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.
Wednesday, 13 July 2011
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.
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