's manager, Juan.
Afterwards, he took us to a great locals' restaurant in the beautiful colonial city of Leon where we ate probably the best beef fillet I've tasted since we began our journey.
Eating in nice restaurants, as opposed to our usual cheap comedors, was one of the nicest aspects of our stay with Antonio and Alina.
Their local knowledge meant we enjoyed top-notch paella, great barbecued meat and fantastic filling breakfasts.
It felt nice to be civilised, like normal folk, for a change.
Of course, I couldn't make it through the weekend without making a fool of myself in some way.
We ate the local delicacy of quesillos - fresh tortillas wrapped around thick slabs of cheese and laden with sour cream and onions.
They are served in a plastic bag and the trick is to nip a corner of the bag, suck out the juices and then carefully ease out the delicious and filling contents.
I was feeling rather pleased with myself for not spilling any down my front when I realised that the melted sour cream had saturated my beard and was dripping all over my shorts.
I took me half a minute to notice and left me with dubious-looking stains all over my crotch.
After a Saturday night working our way though a bottle of the local Flor de Cana rum - deliciously refreshing with soda - the perfect relaxation on Sunday was a swim in Laguna de Apoyo.
It was a beautiful spot and taking a dip was the perfect way to find relief from the humidity, especially as the water was warm enough to allow you to stay in a while.
We rounded off the weekend by watching a film together - again, nice to do something "normal".
The only drawback to seeing how well Antonio was doing was that it reminded us that we were both jobless, homeless and that we own pretty much nothing of any value.
We moaned that the prospect of us renting a flat (or even condominium) anything like as nice as theirs on our return home was practically nil.
However, Alina pointed out that few Nicaraguans would have the opportunity to take as long out of work as we have - so we'll thank our lucky stars for that.
After Managua, beach time beckoned and our next stop was the little town of San Juan del Sur.
It's one of those places that's full of foreigners but still manages to retain some charm and a degree of authenticity.
A great place to relax, we both spent plenty of time reading in the wooden rocking chairs on the hospedaje's verandah.
When not buried in a book, we were in the water with huge dinosaur-like frigatebirds gliding above us.
And the big pacific waves gave us another chance to try a bit of surfing. Feeling more confident, we asked the instructor to skip the basic lesson and just help us out in the water and we had a brilliant morning.
One snag, however.
Five months of travelling has caused us both to shed a few pounds and it has got to the stage where, if I don't wear a belt, my shorts end up around my ankles.
Thankfully the waist tie of my boardies normally prevents any such disaster in the water.
However, not having surfed without a wetsuit before, I wasn't expecting the roughing up my shorts got on the board.
Consequently, the joy of my longest, fastest and most thrilling ride was tempered by the knowledge that I was exposing a good two inches of bumcrack from the moment I caught the wave.
It might look cool if you're a bronzed Adonis from California but not when you're a pasty, spotty-buttocked lad from the north of England.
I worried that my half-moon, shining brightly out to sea, might constitute a danger to shipping. Perhaps they might mistake it for a lighthouse.
I stick by my theory that most travellers are nice people, no matter where they are from.
But the longer you get into a trip, the harder it is to remember that everyone has their own opinions or foibles, and to appreciate the differences in the people you meet.
By the time we reached Panama, we had got to the stage where we thought pretty much everyone in our hostel was a pain.
Sometimes it's the creepy older guys that get to you.
These perpetual travellers claim to have seen and done everything, yet seem to spend their days doing little other than loitering around the hostel, getting to the pans minutes before you want to cook.
Often it's the younger crowd that annoys me, claiming to always be getting away from the "Gringo trail" while seeing little but the inside of bars.
(Part of the problem, I suspect, is that I'm just too old and uncool to hang around with the second group, while I'm probably in danger of joining the former.)
We gave ourselves a little pep talk to start being more tolerant of our fellow backpackers - so now we're having a go at expats instead.
In San Juan, we spent one night in an American bar.
Not usually my kind of place, especially given the whooping and hollering caused by some basketball final, but they were having a quiz and it had been a while since I'd had a chance to display my ineptitude at acquiring general knowledge.
We did terribly but were still having a good laugh with the friendly bar staff when a middle-aged American guy came in and started chatting to us.
He had moved to Nicaragua three years earlier, opening a guest house on a nearby beach.
He told us he smoked pork, which seemed like a thoroughly healthy sideline until later on, when I began wondering if it was some sort of euphemism.
It was when he invited us to dinner the next night that I began to feel a little uneasy.
For a start he was fairly drunk, meaning he might not even remember the invitation come morning.
Secondly, he just looked a bit weird. His soon-to-be wife was half his age and their two friends looked like they'd been kidnapped by aliens from a trailer park and then returned to Earth a few hundred kilometers too far south.
You shouldn't judge but it's hard not to when they look like a group you'd see on some late-night TV show about unsavoury goings-on in Las Vegas.
All his male friends also had odd beards. (I realise the irony in that statement coming from someone who has twice been called Osama bin Laden in the street but at least I know my facial hair looks daft.)
With his insistence that we should spend the night at his place, I began to think they might be swingers.
This view was backed up when his enthusiasm was coupled with the look of horror his missus wore when she realised I'd been invited.
But what were we supposed to do? We agreed to the invitation and swapped emails before leaving, praying he'd have forgotten the whole thing by the morning.
My next encounter was with another kind of expat - this time a middle-aged German.
He told me he ran a property in neighbouring Costa Rica and immediately annoyed me by launching a tirade against the country's "lazy and untrustworthy" workers.
Few things rile me more than people criticising the very folk from whom they make a living.
In this case, the guy then revealed he was working illegally, therefore contributing nothing through the tax system of this developing country in which he enjoys his new-found happiness.
He had only come to Nicaragua so as not to outstay his Costa Rican tourist visa but was saying how much cheaper medication was this side of the border when I remarked that I needed ibuprofen for my back.
At this point, he uttered those fateful words: "Do you want to hear an alternative theory about back pain?"
My heart sank. I knew I was going to be subjected to a long talk.
He explained that my sciatica was caused by bad experiences in my past and that it could be cured through positive thinking.
I thought about explaining how positive thinking did not come naturally to Everton supporters but I couldn't get a word in edgeways.
Apparently, I just needed to say something along the lines of "life is getting better" three times every morning and my back would be pain-free within three months.
I reckon that's probably about the length of time it will right itself with the help of painkillers and exercise.
However, it was when he started on the conspiracy theories about world domination that I could no longer keep feigning interest.
After 45 minutes, I had heard all I could take and made my excuses, saying I "had to get out of the heat" and headed for our room.
"Perhaps it's just that I talk too much," he replied.
There was no answer to that and I vowed to check into a dorm at our next stop.
I was missing the company of travellers.
Partly it was because of half-remembered news reports from the 1980s.
I didn't understand them at the time but the mention of guerrillas, guns and Ronnie Reagan doing sneaky things left an indelible impression on my seven-year-old self.
Even the way it rolled off the newsreaders' tongues - Ni-ca-ra-gua - made it sound like a crazy, lawlwess and exciting place.
Obviously, I wasn't still expecting to touch down in Managua to find men in huge sombreros smoking cigars and firing pistols in the street but it still felt like I was doing something really cool just by going there.
At first glance, Nicaragua is fairly similar to other countries I've visited in the region. It's perhaps a little better developed, with sturdier-looking rural housing, good roads and the US-influence evident through the number of malls and chain retailers.
However, one quite startling thing no visitor to its capital could fail to notice is that it's Christmas every day - and by presidential decree. (Or at least the word of his missus)
You cannot arrive at a roundabout without finding a large steel cone, decorated with metal snowflakes, fairy lights in the shape of reindeer and topped by an illuminated star.
It has been thus for at least two-and-a-half years after President Daniel Ortega's wife, Rosario Murillo, decided to put a smile on citizens' faces year-round.
Personally, I can't imagine anything worse.
