Another day, another destination, the long and sometimes exhausting travelling had been just that. Emily and I both felt frayed from a relentless stomp through Central America which had left us in the wake of many miles, many disappointments and, in all honesty, a great impression of the new environment that we had entered. South America had been long and hard, but with many treasures along the way (including the one that I had picked up and taken along with me), which had mad every mile worth the effort. I know that this is something that I have touched upon before but real travelling isn't as relaxing and care free as two weeks on a beach, and as time goes by it gradually wears you down. What Emily and I needed was a proverbial rabbit out of the hat in the form of something to lift our spirits, and we were not to be disappointed: in multiple senses of the word spirits were well and truly lifted.
After another day the destination in question was the Copan Ruinas, or using my impressive Spanish to kindly translate: the Copan Ruins. This was the first significant destination in what was once the territory of the vast Mayan Empire, a civilisation stretching from present day Honduras far into northern Mexico, which is pretty significant without access to Facebook! It comes as little surprise that we arrived after dark following a 7 hour journey that easily doubled our guidebook's flimsy estimation of 3 hours. After being dumped in the back of an overcrowded pick-up like a sack of potatoes, we arrived at our reasonably priced hotel before promptly leaving to satisfy our insatiable hunger. I threw down a mixed kebab the size of a hobbit, while Emily threw down the best part of a bottle of vino tinto (red wine). Each in our own way were both satisfied and looking forward to a day wondering aimlessly around the ruins, which we knew little about.
Morning came and after a nice big dose of caffeine and a bowl of granola we were feeling suitably intrepid. We clad ourselves with ample camera gear and set off, like the zealous conquistadors many years before, for a day of charging around the ruins shooting at will (please be assured that no indigenous people were harmed in the making of this blog). The weather was yet again overcast, but holding back from chucking down on us, and quite unlike the conquistadors of yonder year ambled down the quaintly bricked footpath to the well signposted archaeological site. However, upon entering the relatively unpopulated entrance, a war cry came as if from nowhere, the locals had spotted two Gringos heading towards them. Within moments it was like a scene from Zulu as we were outnumbered by prospective tour guides closing in from angles. In spite of the fact that in contrast to Zulu our superior technology was of little use, we fought valiantly for some peace and quiet, and eventually vanquished the tourist hungry guides. We were through the gates and home free. The site itself was remarkably quiet, and after kitting up we shot a few parrots sat on a fence before moving into the main area. What we came upon was simply stunning, no puns and clever linguistics required. The rather dense forest that encompassed the area had crept up and strangled the impressive old ruins, with roots busting from within the stone buildings and vines hanging down from the dark green ceiling which stood imperiously at the edge of each clearing. Furthermore, although there was a trickle of tourists on the grounds, the site was relatively quiet and on occasion found ourselves sitting upon a great stone pyramid, looking down upon the crumbling relics of a once glorious empire.
There are times, and have been times on this trip, when you find yourself being impressed upon by something bigger than yourself, and although I can only speak for myself in this respect it felt like at a time I really required it, I was granted with enough of a dose of perspective to wipe the slate clean. That is one of the great things that I have experienced when travelling. There have been points upon this journey when overwhelmed with the toils of a testing portion of my trip, which this section had very much been, when you are put in a position of being able to see the woods for the trees (a perfect time for a forest themed pun I'd say), and all the trivialities of the present become just that. I am aware that this echoes thoughts that I have rattled upon in the past, but the moments that I will look back upon with the most affection are not the 5 million visitors a year world heritage sites (which as it ironically happens I would imagine that this was), but the moments when you feel ground down by loneliness, fatigue or discomfort and something gives you a large dose of perspective. Because these, for me, are the moments that change me; when you are presented with the fact that the world will keep on spinning today's hindrances into tomorrow's history, and that it will continue on long after you do. Nothing like a good humbling to charge the batteries.
After a fair few hours of tramping around the grounds Emily and I strolled back to town for a spot of lunch and a perusal around the artisan shops before returning to an untimely power cut. As it happened just as we were forced out of our pitch black room just in time to bump into another couple checking into theirs. Keen for some people to drag out on the piss Emily and I pounced upon in a way that can be only described as predatory offering to take them out for a bite to eat. Alex and Stina (I think the spelling is correct) obliged and after going out for a rather banterous yet unspectacular culinary experience, decided to sneak in for a cheeky happy hour beverage at the local watering hole. As can be expected this one drink became 5 shots of a rather potent spirit called 'The Uterus', an obligatory 7 or so rounds of beer pong and a shed load of beers. Drunk is not the word to describe our state and for once Emily ended up much less pissed than me, which was evident in the fact that she still had the ability to walk. That particular talent was not exactly one that I possessed at that time and after eventually staggering back to the room all that was left was to conduct a large shouting match with the inside of the toilet bowl.