I'm one of those committed atheists who comes over all pious at Christmas, moaning about the festival's true meaning being lost amid a headlong rush to go shopping and get trolleyed.
(Actually, I'd support any cause that would help me avoid having to listen to that awful Mariah Carey Christmas tune in Sainsbury's in mid-September).
So, having to celebrate Christmas every time I approached a major traffic junction would probably lead me to plough straight into the tree and end it all there and then.
This is one of the more loony policies of the leftist Sandinistas, who still have wide support among many Nicaraguans.
Despite complaints about corruption and too strong a hold over the judiciary and police, they appear set to be in power for a while.
There's a lack of coherent opposition on the right, whose most powerful figure is the disgraced ex-leader Arnoldo Aleman (previously jailed for corruption).
Years of right wing dictators, hard-left revolutionaries and US interference must leave many ordinary Nicaraguans wishing they had some wishy-washy British-style moderate.
Mind you, there could be a few Lib-Dems looking for a seat in a year or two - and I fancy Vince Cable could salsa and merengue with the best of them.
Our primary reason for visiting this part of the world was to catch up with an old friend.
Antonio had studied for a year in Manchester with the One With The Common Sense.
The last time I saw him was to drop him off at the airport on his way home and in such situations you wonder if you'll see each other again.
So it was really great for us to find him waiting at the airport, together with his lovely wife Alina and their six-month-old "bump" - already named Maria-Victoria.
We stayed at their very smart condominium for the weekend. I'm still not sure exactly what defines a condominium but I've at least stopped having a schoolboy snigger at the word.
Antonio works incredibly hard in finance at a geothermal power plant, while Alina is covering for a colleague on top of her work at the US embassy while coping with the demands of pregnancy.
So we were doubly grateful for the lengths they went to in showing us around their country by car.
First stop was a fascinating tour of Antonio's workplace, where the power company drills for water which has been trapped 1km underground and vapourised by the region's volcanoes.
The steam is transported through miles of pipework, separated from any water in a kind of giant salad strainer and then used to power a turbine to generate electricity.
The waste water is sent back underground to repeat the process.
It was great to see this relatively new green energy process up close - and get an experience unavailable on the tourist trail - led by the plant's manager, Juan.
Afterwards, he took us to a great locals' restaurant in the beautiful colonial city of Leon where we ate probably the best beef fillet I've tasted since we began our journey.
Eating in nice restaurants, as opposed to our usual cheap comedors, was one of the nicest aspects of our stay with Antonio and Alina.
Their local knowledge meant we enjoyed top-notch paella, great barbecued meat and fantastic filling breakfasts.
It felt nice to be civilised, like normal folk, for a change.
Of course, I couldn't make it through the weekend without making a fool of myself in some way.
We ate the local delicacy of quesillos - fresh tortillas wrapped around thick slabs of cheese and laden with sour cream and onions.
They are served in a plastic bag and the trick is to nip a corner of the bag, suck out the juices and then carefully ease out the delicious and filling contents.
I was feeling rather pleased with myself for not spilling any down my front when I realised that the melted sour cream had saturated my beard and was dripping all over my shorts.
I took me half a minute to notice and left me with dubious-looking stains all over my crotch.
After a Saturday night working our way though a bottle of the local Flor de Cana rum - deliciously refreshing with soda - the perfect relaxation on Sunday was a swim in Laguna de Apoyo.
It was a beautiful spot and taking a dip was the perfect way to find relief from the humidity, especially as the water was warm enough to allow you to stay in a while.
We rounded off the weekend by watching a film together - again, nice to do something "normal".
The only drawback to seeing how well Antonio was doing was that it reminded us that we were both jobless, homeless and that we own pretty much nothing of any value.
We moaned that the prospect of us renting a flat (or even condominium) anything like as nice as theirs on our return home was practically nil.
However, Alina pointed out that few Nicaraguans would have the opportunity to take as long out of work as we have - so we'll thank our lucky stars for that.
After Managua, beach time beckoned and our next stop was the little town of San Juan del Sur.
It's one of those places that's full of foreigners but still manages to retain some charm and a degree of authenticity.
A great place to relax, we both spent plenty of time reading in the wooden rocking chairs on the hospedaje's verandah.
When not buried in a book, we were in the water with huge dinosaur-like frigatebirds gliding above us.
And the big pacific waves gave us another chance to try a bit of surfing. Feeling more confident, we asked the instructor to skip the basic lesson and just help us out in the water and we had a brilliant morning.
One snag, however.
Five months of travelling has caused us both to shed a few pounds and it has got to the stage where, if I don't wear a belt, my shorts end up around my ankles.
Thankfully the waist tie of my boardies normally prevents any such disaster in the water.
However, not having surfed without a wetsuit before, I wasn't expecting the roughing up my shorts got on the board.
Consequently, the joy of my longest, fastest and most thrilling ride was tempered by the knowledge that I was exposing a good two inches of bumcrack from the moment I caught the wave.
It might look cool if you're a bronzed Adonis from California but not when you're a pasty, spotty-buttocked lad from the north of England.
I worried that my half-moon, shining brightly out to sea, might constitute a danger to shipping. Perhaps they might mistake it for a lighthouse.
I stick by my theory that most travellers are nice people, no matter where they are from.
But the longer you get into a trip, the harder it is to remember that everyone has their own opinions or foibles, and to appreciate the differences in the people you meet.
By the time we reached Panama, we had got to the stage where we thought pretty much everyone in our hostel was a pain.
Sometimes it's the creepy older guys that get to you.
These perpetual travellers claim to have seen and done everything, yet seem to spend their days doing little other than loitering around the hostel, getting to the pans minutes before you want to cook.
Often it's the younger crowd that annoys me, claiming to always be getting away from the "Gringo trail" while seeing little but the inside of bars.
(Part of the problem, I suspect, is that I'm just too old and uncool to hang around with the second group, while I'm probably in danger of joining the former.)
We gave ourselves a little pep talk to start being more tolerant of our fellow backpackers - so now we're having a go at expats instead.
In San Juan, we spent one night in an American bar.
Not usually my kind of place, especially given the whooping and hollering caused by some basketball final, but they were having a quiz and it had been a while since I'd had a chance to display my ineptitude at acquiring general knowledge.
We did terribly but were still having a good laugh with the friendly bar staff when a middle-aged American guy came in and started chatting to us.
He had moved to Nicaragua three years earlier, opening a guest house on a nearby beach.
He told us he smoked pork, which seemed like a thoroughly healthy sideline until later on, when I began wondering if it was some sort of euphemism.
It was when he invited us to dinner the next night that I began to feel a little uneasy.
For a start he was fairly drunk, meaning he might not even remember the invitation come morning.
Secondly, he just looked a bit weird. His soon-to-be wife was half his age and their two friends looked like they'd been kidnapped by aliens from a trailer park and then returned to Earth a few hundred kilometers too far south.
You shouldn't judge but it's hard not to when they look like a group you'd see on some late-night TV show about unsavoury goings-on in Las Vegas.
All his male friends also had odd beards. (I realise the irony in that statement coming from someone who has twice been called Osama bin Laden in the street but at least I know my facial hair looks daft.)
With his insistence that we should spend the night at his place, I began to think they might be swingers.
This view was backed up when his enthusiasm was coupled with the look of horror his missus wore when she realised I'd been invited.
But what were we supposed to do? We agreed to the invitation and swapped emails before leaving, praying he'd have forgotten the whole thing by the morning.
My next encounter was with another kind of expat - this time a middle-aged German.
He told me he ran a property in neighbouring Costa Rica and immediately annoyed me by launching a tirade against the country's "lazy and untrustworthy" workers.
Few things rile me more than people criticising the very folk from whom they make a living.
In this case, the guy then revealed he was working illegally, therefore contributing nothing through the tax system of this developing country in which he enjoys his new-found happiness.