The next day we were leaving early on a shuttle bus to Antigua, and in our heavily inebriated state lacked the ability to see how much of a world of pain would come with our awakening. After being reinvigorated, and then subsequently deinvigorated (not a word but I don't care), both challenges and new adventures would face us as we said goodbye to Honduras and hello to Guatemala.
Saturday, 29 November 2008
Sunday, 23 November 2008
Rains, Banes and Automobiles
Up until Honduras the rainy season in Central America had little, in fact no, visible impact upon our daily drudge from country to country. The weather had been pretty nice for such a temperate climate, and from Ana to Wanda, and all of their breezy friends in between had neglected to blow upon our shores. But, as we were to find out, you can't avoid the rain in the rainy season.
Another morning came, along with another bout of packing, checking out and moving on, although we hoped that with Tegucigalpa, the Honduran capital and our next destination, being relatively near (146km) then perhaps the moving on would not take the whole day. Sadly, as any positive time:distance outlook is in Latin America, the ride would once again deliver us after dark, this time involving 3 buses. On this occasion, however, after dark was less appealing than usual, as Tegucigalpa had a reputation for being pretty dangerous. Meekly, we checked in, grabbed some food from the nearest eatery and bedded down for the night. This would only be a stop over city, before heading to the Bay Islands for some much anticipated scuba diving and snorkeling.
Yet another mammoth journey was about to begin, this time from the capital to San Pedro Sula, a different kind of capital (the H.I.V. capital of Latin America), and on to La Ceiba, the port town in which we would ferry across to the Bay Islands. The only real event of this journey involved me losing my wonderful little P.D.A., which had served as a great device for writing this blog (it's absence would later cause a mountainous delay in posting), the rest of which involved sitting doing very little yet again for the whole day. Once again the routine of arrive in the darkness, argue with taxi driver over the doubled fare, wonder round looking for a bed and crashing out was performed with precision and regularity, and we arrived wet, exhausted and a little agitated. Two days had taken its toll on us and our first major remonstrance occurred. The next morning it was pretty obvious that the air had not cleared from the night before, Emily and I were absolutely fine but the rain which had welcomed us off the bus and hammered down all night relentlessly had very much evidently not abated. We checked with the hotel staff only to find that it would be like this every day for the next couple of weeks, and would later find out that the ferry had been cancelled until further notice. The proverbial bubble burst immediately as we realised that our plans for finding Nemo under paradise skies were now down the baño (toilet), and it was back on the bus. We arrived back in San Pedro Sula and checked into a slightly nicer hotel (nice by our standards) with small but smashing little rooms, and went out to the most expensive restaurant in town (but still cheap by UK standards). We, like the weather, were pretty glum and a big steak, glass of wine and soft bed really helped keep our spirits up after three days of miserably uncomfortable buses and one big disappointment.
Like the others before it, the next day would involve another bus journey before hopefully hanging out in Copan Ruinas on the border of Guatemala for a few days. After a miserable few days we desperately hoped that Copan could offer up better times; but could it?
Another morning came, along with another bout of packing, checking out and moving on, although we hoped that with Tegucigalpa, the Honduran capital and our next destination, being relatively near (146km) then perhaps the moving on would not take the whole day. Sadly, as any positive time:distance outlook is in Latin America, the ride would once again deliver us after dark, this time involving 3 buses. On this occasion, however, after dark was less appealing than usual, as Tegucigalpa had a reputation for being pretty dangerous. Meekly, we checked in, grabbed some food from the nearest eatery and bedded down for the night. This would only be a stop over city, before heading to the Bay Islands for some much anticipated scuba diving and snorkeling.
Yet another mammoth journey was about to begin, this time from the capital to San Pedro Sula, a different kind of capital (the H.I.V. capital of Latin America), and on to La Ceiba, the port town in which we would ferry across to the Bay Islands. The only real event of this journey involved me losing my wonderful little P.D.A., which had served as a great device for writing this blog (it's absence would later cause a mountainous delay in posting), the rest of which involved sitting doing very little yet again for the whole day. Once again the routine of arrive in the darkness, argue with taxi driver over the doubled fare, wonder round looking for a bed and crashing out was performed with precision and regularity, and we arrived wet, exhausted and a little agitated. Two days had taken its toll on us and our first major remonstrance occurred. The next morning it was pretty obvious that the air had not cleared from the night before, Emily and I were absolutely fine but the rain which had welcomed us off the bus and hammered down all night relentlessly had very much evidently not abated. We checked with the hotel staff only to find that it would be like this every day for the next couple of weeks, and would later find out that the ferry had been cancelled until further notice. The proverbial bubble burst immediately as we realised that our plans for finding Nemo under paradise skies were now down the baño (toilet), and it was back on the bus. We arrived back in San Pedro Sula and checked into a slightly nicer hotel (nice by our standards) with small but smashing little rooms, and went out to the most expensive restaurant in town (but still cheap by UK standards). We, like the weather, were pretty glum and a big steak, glass of wine and soft bed really helped keep our spirits up after three days of miserably uncomfortable buses and one big disappointment.
Like the others before it, the next day would involve another bus journey before hopefully hanging out in Copan Ruinas on the border of Guatemala for a few days. After a miserable few days we desperately hoped that Copan could offer up better times; but could it?
Sunday, 16 November 2008
Worlds Apart
After a longer than expected delay in the border town of San Carlos, Emily and I were finally on our way to see the hidden treasures of Nicaragua, a country marked by many fellow travellers as a gem in the largely touristified, U.S. commercialised and apartment blocked mass of countries. After shooting through Panama and Costa Rica it was time to slow the pace down to that of Nicaragua.
Our first destination was the island of Ometepe, formed out of two dormant volcanoes in the middle of the seemingly oceanic Lago (lake) Nicaragua, which was said to offer adventure, cheap prices and a spot of relatively untamed travel. Before long all three proved to be accurate. After a long and unexpectedly draining journey on the ferry, an M shaped mass slowly appeared out of the utter darkness. Storms were crashing around in the distance and the rain had just abated as we stepped from the boat into an island submerged in darkness. Emily piled onto the back of a pick-up truck, bags in tow, along with about twelve or so other people heading towards any form of civilisation, and hopefully a bed. The truck bounded over tree vines, pot holes and fledglingly sporadic attempts to pave the road for 15 minutes, holding on to whatever we possibly could , before being dumped outside a locked and lifeless hotel. Fortunately the lifelessness was only temporary and we were shown to a basic room without power, running water or any kind of mosquito net. We doused ourselves in deet, the traveller's cologne, and bedded down for the night.
The following day we were able to ascertain that there had been a power cut the night before, resulting from the aforementioned storm, and that although this was a fairly regular occurrence, the Island was not in fact a trip back into the dark ages. Things were beginning to look up. We left our rather unimpressive hotel in the port town of Altagracia on the first available bus to Moyogalpa, a larger town on the other side of the larger volcano. After the quiet and unpopulated Altagracia, Moyogalpa was teeming with life, and more importantly traveller hostels, including our choice El Indio Viejo, which was cheap as chips, served great food (including chips) and had other people to hang about with. One recent detriment of our fast paced travelling was the lack of other human contact Emily and I had had, and luckily a break was due from this when we met a group of three pretty cool American guys and an enthusiastic Canadian beefcake. With a newly formed social group and the local spirit and coke priced at around 25p the only possible outcome was a hangover, which was only confirmed when we splashed out on a 25 cocktail order early on. The sun dipped, the daily shower fell and the guitar came out, with it's owner (another Canadian) and his cheeky Israeli travel buddy, to end the first of a few banterous and fulfilling days on the island. The next morning everyone headed off to climb the volcano at silly O'Clock AM (including Emily), which I was unable to do after losing my walking boots in Medellin, leaving me to a day of gargantuan beef burgers and a rather thick, weighty book by Tolstoy. The hikers returned and the drinking began again for another evening.