He had only come to Nicaragua so as not to outstay his Costa Rican tourist visa but was saying how much cheaper medication was this side of the border when I remarked that I needed ibuprofen for my back.
At this point, he uttered those fateful words: "Do you want to hear an alternative theory about back pain?"
My heart sank. I knew I was going to be subjected to a long talk.
He explained that my sciatica was caused by bad experiences in my past and that it could be cured through positive thinking.
I thought about explaining how positive thinking did not come naturally to Everton supporters but I couldn't get a word in edgeways.
Apparently, I just needed to say something along the lines of "life is getting better" three times every morning and my back would be pain-free within three months.
I reckon that's probably about the length of time it will right itself with the help of painkillers and exercise.
However, it was when he started on the conspiracy theories about world domination that I could no longer keep feigning interest.
After 45 minutes, I had heard all I could take and made my excuses, saying I "had to get out of the heat" and headed for our room.
"Perhaps it's just that I talk too much," he replied.
There was no answer to that and I vowed to check into a dorm at our next stop.
I was missing the company of travellers.
Tuesday 7 June 2011
... on the canal
Panama… land of hats, a massive canal and unnecessarily strict immigration rules.
We got to the airport at Bogota in good time for the short cross-border flight, made necessary by continued rebel violence in the Darien Gap frontier area.
In truth, we were half crossing our fingers because we knew that strictly-speaking you need to have an onward flight to be allowed into Panama.
However, we thought our tickets from Guatemala to Cuba and then home from Mexico City would be proof enough that we didn´t plan to go into hiding in Colon, or somewhere.
The lady at check-in was sympathetic but unswerving. We couldn´t get on the plane without an onward ticket and one for the bus we planned to take to Nicaragua just would not do.
We got to the airport at Bogota in good time for the short cross-border flight, made necessary by continued rebel violence in the Darien Gap frontier area.
In truth, we were half crossing our fingers because we knew that strictly-speaking you need to have an onward flight to be allowed into Panama.
However, we thought our tickets from Guatemala to Cuba and then home from Mexico City would be proof enough that we didn´t plan to go into hiding in Colon, or somewhere.
The lady at check-in was sympathetic but unswerving. We couldn´t get on the plane without an onward ticket and one for the bus we planned to take to Nicaragua just would not do.
So, we faced a race against time to buy the cheapest flight ticket on any sensible route before rushing back to check in, through security and onto the plane.
In the end, we made it easily but not before shelling out three times the sum we would have spent on the two-day bus journey.
And not without my getting our sun cream confiscated at security because in the kerfuffle I´d forgotten about the no-liquid-in-hand-luggage rule
And neither without the One With The Common Sense getting seriously aggro with a customs man who delayed her by chatting to his mates instead of stamping her passport.
The most infuriating thing was that when we left Panama five days later, they didn´t even bother to stamp us out - so much for those strict customs regulations.
Oh, yes, and all Panama hats are actually made in Ecuador.
Despite the unpromising start to our visit, we really enjoyed Panama City.
It´s much more cosmopolitan than any city we visited in South America.
Its role as a major port has ensured an influx of immigrants from Europe, China, the Indian sub-continent - as evidenced by the rare sight in these parts of people in Muslim and Hindu dress, the West Indies and, of course, the US.
Add to that the indigenous Kuna people, with their bright headscarves and beads wound around their legs and forearms, and if makes for a really colourful place.
Incidentally, it´s easy to see why Colombus thought he´d discovered the back door to Asia when he stumbled across the Americas. These folk, who mostly live in an autonomous island region off Panama´s north coast, really resemble south east Asians at first sight.
We based ourselves in the city´s old quarter where the presidential palace, some beautiful churches and restored colonial blocks sit alongside crumbing buildings whose facades recall past glories.
Trendy cafes are next door to grubby hostels and fondas (cheap restaurants), while numerous tumbledown housing blocks await improvements.
In many ways this quarter is a microcosm of the whole city, which has a seafront of impressive skyscrapers overlooking ragged single-storey concrete homes with corrugated metal roofs.
The bus ride to the smart canal zone district of Balboa - for the best part of a century US territory - reveals rotting flats which recall London´s worst social housing and are home to the city´s majority.
The contrast was startling.
In Balboa, a 6km causeway stretches into the sea to form a huge breakwater at the canal entrance.
It leads to three islands built with spoil dug out during constuction works, on which expensive cafes with views of yacht club harbours cater for ladies at lunch.
They were too pricey for us but it was certainly nice to feel the sea breeze as we munched on a butty, away from the stifling heat and humidity of the busy city centre.
Far more our style, however, was the cheap and cheerful Avenida Central, near our hostel, where hollering street vendors flog anything from fragrant pineapples and watch straps to coffee from flasks.
They compete with the noise from cheap fashion stores belting out Latin tunes, while women with enormous booties swing their hips to the beat, drunks sleep on benches and a man with a giant moustache offers to take the photo of anyone who catches his eye.
Meanwhile, we dined in cheap Chinese-run fondas which serve huge portions of stews, oriental stir-fries and meatballs with rice and lentils or beans for a couple of dollars.
In between meals, our new favourite snacks are batidos - delicious shakes made with fresh fruit and milk (rather than sickly flavouring and ice cream, as at home).
Their restorative powers are amazing when you´re flagging in the heat.
Panama´s history - and the role played by the canal - is fascinating, as we discovered during a visit to a splendidly comprehensive museum dedicated to the topic.
Even before the canal was built, the Spanish conquistadors had used first a land and then a rail route through the country to transport treasure plundered from Latin America.
The success of British and French pirates meant its fortunes dipped until the knock-on effects of the San Francisco gold rush again saw trade increase.
By the start of the 20th cenutry, Britain, France and the US were all considering the prospects of creating a canal.
The French tried first, pouring millions of dollars into a scheme to cut a canal on the level. Their failure to properly supply and care for workers meant thousands died of mosquito-borne diseases and other complaints - as the grand plan flopped.
US politicians preferred a route through Nicaragua and only the intervention of Teddy Roosevelt ensured they chose the Panama option.
It would be interesting to see how history would have unfolded had he not done so. Panama might still have been part of Colombia and who knows how much better Nicaragua would have fared.
They might have bought Panameña independence and the rights to build and operate the canal on dubious terms but at least the Yanks supplied the workers properly, building hospitals and recreational facilities.
It took until 1999 - and several violent protests - for Panama to finally get the canal zone territory back from the US but it has undoubtedly benefited from the influx of trade.
Spending four full days in Panama City - rather than the two we had planned - gave us a chance to see plenty from the windows of the local commuter buses.
It is always an experience.
In much of Latin America, they take the form of old US or Canadian school buses.
However, instead of the regulation yellow, they are painted in bright blues and reds, with slogans on the side about being "red hot" or "fast and furious".
Owned by co-operatives or drivers, they are a law unto themselves as far as routes go. You have to look out for your destination on stickers on the windscreen, or else listen out for the stops being yelled out by a conductor who is usually hanging half way out of the door.
Many have fake Oldsmobile, Buick or Jaguar badges on the side and more often than not there´s a slogan about Jesus being the driver´s saviour. (They´re not usually planning to save themselves, judging by the speed they go).
Some even have paintings of Jesus on the back. Other drivers opt for graphic representations of their wives or favourite pop star.
One of my favourites was a bus that proudly bore the names "John Travolta" and "Sponge Bob" - an unlikely alliance, if ever there was one.
(Mind you, I did see one in Bolivia displaying a huge painting of Osama Bin Laden and Che Guevara in front of the twin towers - it´s no wonder many Americans are reluctant to reveal their nationality around here).
On board, there tends to be a refreshing level of courtesy. Children automatically stand up for their elders, without complaint, and women are usually offered a seat.
If you´re lucky, the stereo will be pumping out merengue or salsa beats, and if you´re really fortunate your knees might fit in between your seat and the one in front.
Cramped the buses might be, but I´d always take them over a taxi.