Sadly, however, our time being short meant that we had to leave the island after a few days and move on to Granada, a Colonial city in the centre of Nicaragua. After the usual bout of boats, taxis, buses (two; changing in the middle of nowhere in the dark) and another taxi we arrived worn out and in the dark once again. After trying three fully booked hotels we came upon a pricey but tempting hotel offering everything we desired: internet access, a spot of air con and a hot shower, all three of whcih being unavailable over the past two weeks. Against our usual nature we decided to splurge (the term for splashing out in Lonely Planet language) for one night before moving to a cheaper hostel the next day. The next day came and, to put it simply, we went. Granada appeared to solely be packed with tourists and people to harass tourists, and we were not interested in staying. We had planned to go onto Leon 'another' cultural city in Nicaragua but decided that it would be more of the same. We went back to the drawing board and came up with Esteli, a cool, quiet cowboy town at altitude in the North of the country, which sounded like a perfect place to mix in with the locals and prepare for a short, sharp hop through Honduras before slowing down again in Guatemala. Once again we threw ourselves on the first bus in that direction, preparing for yet another night arrival in a strange town.
Esteli, after arriving, eating, sleeping and awakening primed for some exploration was exactly what we had hoped for. We had managed to find a great cheap little Mexican restaurant and a DVD shop to stock up on a few rainy day films the previous night and were already growing to like the city. We arose early, something we had often being doing as we could not afford to drink much and had been going to bed before 11, grabbed breakfast and headed out to a beautiful 100ft waterfall in the foot of the surrounding hills. After swimming a while in the secluded pool we sighted three local men clad with machetes and watching us from the bank. My camera was sat in my bag on the bank and we immediately headed for shore in hope that these weren't planning to relieve us of our valuables. Unsurprisingly, they were local farm boys who had wandered down for a swim and were more interested in having a chat with us than robbing us. We talked for a while before letting them swim and prepared to leave. Just as we were leaving however a group of young Latin American students, two Nicaraguans and a Columbian, crossed our path and we immediately began chatting. Jorge, a local Estelian (if that's what you call them) said they were going up to the top of the highest point and asked us to join. We gladly accepted.
After a short while of waiting, the five of us hitched a lift on the back of a pick-up and were soon at the top of the hills. We lunched at the top, flipping the conversation between Spanish and English regularly, and grabbed a local bus back down to the town. Jorge, the son of a Scotsman and a Nicaraguan who had settled in Esteli after the Nicaraguan civil war, kindly invited us to his parents' cafe (La Casita) to hang out for a while, before some drinks in the evening. The cafe was beautiful, a local Garden of Eden, with a steam, cactus gardens and winding pathways, and we left absolutely charmed. Sadly, upon returning back to our hotel room we both fell asleep waking too late to meet Jorge.
The next day we were to cross yet another border after leaving warmed to the overwhelmingly cheap, cheerful and charming Nicaragua. Would Honduras offer more of the same or a stark return to what had so disappointed us before? Only time would tell.
Our first destination was the island of Ometepe, formed out of two dormant volcanoes in the middle of the seemingly oceanic Lago (lake) Nicaragua, which was said to offer adventure, cheap prices and a spot of relatively untamed travel. Before long all three proved to be accurate. After a long and unexpectedly draining journey on the ferry, an M shaped mass slowly appeared out of the utter darkness. Storms were crashing around in the distance and the rain had just abated as we stepped from the boat into an island submerged in darkness. Emily piled onto the back of a pick-up truck, bags in tow, along with about twelve or so other people heading towards any form of civilisation, and hopefully a bed. The truck bounded over tree vines, pot holes and fledglingly sporadic attempts to pave the road for 15 minutes, holding on to whatever we possibly could , before being dumped outside a locked and lifeless hotel. Fortunately the lifelessness was only temporary and we were shown to a basic room without power, running water or any kind of mosquito net. We doused ourselves in deet, the traveller's cologne, and bedded down for the night.
The following day we were able to ascertain that there had been a power cut the night before, resulting from the aforementioned storm, and that although this was a fairly regular occurrence, the Island was not in fact a trip back into the dark ages. Things were beginning to look up. We left our rather unimpressive hotel in the port town of Altagracia on the first available bus to Moyogalpa, a larger town on the other side of the larger volcano. After the quiet and unpopulated Altagracia, Moyogalpa was teeming with life, and more importantly traveller hostels, including our choice El Indio Viejo, which was cheap as chips, served great food (including chips) and had other people to hang about with. One recent detriment of our fast paced travelling was the lack of other human contact Emily and I had had, and luckily a break was due from this when we met a group of three pretty cool American guys and an enthusiastic Canadian beefcake. With a newly formed social group and the local spirit and coke priced at around 25p the only possible outcome was a hangover, which was only confirmed when we splashed out on a 25 cocktail order early on. The sun dipped, the daily shower fell and the guitar came out, with it's owner (another Canadian) and his cheeky Israeli travel buddy, to end the first of a few banterous and fulfilling days on the island. The next morning everyone headed off to climb the volcano at silly O'Clock AM (including Emily), which I was unable to do after losing my walking boots in Medellin, leaving me to a day of gargantuan beef burgers and a rather thick, weighty book by Tolstoy. The hikers returned and the drinking began again for another evening.
Sadly, however, our time being short meant that we had to leave the island after a few days and move on to Granada, a Colonial city in the centre of Nicaragua. After the usual bout of boats, taxis, buses (two; changing in the middle of nowhere in the dark) and another taxi we arrived worn out and in the dark once again. After trying three fully booked hotels we came upon a pricey but tempting hotel offering everything we desired: internet access, a spot of air con and a hot shower, all three of whcih being unavailable over the past two weeks. Against our usual nature we decided to splurge (the term for splashing out in Lonely Planet language) for one night before moving to a cheaper hostel the next day. The next day came and, to put it simply, we went. Granada appeared to solely be packed with tourists and people to harass tourists, and we were not interested in staying. We had planned to go onto Leon 'another' cultural city in Nicaragua but decided that it would be more of the same. We went back to the drawing board and came up with Esteli, a cool, quiet cowboy town at altitude in the North of the country, which sounded like a perfect place to mix in with the locals and prepare for a short, sharp hop through Honduras before slowing down again in Guatemala. Once again we threw ourselves on the first bus in that direction, preparing for yet another night arrival in a strange town.
Esteli, after arriving, eating, sleeping and awakening primed for some exploration was exactly what we had hoped for. We had managed to find a great cheap little Mexican restaurant and a DVD shop to stock up on a few rainy day films the previous night and were already growing to like the city. We arose early, something we had often being doing as we could not afford to drink much and had been going to bed before 11, grabbed breakfast and headed out to a beautiful 100ft waterfall in the foot of the surrounding hills. After swimming a while in the secluded pool we sighted three local men clad with machetes and watching us from the bank. My camera was sat in my bag on the bank and we immediately headed for shore in hope that these weren't planning to relieve us of our valuables. Unsurprisingly, they were local farm boys who had wandered down for a swim and were more interested in having a chat with us than robbing us. We talked for a while before letting them swim and prepared to leave. Just as we were leaving however a group of young Latin American students, two Nicaraguans and a Columbian, crossed our path and we immediately began chatting. Jorge, a local Estelian (if that's what you call them) said they were going up to the top of the highest point and asked us to join. We gladly accepted.
After a short while of waiting, the five of us hitched a lift on the back of a pick-up and were soon at the top of the hills. We lunched at the top, flipping the conversation between Spanish and English regularly, and grabbed a local bus back down to the town. Jorge, the son of a Scotsman and a Nicaraguan who had settled in Esteli after the Nicaraguan civil war, kindly invited us to his parents' cafe (La Casita) to hang out for a while, before some drinks in the evening. The cafe was beautiful, a local Garden of Eden, with a steam, cactus gardens and winding pathways, and we left absolutely charmed. Sadly, upon returning back to our hotel room we both fell asleep waking too late to meet Jorge.
The next day we were to cross yet another border after leaving warmed to the overwhelmingly cheap, cheerful and charming Nicaragua. Would Honduras offer more of the same or a stark return to what had so disappointed us before? Only time would tell.
Saturday, 8 November 2008
The La Cuenta Quandary
After a difficult night in the cockroach infested hotel in Los Chiles, we didn´t need to be asked twice to leave. An interesting border, Los Chiles, would require us to check out of Costa Rica, hop on a boat through the jungle to the swampy, hot and evidently isolated town of San Carlos.
The boat, although unsurprisingly late, which mattered little as we were in no rush, ambled down the large river lined with trees, vines and howler monkeys keen to let us know they were there. The boat was packed with locals who, it seemed, had some kind of competition on who could throw the most un-biodegradeable items into the river before hitting port. This was a dreadful thing to watch as so many forms of wildlife existed in this expanse of an ecosystem, and the locals seemed to think that waiting for a bin was just too much effort. One thing, which has been extremely great to see, is the fact that fellow travellers never litter, although contrastingly the people who have to live in these environments seem to think that lining their riverbeds, roadsides and nature reserves with crisp packets and bottles.