In Colombia, we took more precautions than usual over our travel and rather than walk through places we weren´t sure about to catch a bus, would instead flag a taxi.
I´m not sure which frightened me more - the prospect of knifepoint robbery or five minutes in the back of one of these tiny yellow Fiats with Juan Pablo Montoya´s frustrated and less-talented cousin behind the wheel.
They certainly drive with the same speed, aggression and abandon with overtaking as the former F1 star. But I´m not convinced their vehicles would cope quite so well in a high-speed shunt.
It´s a shame Colombia has a reputation for violence and instability because we found its people to be as friendly as any we had met on the continent.
Many people were keen to chat, especially once they´d ascertained you weren´t American, and not all of them just wanted to sell you drugs.
People seemed willing to go the extra mile to help you find your bearings, make sure you didn´t stray from safe areas, or simply to chat - let you know a little about their country and find out something about yours.
This made it double sad we couldn´t spend more time there.
In truth, we should have chosen to visit either Colombia or Ecuador for a longer period rather than rushing through both.
But flying from Colombia was cheaper and we liked the thought of making it to the Caribbean coast at Cartagena, which would have meant we´d travelled the length of South America by bus.
That turned out to be a step too far and we instead chose to fly from Bogota but reviewing our journey on the map still leaves us with some satisfaction.
It has been one heck of a journey.
Thursday 2 June 2011
...on the side of a volcano
It´s inevitable that you´re going to finish any long trip with a few regrets - wishing you had visited somewhere, or not been quite so hungover doing such-and-such.
I´m happy to say there aren´t many things I feel we´ve missed out on but one thing had been bugging me since we left Chile.
As our bus pulled out of Pucon, giving us a last view of the beautiful, smoking, snow-capped peak of the volcano Villarica, I wished we´d bust our budget to climb it.
It´s not every day you get to peer into the steaming crater of an active volcano.
So, we saw our first destination in Colombia as offering a chance to make amends.
On a clear day, the peak of Volcan Puracé, which last blew in 1956, offers spectacular views of a chain of 40 other peaks from its altitude of 4,700m.
Apparently.
I say that because things did not quite go according to plan during our visit. They started badly when our bus left 40 minutes late from our base in the beautiful, white-washed colonial city of Popayan.
Arriving just after 9am, we struggled for 15 minutes to find a national park warden, only for him to then tell us that we would only just have time to make the four to five-hour ascent and get back for the bus home.
At least, he said, it was "perfect weather" to enjoy the sights.
We set off across the uneven rainy season paths, turned muddy by cattle, then climbed through grasses which looked remarkably similar to those you get on sand dunes.
We had probably been walking about an hour when, as the path began to climb more steeply, the clouds closed in and things started to look grim.
Our tempers freyed as we plunged ankle-deep into boggy patches and we were glad to see a gravel road winding up a steep slope.
However, the respite was brief.
As the landscape became more rocky, mist closed in and it started to rain.
It was difficult enough to see 20 yards in front without my glasses steaming up to boot.
Our hands became numb - my fingers retain a funny tingle to this day - and the One With The Common Sense complained her jaw had seized up in the cold. It didn´t stop her grumbling, mind.
For once, my beard came in handy and I didn´t suffer - I now see the logic of Chris Bonnington and Sir Ranulph Fiennes having facial fluff.
We plodded on miserably until the climb became really tough as, with each step, the tiny volcanic rocks slipped under our feet.
And when with only 15 minutes before the time we´d been advised to turn back I saw "1,500m" painted on a rock, my heart sank. We weren´t going to make it.
At this point, however, an American girl who had been walking behind declared she would walk to the top of the next ridge.
We decided to join her given that we did seem to be near enough the top and were amazed to find ourselves at the summit pretty quickly.
It turned out the sign had read "a 500m" - translating as "500m to go".
Buoyed though we were at reaching the top, there was no chance of us actually seeing anything.
If there was a steaming mass of molten rock, I couldn´t spot it for the mist.
And with the wind howling around us, we decided not to wait too long near the lip of the crater.
We made it back down in record time, although I almost came a cropper on the slopes a couple of times, and were happy to be at the bus stop with time to spare.
We talked of little else except the hot shower that was waiting to clean our stinking, muddy feet, back at our hostel.
When an hour passed and the bus failed to arrive, we weren´t too worried. Transport here would make First Great Western trains look timely.
However, when a collectivo - a big taxi which runs on fixed routes - came by and was too full to pick us up, we began to have our doubts.
A little girl who lived on the corner where we were waiting assured us that the bus would definitely come but, as darkness closed and the last remnants of the day´s heat disappeared, our spirits were pretty low.
We bought some sweet coffee from a kiosk run by the girl´s mum and - as she saw us shivering in the dark - she invited us in to stand next to her fire.
This is typical of the genuine welcome we received from people in Colombia.
When our wait hit the three-hour mark, we finally conceded defeat. Buses here aren´t like the 27 to Chalk Farm (although they can suffer as much congestion) and if there aren´t enough passengers to make the journey worth it - they simply don´t leave.
The three of us trudged back up the road to the national park, where there were some cabins to spend the night.
We were delighted to find the restaurant serving hot food with agua de panela - a warming drink made with unrefined sugar.
The only problem was, we didn´t have the cash to pay the $15 each to stay the night.
Thankfully, rather than throw us out in the cold, the warden agreed only to charge us for two people and we scraped together enough pesos to pay the bill.
The cabin was cold but with four thick blankets my feet were soon toasty - if still grubby - and we slept like logs until rising at 5am to get the bus.
Thankfully, it came.
Travelling north through South America, you notice how the appearance and character of people has changed.
Where Quechua and related cultures are prevalent in Bolivia and Peru, both Ecuador and Colombia have a much more American feel - at least in the parts we visited.
You spot fewer indigenous women wearing the intricate blouses, wide skirts and high hats of the Altiplano, while the Carribean influence is stronger, with many more black people.
One exception is the village of Silvia, about 60km outside Popayan.
There, once a week, mountain people come from the community of Guambia to trade goods at the market.
We heard it was a colourful occasion and so took the bumpy bus ride to the village. There, hundreds of Guambiano sat around the square.
The women wore long black skirts and blue shawls, while the men sported black woven vests, red and saffron scarves and blue, erm, skirts.
One guy started chatting to us and I asked him about his clothing. He said black represented the earth, blue, the sky, and red, the blood of the people.
I asked him about the skirt, comparing it to a Scottish kilt, but didn´t really get a clear answer.
He told us there were 30,000 Guambianos, including 10,000 living outside their home community, and that their children learned both Guambian and Spanish so they could continue the culture of a simple farming life.
It was good to chat to him for 15 minutes or so because we had decided against a tour of the village and, so I thought, this helped fill in our knowledge of the people.
However, he soon got the One With The Common Sense´s goat by starting on religion.
Inspired by an English missionary, this guy had become a pastor and was soon preaching about the evils of drinking and, erm, dancing.
The One With The Common Sense reckoned that God didn´t mind if we indulged in the occasional Friday night boogie but our new pal didn´t seem convinced.
Relations soured further when he began asking for money, firstly for his community, then for his church and then for himself.
If he had asked for that in the first place, he might have had more luck, particularly as we were saving the expense of a tour.
But you don´t cross the One With The Common Sense, then tell her a cock and bull story, and come out of it better off than you started.
He certainly wouldn´t have approved of our night out in Cali - the home of Colombian salsa, complete with its fleet footwork and raunchy hip gyrations.
Slick moves abound. Except, that is, when the One With The Common Sense and I strut our stuff on the dancefloor.
It took us long enough to work up the courage to try.
We had been to one bar where, bizarrely, they were showing cartoons and the Spanish version of Art Attack (sadly, minus camp Scouser Neil Buchanan) on a massive TV behind the dance floor.
Not finding this conducive to sultry moves, we were hauled into a dark tavern by a friendly man who then charged us an outrageous sum for a jug of beer.