When arriving in the shanty-esque port we paid our entrance fee for Nicaragua, and went off to find a hotel. The first hotel sounded cheap and we went to throw our bags in the room. Upon opening the door we at one noticed the rat shit and ants all over the bed. Unsurprisingly we left promptly. With our bags in tow we popped to the port to find that the next boat to leave the totally isolated town (to the Island of Ometepe) was in two days and that there was no ATM in town, which posed a rather serious issue: Emily and I only had $40 between us. Luckily we found a hotel that accepted visa and had rooms with a fan, bed and little to no visible rodent excrement. It was perfect.
The days passed slowly, with very little to do other than sweat, shower and wander around the town, which in spite of its shabbiness had a certain charm. The locals were clearly suffering from a much more serious and long term La Quenta Quandary, the first sign of which being the many locals hanging around doing little at 11am on a Tuesday. Aside from fishing there appeared, 0ther than local subsistence trades, to be few possible jobs to hold up the isolated local community, yet the locals seemed outright friendly, warm and happy to chat about whatever subjects a local and scraggy traveller usually converse on. By the time we had gradually warmed to the already warm, rundown town, we boarded a 10 hour ferry up the lake to the island of Ometepe where adventures, scenery and poignent hangovers were awaiting.
The boat, although unsurprisingly late, which mattered little as we were in no rush, ambled down the large river lined with trees, vines and howler monkeys keen to let us know they were there. The boat was packed with locals who, it seemed, had some kind of competition on who could throw the most un-biodegradeable items into the river before hitting port. This was a dreadful thing to watch as so many forms of wildlife existed in this expanse of an ecosystem, and the locals seemed to think that waiting for a bin was just too much effort. One thing, which has been extremely great to see, is the fact that fellow travellers never litter, although contrastingly the people who have to live in these environments seem to think that lining their riverbeds, roadsides and nature reserves with crisp packets and bottles.
When arriving in the shanty-esque port we paid our entrance fee for Nicaragua, and went off to find a hotel. The first hotel sounded cheap and we went to throw our bags in the room. Upon opening the door we at one noticed the rat shit and ants all over the bed. Unsurprisingly we left promptly. With our bags in tow we popped to the port to find that the next boat to leave the totally isolated town (to the Island of Ometepe) was in two days and that there was no ATM in town, which posed a rather serious issue: Emily and I only had $40 between us. Luckily we found a hotel that accepted visa and had rooms with a fan, bed and little to no visible rodent excrement. It was perfect.
The days passed slowly, with very little to do other than sweat, shower and wander around the town, which in spite of its shabbiness had a certain charm. The locals were clearly suffering from a much more serious and long term La Quenta Quandary, the first sign of which being the many locals hanging around doing little at 11am on a Tuesday. Aside from fishing there appeared, 0ther than local subsistence trades, to be few possible jobs to hold up the isolated local community, yet the locals seemed outright friendly, warm and happy to chat about whatever subjects a local and scraggy traveller usually converse on. By the time we had gradually warmed to the already warm, rundown town, we boarded a 10 hour ferry up the lake to the island of Ometepe where adventures, scenery and poignent hangovers were awaiting.
Monday, 3 November 2008
Little Time for Coasting - 2nd Edition
Central America, another continent primed for exploits, exploration and, from myself, belated explanation. We had arrived in a land that has been largely eploited by their prominent Northern neighbour for many years; with the evidence of such as visibly clear as the Caribbean waters that lap against its coast. On the topic of coast, however, our journey would be a whistle-stop blur of bus journeys and hotels in backward towns for much of our time as South America had taken longer than expected. In fact, in spite of the relatively short distance left to cover, there would be little time for coasting.
Panama
The boat arrived in a small Panamanian port, scantily equipped for the tourist trade, and within little time captain Guido had offloaded his freshly developed seamen (which, yes could be misconstrued if your spelling leaves much to be desired) into a dingy bound for his local hostel. The crew spent one last night together quietly before heading off to Panama City the next day. The bus journey, although not a goliath trip of the Argentinian 22 hour standards, was the first of many 5-8 hour journeys to be taken every other day. We arrived in Panama City tired, hungry and smelly. The plan for Panama City was to hang for a few days and meet Luke, an old family friend from childhood, but upon arrival it turned out that Luke would have to be called away on business and that, in mind of our tight schedule, we may have had to stay much longer than expected. This posed a two-pronged problem: Emily was on a very short timescale which meant that staying longer would have meant that she would have to leave me to travel Central America solo, and then there was the fact that Panama City appeared to be dirty, uBer-Americanised (every corner that didn't have a US chain restaurant clung to it would have a poster of it!) and pretty souless. Obviosuly this may have been totally wrong but it was not a city that we felt drawn to stay in. With that in mind we jumped on the first available bus to Bocas Del Toro, in hope of some sun, sea, sand and scuba. This, however, was also not to be, as when arriving at the port and spending a night in a dark, airless, cold war-esque hotel room, the boat to the islands would require wasting a whole day waiting leaving only half a day there. It seemed pointless; so we left.