We polished that off while admiring how couples rushed to the dancefloor to perform the sort of maneouvres that would make Ann Widdecombe wince, without even breaking sweat.
More Dutch courage was required and we ordered a slightly fairer priced rum and coke. Here, it´s served by plonking a bottle on your table next to a jug of icy cola and two little paper cups to measure out the spirits.
Mine were large ones.
Eventually, somewhere around 1am, we found our dancing feet and began what I remember thinking was an expert assortment of grinds, twirls and spins, all while holding hands.
I´m not sure how bad we looked but they probably didn´t notice our dancing. They were all ogling the sight of a pretty blonde (rare enough in these parts) dancing with someone who looked like a wino, wearing shorts and flip-flops. Classy.
We were feeling a touch ropey the next day, rising as we did at 5am for a 10-hour bus ride to Bogota.
Matters weren´t helped when we ordered a set menu at our lunch stop and my chicken soup had bits of lung, stomach and who knows what else in it.
Still, we made it without any vomiting incidents.
I´m happy to say there aren´t many things I feel we´ve missed out on but one thing had been bugging me since we left Chile.
As our bus pulled out of Pucon, giving us a last view of the beautiful, smoking, snow-capped peak of the volcano Villarica, I wished we´d bust our budget to climb it.
It´s not every day you get to peer into the steaming crater of an active volcano.
So, we saw our first destination in Colombia as offering a chance to make amends.
On a clear day, the peak of Volcan Puracé, which last blew in 1956, offers spectacular views of a chain of 40 other peaks from its altitude of 4,700m.
Apparently.
I say that because things did not quite go according to plan during our visit. They started badly when our bus left 40 minutes late from our base in the beautiful, white-washed colonial city of Popayan.
Arriving just after 9am, we struggled for 15 minutes to find a national park warden, only for him to then tell us that we would only just have time to make the four to five-hour ascent and get back for the bus home.
At least, he said, it was "perfect weather" to enjoy the sights.
We set off across the uneven rainy season paths, turned muddy by cattle, then climbed through grasses which looked remarkably similar to those you get on sand dunes.
We had probably been walking about an hour when, as the path began to climb more steeply, the clouds closed in and things started to look grim.
Our tempers freyed as we plunged ankle-deep into boggy patches and we were glad to see a gravel road winding up a steep slope.
However, the respite was brief.
As the landscape became more rocky, mist closed in and it started to rain.
It was difficult enough to see 20 yards in front without my glasses steaming up to boot.
Our hands became numb - my fingers retain a funny tingle to this day - and the One With The Common Sense complained her jaw had seized up in the cold. It didn´t stop her grumbling, mind.
For once, my beard came in handy and I didn´t suffer - I now see the logic of Chris Bonnington and Sir Ranulph Fiennes having facial fluff.
We plodded on miserably until the climb became really tough as, with each step, the tiny volcanic rocks slipped under our feet.
And when with only 15 minutes before the time we´d been advised to turn back I saw "1,500m" painted on a rock, my heart sank. We weren´t going to make it.
At this point, however, an American girl who had been walking behind declared she would walk to the top of the next ridge.
We decided to join her given that we did seem to be near enough the top and were amazed to find ourselves at the summit pretty quickly.
It turned out the sign had read "a 500m" - translating as "500m to go".
Buoyed though we were at reaching the top, there was no chance of us actually seeing anything.
If there was a steaming mass of molten rock, I couldn´t spot it for the mist.
And with the wind howling around us, we decided not to wait too long near the lip of the crater.
We made it back down in record time, although I almost came a cropper on the slopes a couple of times, and were happy to be at the bus stop with time to spare.
We talked of little else except the hot shower that was waiting to clean our stinking, muddy feet, back at our hostel.
When an hour passed and the bus failed to arrive, we weren´t too worried. Transport here would make First Great Western trains look timely.
However, when a collectivo - a big taxi which runs on fixed routes - came by and was too full to pick us up, we began to have our doubts.
A little girl who lived on the corner where we were waiting assured us that the bus would definitely come but, as darkness closed and the last remnants of the day´s heat disappeared, our spirits were pretty low.
We bought some sweet coffee from a kiosk run by the girl´s mum and - as she saw us shivering in the dark - she invited us in to stand next to her fire.
This is typical of the genuine welcome we received from people in Colombia.
When our wait hit the three-hour mark, we finally conceded defeat. Buses here aren´t like the 27 to Chalk Farm (although they can suffer as much congestion) and if there aren´t enough passengers to make the journey worth it - they simply don´t leave.
The three of us trudged back up the road to the national park, where there were some cabins to spend the night.
We were delighted to find the restaurant serving hot food with agua de panela - a warming drink made with unrefined sugar.
The only problem was, we didn´t have the cash to pay the $15 each to stay the night.
Thankfully, rather than throw us out in the cold, the warden agreed only to charge us for two people and we scraped together enough pesos to pay the bill.
The cabin was cold but with four thick blankets my feet were soon toasty - if still grubby - and we slept like logs until rising at 5am to get the bus.
Thankfully, it came.
Travelling north through South America, you notice how the appearance and character of people has changed.
Where Quechua and related cultures are prevalent in Bolivia and Peru, both Ecuador and Colombia have a much more American feel - at least in the parts we visited.
You spot fewer indigenous women wearing the intricate blouses, wide skirts and high hats of the Altiplano, while the Carribean influence is stronger, with many more black people.
One exception is the village of Silvia, about 60km outside Popayan.
There, once a week, mountain people come from the community of Guambia to trade goods at the market.
We heard it was a colourful occasion and so took the bumpy bus ride to the village. There, hundreds of Guambiano sat around the square.
The women wore long black skirts and blue shawls, while the men sported black woven vests, red and saffron scarves and blue, erm, skirts.
One guy started chatting to us and I asked him about his clothing. He said black represented the earth, blue, the sky, and red, the blood of the people.
I asked him about the skirt, comparing it to a Scottish kilt, but didn´t really get a clear answer.
He told us there were 30,000 Guambianos, including 10,000 living outside their home community, and that their children learned both Guambian and Spanish so they could continue the culture of a simple farming life.
It was good to chat to him for 15 minutes or so because we had decided against a tour of the village and, so I thought, this helped fill in our knowledge of the people.
However, he soon got the One With The Common Sense´s goat by starting on religion.
Inspired by an English missionary, this guy had become a pastor and was soon preaching about the evils of drinking and, erm, dancing.
The One With The Common Sense reckoned that God didn´t mind if we indulged in the occasional Friday night boogie but our new pal didn´t seem convinced.
Relations soured further when he began asking for money, firstly for his community, then for his church and then for himself.
If he had asked for that in the first place, he might have had more luck, particularly as we were saving the expense of a tour.
But you don´t cross the One With The Common Sense, then tell her a cock and bull story, and come out of it better off than you started.
He certainly wouldn´t have approved of our night out in Cali - the home of Colombian salsa, complete with its fleet footwork and raunchy hip gyrations.
Slick moves abound. Except, that is, when the One With The Common Sense and I strut our stuff on the dancefloor.
It took us long enough to work up the courage to try.
We had been to one bar where, bizarrely, they were showing cartoons and the Spanish version of Art Attack (sadly, minus camp Scouser Neil Buchanan) on a massive TV behind the dance floor.
Not finding this conducive to sultry moves, we were hauled into a dark tavern by a friendly man who then charged us an outrageous sum for a jug of beer.
We polished that off while admiring how couples rushed to the dancefloor to perform the sort of maneouvres that would make Ann Widdecombe wince, without even breaking sweat.
More Dutch courage was required and we ordered a slightly fairer priced rum and coke. Here, it´s served by plonking a bottle on your table next to a jug of icy cola and two little paper cups to measure out the spirits.
Mine were large ones.
Eventually, somewhere around 1am, we found our dancing feet and began what I remember thinking was an expert assortment of grinds, twirls and spins, all while holding hands.
I´m not sure how bad we looked but they probably didn´t notice our dancing. They were all ogling the sight of a pretty blonde (rare enough in these parts) dancing with someone who looked like a wino, wearing shorts and flip-flops. Classy.
We were feeling a touch ropey the next day, rising as we did at 5am for a 10-hour bus ride to Bogota.
Matters weren´t helped when we ordered a set menu at our lunch stop and my chicken soup had bits of lung, stomach and who knows what else in it.
Still, we made it without any vomiting incidents.
Thursday 26 May 2011
... in the jungle, the mighty jungle. (No lions, though)
I already felt like I was in some sort of Enid Blyton book - the Rainforest of Adventure, or something.
But when our guide announced we were to plunge into neck-high water to glimpse some freshwater dolphins, it really got into Boy´s Own territory.
It was our last full day of five in Ecuador´s Amazon basin region and we were getting a lesson in why they call it a rainforest.
It had been belting down since the early hours and the jungle trails, which a few days earlier had been a spongy mass of fallen leaves, were now a Glastonbury-esque soup of mud.
We had seen little that morning but it was still great fun to trudge between the trees, trying to see through my rapidly misting glasses.
None of us were going to miss the chance to see the small pink dolphins, however, even if we only got brief glimpses of the endangered animals´ stubby noses.
We jumped in, soaking any bits of our clothes that had escaped the rain, and it was well worth it.
One girl lost a Welly in the process - sparking a 20-minute search - but the episode was a great end to our spell in the Amazon.
Staying in a wooden lodge - its sides partially open to the wilds to allow a bit of air into stifling room - it was inevitable we were going to encounter a few uninvited visitors.
The most annoying were the mosquitos who, undeterred by the net around our bed, instead feasted on my paler parts during my numerous night-time trips to the toilet.
We also had a regular visitor to our "bathroom" in the form of a boggle-eyed frog.
One evening, I spotted him sitting happy as Larry in between a pair of my underpants (a rather classy pair of burgundy briefs) and some of the One With The Commmon Sense´s bloomers (gaudy pink but just about presentable).
At least he had the good sense to choose the clean ones.
However, it was a third type of visitor who most disturbed me.
I was nibbling at a biscuit one afternoon and had assumed its soggy texture could be put down to the effects of the humidity.
When I noticed a bite missing, I guessed the One With The Common Sense had got to it before I had.
Only when she flatly denied any thievery, did my mind return to the rustling at our bedside table and the mouse disappearing into the wooden slats of the wall the previous night.
It appears I was eating a rodent´s leftovers.
Still, I scored a couple of hits for humankind in the battle against nature´s nasties by trying a few jungle delicacies.
Firstly, there was a scoop of ants which tasted like lemon sherbert.
But my favourite was a little white grub which had been living inside a coconut-style seed from a tree.
After Jakob - our guide - cracked open the nut, no-one else fancied popping the larvae into their chops but I was happy to give it a go.
Sure enough, the wriggling creature tasted just like coconut - really nice. (I have to admit to spitting out the rubbery skin, though)
We had seen eight types of monkey on walks through the rainforest and boat trips on the Cuyabeno river, which runs through various tributaries into the Amazon.
It was comical to watch them tumble from the treetops into lower branches, although it proved almost impossible for my less-than-nimble fingers to catch the speedy blighters on camera.
For me, the bird life along the river was just as spectacular.
High above us, we spotted several blue and yellow Macaws - more graceful than their noisy cousins the parrots, which we watched taking an early-morning dip at the banks.
There were numerous kingfishers, bright yellow flycatchers and yellow-headed vultures casting an expert eye for carrion from their high perches.
But most impressive were the toucans, their huge beaks silhoetted against the sky.
Among their prey are the eggs of yellow-tailed oropendolas, whose nests dangle like huge earrings from branches in a bid to avoid the thieving predators.
For me, however, simply being in the jungle and listening to its noises was a delight. When the driver turned off the boat´s engine and we drifted downstream, you could hear a cacophany of whistles and croaks made by who knows what animals.
Actually, Jakob could name most of them.
A "knock-knocking" noise turned out to be made by a tree frog, rather than a woodpecker. Meanwhile, we caught the heartbreaking lament of an owl that cried "boo-hoo-hoo-hoooo", rather than hooting.
Legend has it that it fell in love with the moon, which refused to come down from the sky so they could be united.
A night walk revealed more creatures, including a tarantula bigger than my hand, huge centipedes and stick insects.
We all treaded as quietly as possible and did our best to avoid disrupting nature, including ducking below the delicate web of a spider.
That is until The One With The Common Sense - probably the shortest person in the group - forgot to allow for the enormous bun atop her head and ploughed through the whole thing.
Meanwhile, another of the highlights was an evening spent piranha fishing. Or rather, on my part, an evening spent getting very frustrated while dangling a bit of raw beef from a simple rod.
I got plenty of nibbles and at one stage had one of these infamous fish a foot out of the water but, alas, he got away. It´s not as easy as crabbing.
At least our boat driver caught one so we could admire its teeth before he set it free.
Worryingly, we had taken numerous dips in the same stretch of river as we fished.
Despite this, we survived with all our toes after drifting blissfully with the current, while wearing a lifejacket to save us doing anything too energetic - like swimming.
It´s truly amazing how many uses you can find for jungle creatures and plants... but I never expected to find myself whipped with nettles.
Jakob had told us about the antiseptic properties of a blood-red tree sap, which can be used to clean sores.
Meanwhile, he also showed us ants with huge staple-like claws which indigenous people have used to stitch wounds on account of the ants retaining their grip for hours.
And when he found out about my bad back, our guide insisted he was going to give me a good lashing.
Firstly, he gave me a quick going-over during a walk through a jungle community, to the fascination of the rest of our camera-toting group who watched in awe as my back exploded into angry red lumps.
Swearing by the healing properties of these stinging plants, he then encouraged several of the girls into various states of undress as he tried to ease a variety of swollen tendons.
Sadly for him, however, he had far more luck with me. I spent part of my last evening at the lodge lying on the floor, stripped to the waist, and displaying a half-moon as he tried to aid my lower back.
For 30 minutes he whacked me. I quickly became numb to the stings but I never quite got used to the tiny thorns which raked my back every few strokes.
The worst moment came when a twig came loose and lodged itself in my underpants. With every whip it charted a worrying southward path until I yelled for him to stop and removed the offending material.
By the time he had finished, my back had ballooned and was an alarming shade of red.
A soothing rub-down with menthol oil helped and I have to confess to feeling very relaxed, though I´m not convinced it did that much to cure my sciatica.
More to the point, I´m still sporting several bumps around the base of my spine and find myself removing the odd sting from my upper buttocks.
But when our guide announced we were to plunge into neck-high water to glimpse some freshwater dolphins, it really got into Boy´s Own territory.
It was our last full day of five in Ecuador´s Amazon basin region and we were getting a lesson in why they call it a rainforest.
It had been belting down since the early hours and the jungle trails, which a few days earlier had been a spongy mass of fallen leaves, were now a Glastonbury-esque soup of mud.
We had seen little that morning but it was still great fun to trudge between the trees, trying to see through my rapidly misting glasses.
None of us were going to miss the chance to see the small pink dolphins, however, even if we only got brief glimpses of the endangered animals´ stubby noses.
We jumped in, soaking any bits of our clothes that had escaped the rain, and it was well worth it.
One girl lost a Welly in the process - sparking a 20-minute search - but the episode was a great end to our spell in the Amazon.
Staying in a wooden lodge - its sides partially open to the wilds to allow a bit of air into stifling room - it was inevitable we were going to encounter a few uninvited visitors.
The most annoying were the mosquitos who, undeterred by the net around our bed, instead feasted on my paler parts during my numerous night-time trips to the toilet.
We also had a regular visitor to our "bathroom" in the form of a boggle-eyed frog.