Costa Rica
After another 6 hours in transit, we arrived in Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica, a notoriously Americanised 'frat boy town', with reputedly decent waves and long days of sunshine. Upon arriving and tactically locating ourselves a few Km out of town we discoved that although the sunshine and fraternity 'douche-bag' population was plentiful, the waves were not. We spent two days eating tasty Western (culturally, not geographically) food and splashing around in the warm water, before leaving Puerto Viejo, and Costa Rica, with much gusto. After passing through the Capital of San Jose (yes, we did know the way) briefly, we hopped on another bus to Los Chiles, a tiny town bordering on Nicaragua, arriving 14 hours after leaving Puerto Viejo. In truth, the journey had been long and arduous and after dumping our bags in the cockroach and mosquito infested room, it was visible that each of us were spread thinly from the last week of relentless traveling. Racked with fatigue and unavoidable irritability we crashed immediately for the night, before crossing the border the next day into Nicaragua.
After a draining week of travelling through Panaman and Costa Rica, we were in need of a few days rest and very much looking forward to Nicaragua, reputed to be a great place to travel. But first we would have to get away from the hot swampy grip of San Carlos and deal with monetary matters.
Panama
The boat arrived in a small Panamanian port, scantily equipped for the tourist trade, and within little time captain Guido had offloaded his freshly developed seamen (which, yes could be misconstrued if your spelling leaves much to be desired) into a dingy bound for his local hostel. The crew spent one last night together quietly before heading off to Panama City the next day. The bus journey, although not a goliath trip of the Argentinian 22 hour standards, was the first of many 5-8 hour journeys to be taken every other day. We arrived in Panama City tired, hungry and smelly. The plan for Panama City was to hang for a few days and meet Luke, an old family friend from childhood, but upon arrival it turned out that Luke would have to be called away on business and that, in mind of our tight schedule, we may have had to stay much longer than expected. This posed a two-pronged problem: Emily was on a very short timescale which meant that staying longer would have meant that she would have to leave me to travel Central America solo, and then there was the fact that Panama City appeared to be dirty, uBer-Americanised (every corner that didn't have a US chain restaurant clung to it would have a poster of it!) and pretty souless. Obviosuly this may have been totally wrong but it was not a city that we felt drawn to stay in. With that in mind we jumped on the first available bus to Bocas Del Toro, in hope of some sun, sea, sand and scuba. This, however, was also not to be, as when arriving at the port and spending a night in a dark, airless, cold war-esque hotel room, the boat to the islands would require wasting a whole day waiting leaving only half a day there. It seemed pointless; so we left.
Costa Rica
After another 6 hours in transit, we arrived in Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica, a notoriously Americanised 'frat boy town', with reputedly decent waves and long days of sunshine. Upon arriving and tactically locating ourselves a few Km out of town we discoved that although the sunshine and fraternity 'douche-bag' population was plentiful, the waves were not. We spent two days eating tasty Western (culturally, not geographically) food and splashing around in the warm water, before leaving Puerto Viejo, and Costa Rica, with much gusto. After passing through the Capital of San Jose (yes, we did know the way) briefly, we hopped on another bus to Los Chiles, a tiny town bordering on Nicaragua, arriving 14 hours after leaving Puerto Viejo. In truth, the journey had been long and arduous and after dumping our bags in the cockroach and mosquito infested room, it was visible that each of us were spread thinly from the last week of relentless traveling. Racked with fatigue and unavoidable irritability we crashed immediately for the night, before crossing the border the next day into Nicaragua.
After a draining week of travelling through Panaman and Costa Rica, we were in need of a few days rest and very much looking forward to Nicaragua, reputed to be a great place to travel. But first we would have to get away from the hot swampy grip of San Carlos and deal with monetary matters.
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