One evening, I spotted him sitting happy as Larry in between a pair of my underpants (a rather classy pair of burgundy briefs) and some of the One With The Commmon Sense´s bloomers (gaudy pink but just about presentable).
At least he had the good sense to choose the clean ones.
However, it was a third type of visitor who most disturbed me.
I was nibbling at a biscuit one afternoon and had assumed its soggy texture could be put down to the effects of the humidity.
When I noticed a bite missing, I guessed the One With The Common Sense had got to it before I had.
Only when she flatly denied any thievery, did my mind return to the rustling at our bedside table and the mouse disappearing into the wooden slats of the wall the previous night.
It appears I was eating a rodent´s leftovers.
Still, I scored a couple of hits for humankind in the battle against nature´s nasties by trying a few jungle delicacies.
Firstly, there was a scoop of ants which tasted like lemon sherbert.
But my favourite was a little white grub which had been living inside a coconut-style seed from a tree.
After Jakob - our guide - cracked open the nut, no-one else fancied popping the larvae into their chops but I was happy to give it a go.
Sure enough, the wriggling creature tasted just like coconut - really nice. (I have to admit to spitting out the rubbery skin, though)
We had seen eight types of monkey on walks through the rainforest and boat trips on the Cuyabeno river, which runs through various tributaries into the Amazon.
It was comical to watch them tumble from the treetops into lower branches, although it proved almost impossible for my less-than-nimble fingers to catch the speedy blighters on camera.
For me, the bird life along the river was just as spectacular.
High above us, we spotted several blue and yellow Macaws - more graceful than their noisy cousins the parrots, which we watched taking an early-morning dip at the banks.
There were numerous kingfishers, bright yellow flycatchers and yellow-headed vultures casting an expert eye for carrion from their high perches.
But most impressive were the toucans, their huge beaks silhoetted against the sky.
Among their prey are the eggs of yellow-tailed oropendolas, whose nests dangle like huge earrings from branches in a bid to avoid the thieving predators.
For me, however, simply being in the jungle and listening to its noises was a delight. When the driver turned off the boat´s engine and we drifted downstream, you could hear a cacophany of whistles and croaks made by who knows what animals.
Actually, Jakob could name most of them.
A "knock-knocking" noise turned out to be made by a tree frog, rather than a woodpecker. Meanwhile, we caught the heartbreaking lament of an owl that cried "boo-hoo-hoo-hoooo", rather than hooting.
Legend has it that it fell in love with the moon, which refused to come down from the sky so they could be united.
A night walk revealed more creatures, including a tarantula bigger than my hand, huge centipedes and stick insects.
We all treaded as quietly as possible and did our best to avoid disrupting nature, including ducking below the delicate web of a spider.
That is until The One With The Common Sense - probably the shortest person in the group - forgot to allow for the enormous bun atop her head and ploughed through the whole thing.
Meanwhile, another of the highlights was an evening spent piranha fishing. Or rather, on my part, an evening spent getting very frustrated while dangling a bit of raw beef from a simple rod.
I got plenty of nibbles and at one stage had one of these infamous fish a foot out of the water but, alas, he got away. It´s not as easy as crabbing.
At least our boat driver caught one so we could admire its teeth before he set it free.
Worryingly, we had taken numerous dips in the same stretch of river as we fished.
Despite this, we survived with all our toes after drifting blissfully with the current, while wearing a lifejacket to save us doing anything too energetic - like swimming.
It´s truly amazing how many uses you can find for jungle creatures and plants... but I never expected to find myself whipped with nettles.
Jakob had told us about the antiseptic properties of a blood-red tree sap, which can be used to clean sores.
Meanwhile, he also showed us ants with huge staple-like claws which indigenous people have used to stitch wounds on account of the ants retaining their grip for hours.
And when he found out about my bad back, our guide insisted he was going to give me a good lashing.
Firstly, he gave me a quick going-over during a walk through a jungle community, to the fascination of the rest of our camera-toting group who watched in awe as my back exploded into angry red lumps.
Swearing by the healing properties of these stinging plants, he then encouraged several of the girls into various states of undress as he tried to ease a variety of swollen tendons.
Sadly for him, however, he had far more luck with me. I spent part of my last evening at the lodge lying on the floor, stripped to the waist, and displaying a half-moon as he tried to aid my lower back.
For 30 minutes he whacked me. I quickly became numb to the stings but I never quite got used to the tiny thorns which raked my back every few strokes.
The worst moment came when a twig came loose and lodged itself in my underpants. With every whip it charted a worrying southward path until I yelled for him to stop and removed the offending material.
By the time he had finished, my back had ballooned and was an alarming shade of red.
A soothing rub-down with menthol oil helped and I have to confess to feeling very relaxed, though I´m not convinced it did that much to cure my sciatica.
More to the point, I´m still sporting several bumps around the base of my spine and find myself removing the odd sting from my upper buttocks.
Sunday 15 May 2011
...on the highway to (nearly) the middle of the world
You get immune to bus drivers slamming on the brakes so the crash came as a big shock.
I had already been propelled forward when the driver swerved wildly - first left, then right - before the shunt sent me on another lurch.
Unfortunately for me, I´d left my seat upright to support my bad back. The lady in front had hers reclined, meaning it was at the perfect height to connect sharply with my Adam´s apple.
In the first instance, however, my main concern was the harsh scraping noise passing down the side of the bus where I was seated.
I was surprised to find the window intact and, once the bus shuddered to a halt and The One With The Common Sense and I had checked on each other, we sat in stunned silence.
As the driver´s assistant raced forward to smash his way out at the front, the mind raced through a number of unpleasant thoughts.
Was the driver okay? Was anything else about to hit us? Were the fumes hanging in the air from the engine, the brakes or a more sinister indication of fire?
Perhaps the worst aspect was that all the curtains on the night bus were closed - including those separating the driver´s cabin at the front - so it was hard to tell what was going on.
However, one resourceful bloke - another bus company employee, we think - checked out what was going on up front and reassured everyone that all was okay.
Welcome to Ecuador.
Our driver had swerved to avoid a bus braking sharply in front, only to find himself head-on with a car and so moved back with no time to miss the bus, it transpired.
However, it was to be getting on for two hours before we could get off the stricken vehicle because the seriously buckled door wasn´t safe to clamber through.
In the immediate aftermath of the crash, we were left with only emergency lighting and - without the air-con - a very breathless atmosphere.
Paramedics arrived after perhaps 15 minutes but fortunately nobody was hurt apart from one little girl who got a bump on the head.
The biggest pain was some of the old-enough-to-know-better women who insisted on making the situation more uncomfortable for everyone by crowding around the front and fussing about.
If they had sat still by the window, they would have been a lot cooler than by rushing back and forth, shouting about how hot they were.
As a result, the poor lady in front started to panicking to the extent she was reduced to tears and The One With The Common Sense got a serious cob on with three rotund women who insisted on hovering around her seat.
One even tried the old chestnut: "There are children in here. It´s too hot for them," which roughly translated as: "I´m a bit uncomfortable. Help me quickly. Me, me, me, me, me."
Inevitably, it took the fire brigade to calm things down properly, getting the ladies hot under-the-collar in a different way and lightening The One With The Common Sense´s mood considerably.
They all just looked like fat old blokes to me, but then I´m not one to get excited about fluoroescent pants and helmets.
It still took them an inordinately long time to get us out, with the help of a pneumatic jack and a huge circular saw.
The mood among the waiting passengers was lightened when the resourceful man from earlier removed one of the skylights so a paramedic could climb onto the roof to be handed a baby who needed a bit of fresh air.
It all ended in quite a dignified fashion with the passengers being lifted - women and children first (but only once the firemen had shamed a couple of middle-aged blokes) - through the shattered door frame by two burly fire officers.
The front-left corner of the bus was pretty badly stoved in - and it was missing its windscreen - but we were certainly glad to be travelling in a proper bus and not the minibuses that ferry people along many routes.
I´m not sure I´d have been writing this blog just now.
It might not have been so bad had we been near our destination - Quito.
However, we were only an hour from the Peruvian border and so had another eight hours on a replacement bus to look forward to.
It had already been a tough journey.
Firstly, a rickety bus from the seaside town of Mancora (a disappointment due to its lack of surf) had left us at Ecuadorian immigration.
Then the bus staff had packed the passengers into taxis back to the town centre we´d just left to get into a variety of onward buses.
We nearly missed ours because the cabbie dropped us at the wrong depot. (Though maybe that would have been preferable).
To add insult to injury, when we finally arrived in Quito, there had been a landslide which meant the taxi cost a fortune and took much longer than it would have done ordinarily.
I then spent our first day in the capital in bed, with my back in serious pain, my stomach badly upset, my throat sore from the crash impact, and the makings of a cold.
Finally feeling well enough to confront the world, it seemed reasonable that we should go straight to its heart.
It´s not every day you get to straddle the equator, which lies just outside Quito, so we decided to head to the Middle of the World Museum.
After a fairly complicated journey on the city´s public transport system - broken by visits to cafes to spend a centavo or two - we found ourselves at the site.
After forking out for entry, we found ourselves in some sort of horrific theme park village being pestered every four paces by people trying to drag us into cafes or souvenir shops.
We watched some entertaining enough traditional dancing in the square but that seemed to have little to do with the equator itself and so we pressed on to the globe-topped monument marking 0 deg latitude.
Unfortunately, the point was measured inaccurately years ago by the French (zut alors, imbeciles) and the massive tourist infrastructure is 250 yards away from the actual ecuator.
So, we wandered up the road to find a rival, GPS-measured - and much more interesting - museum.
There, we watched water rush down a plughole without circling anti-clockwise, as it does in the northern hemisphere, or clockwise, as down under.
There was another experiment involving balancing an egg on the head of a nail which is, apparently, easier on the equator. Someone more intelligent than me will have to explain that one.
We were also encouraged to feel how centrifugal forces make it difficult to walk along the line of the equator with your eyes closed and arms outstretched - though I seriously doubt my ability to manage that anywhere in the world.
(Except maybe after a few sherbets, when I can do just about anything.)
It was all very entertaining and included some displays about indigenous life which included recreations of typical homes, some deadly jungle animals and a shrunken head.
And not a cafe hawker in sight. What more could you ask for?
Quito seems like a really pleasant city but now it´s time for an overnight bus journey through winding mountainous terrain to the jungle... can´t wait for that one.
I had already been propelled forward when the driver swerved wildly - first left, then right - before the shunt sent me on another lurch.
Unfortunately for me, I´d left my seat upright to support my bad back. The lady in front had hers reclined, meaning it was at the perfect height to connect sharply with my Adam´s apple.
In the first instance, however, my main concern was the harsh scraping noise passing down the side of the bus where I was seated.
I was surprised to find the window intact and, once the bus shuddered to a halt and The One With The Common Sense and I had checked on each other, we sat in stunned silence.
As the driver´s assistant raced forward to smash his way out at the front, the mind raced through a number of unpleasant thoughts.
Was the driver okay? Was anything else about to hit us? Were the fumes hanging in the air from the engine, the brakes or a more sinister indication of fire?
Perhaps the worst aspect was that all the curtains on the night bus were closed - including those separating the driver´s cabin at the front - so it was hard to tell what was going on.
However, one resourceful bloke - another bus company employee, we think - checked out what was going on up front and reassured everyone that all was okay.
Welcome to Ecuador.
Our driver had swerved to avoid a bus braking sharply in front, only to find himself head-on with a car and so moved back with no time to miss the bus, it transpired.
However, it was to be getting on for two hours before we could get off the stricken vehicle because the seriously buckled door wasn´t safe to clamber through.
In the immediate aftermath of the crash, we were left with only emergency lighting and - without the air-con - a very breathless atmosphere.
Paramedics arrived after perhaps 15 minutes but fortunately nobody was hurt apart from one little girl who got a bump on the head.
The biggest pain was some of the old-enough-to-know-better women who insisted on making the situation more uncomfortable for everyone by crowding around the front and fussing about.
If they had sat still by the window, they would have been a lot cooler than by rushing back and forth, shouting about how hot they were.
As a result, the poor lady in front started to panicking to the extent she was reduced to tears and The One With The Common Sense got a serious cob on with three rotund women who insisted on hovering around her seat.
One even tried the old chestnut: "There are children in here. It´s too hot for them," which roughly translated as: "I´m a bit uncomfortable. Help me quickly. Me, me, me, me, me."
Inevitably, it took the fire brigade to calm things down properly, getting the ladies hot under-the-collar in a different way and lightening The One With The Common Sense´s mood considerably.
They all just looked like fat old blokes to me, but then I´m not one to get excited about fluoroescent pants and helmets.
It still took them an inordinately long time to get us out, with the help of a pneumatic jack and a huge circular saw.
The mood among the waiting passengers was lightened when the resourceful man from earlier removed one of the skylights so a paramedic could climb onto the roof to be handed a baby who needed a bit of fresh air.
It all ended in quite a dignified fashion with the passengers being lifted - women and children first (but only once the firemen had shamed a couple of middle-aged blokes) - through the shattered door frame by two burly fire officers.
The front-left corner of the bus was pretty badly stoved in - and it was missing its windscreen - but we were certainly glad to be travelling in a proper bus and not the minibuses that ferry people along many routes.
I´m not sure I´d have been writing this blog just now.
It might not have been so bad had we been near our destination - Quito.
However, we were only an hour from the Peruvian border and so had another eight hours on a replacement bus to look forward to.
It had already been a tough journey.
Firstly, a rickety bus from the seaside town of Mancora (a disappointment due to its lack of surf) had left us at Ecuadorian immigration.
Then the bus staff had packed the passengers into taxis back to the town centre we´d just left to get into a variety of onward buses.
We nearly missed ours because the cabbie dropped us at the wrong depot. (Though maybe that would have been preferable).
To add insult to injury, when we finally arrived in Quito, there had been a landslide which meant the taxi cost a fortune and took much longer than it would have done ordinarily.
I then spent our first day in the capital in bed, with my back in serious pain, my stomach badly upset, my throat sore from the crash impact, and the makings of a cold.
Finally feeling well enough to confront the world, it seemed reasonable that we should go straight to its heart.
It´s not every day you get to straddle the equator, which lies just outside Quito, so we decided to head to the Middle of the World Museum.
After a fairly complicated journey on the city´s public transport system - broken by visits to cafes to spend a centavo or two - we found ourselves at the site.
After forking out for entry, we found ourselves in some sort of horrific theme park village being pestered every four paces by people trying to drag us into cafes or souvenir shops.
We watched some entertaining enough traditional dancing in the square but that seemed to have little to do with the equator itself and so we pressed on to the globe-topped monument marking 0 deg latitude.
Unfortunately, the point was measured inaccurately years ago by the French (zut alors, imbeciles) and the massive tourist infrastructure is 250 yards away from the actual ecuator.
So, we wandered up the road to find a rival, GPS-measured - and much more interesting - museum.
There, we watched water rush down a plughole without circling anti-clockwise, as it does in the northern hemisphere, or clockwise, as down under.
There was another experiment involving balancing an egg on the head of a nail which is, apparently, easier on the equator. Someone more intelligent than me will have to explain that one.
We were also encouraged to feel how centrifugal forces make it difficult to walk along the line of the equator with your eyes closed and arms outstretched - though I seriously doubt my ability to manage that anywhere in the world.
(Except maybe after a few sherbets, when I can do just about anything.)
It was all very entertaining and included some displays about indigenous life which included recreations of typical homes, some deadly jungle animals and a shrunken head.
And not a cafe hawker in sight. What more could you ask for?
Quito seems like a really pleasant city but now it´s time for an overnight bus journey through winding mountainous terrain to the jungle... can´t wait for that one.
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