Isle de Ometepe - Nicraguara

Now three strong, Mike, Judith, myself, we did a hope skip and a jump down to the next tourist destionation along Nicaragua's Western streach between Lake Nicoragua and the Pasific, Isle de Ometepe, Nicaragua. We were feeling good about life and enjoying the boat ride over when I heard a familar voice that made the hair on the back of my head stand up. Jane had decided to tag along and was now joining us on the sundeck. I went back inside.

Omotepe is billed as a more rustic and way to expierence true Nicaruagan culture, the small villages scatered between at the bases of the two volcanos that make up the majority of the island offer basic accomodations and little in the way of a social scene. Nontheless, we made our way to the base of Volcan Madera following the Lying Planet´s suggestion to stay at Finca Magdalena -Jane decided to stay there too, brillant- a old farm house turned Hostel set at the base of the Volcano and make the easy day hike to the top of the volcano in the morining. It was at this point that I decided never to take the Planet siriously again.

First the Finca. I have noticed that in many cases, the hostels that are listed as being the best in the planet usually turn out to be the worst. I think this is so because, after getting into ´the book,´these places don´t need to worry about reputation or word of mouth to get a steady stream of buisness. So they kick back, now on easy street (relatively) knowing that no matter what they do, or don´t do, they will always have there rooms filled. Such was the case with the Finca, which offered millitary style cots in misquito friendly open-air storage rooms, and abismal serfice without a smile. The food, written up to be cheap and great, was anything but. I´m not sure if it was a joke, but the cooks somehow managed to undercook the beans, and overcook the rise. Did ya get that, they couldn´t even cook beans and rice, I won´t even talk about the meat or moldy bread. On top of that, they shut down the resturant at 7pm and the bar at 9, though they decided to close it at 8:15 on this particular night. To pass the time, and aviode Jane, who was confessing to the rest of the group that she had once taken three shots and not felt drunk, Mike and I were schooled in the card game ´doublehead´ by two German girls who had joined out group. Finally at 10pm for lack of anything else to do we went to bed, content to get a good night´s rest for the Volcano in the morning.

We met our guides after a horrible breakfast at the Finca and walked to the trailhead, a couple hundred meters behind the hostel. From there it was a 5km hike to the summit where the Planet told us we would be rewarded with a beautiful crater lake and a refeshing swim. Somehow, we knew that this would not be the case. The assent, ususally the easy part for me, was muy pelegroso (very dangerous). You followed a broken trail through the tropical foothills to the steeps of the volcano. From there you have to use trees and rocks to scale up the absurdly muddy path as it zig zaged its way up to the summit. This was particulary hazardous for me, who ruptured a disk only six months before, and every slip or unbalaned step threatened to tweek my back. I am not much of a quiter, but I seriously thought about throwing in the towel on this one.

Then, we made it to the summit, we were ready for our pictoureque lagoon, but, as Mike describes, ¨what we got was a muddy pond, partially obscured by mist and were banned from swimming because of the sulphur content.¨ So, after a breif rest and a quick bite, we were ready to head back down. Again Mike puts it best when he writes, ¨ with all of the visitors up and down it, plus the rain, albeit not much, the trail had become a rather dangerous, very unpleasant mudslide. This coupled with the fact that our guide ran off at speed, leaving us all behind, leaving me to speculate on the differences of meaning in the word guide, as I thought it meant to show someone something, in this case the way out and that that was what I had paid for.¨

And believe it or not he was one of the better ones.

It was worse for me, while my back had been the issue on the way up, now my knees (also an old Lacrosse injury) where begining to give out. I couldn´t control myself as I slipped down the muddy, almost stream like, trail falling several times. All around me people were slipping and falling as well, being carried off down the trail in the stream. Think of the mudslide scene with Micheal Douglas and Kathline Turnner in Romancing the Stone. The guides, who were nice enough to check in on us from time, would simply bystepped the people on the ground and kept walking down the trail.

The end couldn´t come fast enough, and back at the Finca we all sat in exhuasted silance, stunned by what we had just done to oursleves. Even the light-heated Judith, who relishes this type of adventure, said, ¨well, that was not so good.¨ Having had enough of Ometepe´s ´rustic ambiance,´ we hightailed it back to the main town and took a ferry out the next day. Judith was on to San Jose, Costa Rica, Mike and I decieded to give Nicaragua one last go and headed off to the Pasific beach town of San Juan Del Sur, where we hoped to find a lively palce to celibrate Christmas by the sea.

Laguana de Apoyo - Nicaragua

Note: Mike Friend is a contributing Author to this blog post.

Granada, the three amigos (Mike, Judith, Myself) made a hop skip and a jump over to Laugna de Apoyo, a small lake 30 minutes in the back of a pickup from downtown Granada. Our hostel in Granada talked up the place and booked us into there sister hostel "The Monkey Hut." The Hut was a two story beach house set on right on the lake with basic dorm rooms, a collective kitchen, and a large hardwood veranda overlooking a secluded cove. It also had a small rocky beach with a diving dock and water platform. We spent a few hours sunbathing on the docks and taking a kayak tour of the surrounding coves, polishing it off the afternoon with a siesta in one of the veranda hammocks.

The Hut has a very co-op type feel where there is free collective use of the kayaks and sports equipment and everyone cooks together and is on the honor system for any drink or snacks they take. This sharing system allows you to meet and interact with all the other people staying there and this is what makes staying there so great. It is also what makes it so bad.

For the most part, everyone I have met so far on my travels have been stand up individuals. Even the Brits, who I had a pretty poor opinion of after a couple incidents in Thailand and Australia, were fun easy-going folk and change my views. I can attribute this trend to the fact that Central America is still not a big dot on the international backpacking circuit. Because, while it is establishing itself as a gringo-friendly destination, it isn't as traveled or developed as Europe or Southeast Asia. This means that while the true thrill seekers and adventurous come here in droves, the wankers and main streamers stay to the beaten track. But this brilliant sociological theory of mine came crumbling down when I met a girl from California named Jane.

An 18 year old recent high-school graduate, Jane stands just under five her Peruvian roots give her a stocky wide legged stance that seem to impede her as she walks. Her unkept curly black hair hides most of her flat disproportionately big face and head. Basically she looks like a troll. But, not one to judge on appearances when she engaged me in conversation, I was interested to meet a fellow Californian and get her toughts on Central America. She introduced herself and asked if the peanut butter I was holding in my hand was mine. I confessed that it was and she went on to lecture me about trans fats and how unhealthy it was, and that she grinds her own at home. Interesting I thought.

Then, while eating my Cup O'Noodles with Judith on the veranda, she told me how much sodium I was taking in and that, as a health conscious Californian, she knew better. I told her that I generally like to eat better, but, when traveling, found it to be hard and expensi- "Well, I manage just fine, you should try a little harder," she snapped back, "back home I grow my own veggies." At this point I could tell that she wasn't trying to have a conversation (or couldn't rather), but just wanted to hear herself talk. And, while Judith found her insults hilarious, I didn't and got up and left the table. Mike writes, "Scott was looking weary and disappearing into the dorm room. This turned out to be with good reason as he explained he was trying to "get away from that girl. She gives California a bad name". That girl turned out to be Jane and Scott turned out to be very accurate, although underplaying the exact nature of her annoyingness."

Later on that evening, after dinner, a group of us gathered outside for some drinking games and Jane decided to join in. Mike again writes, "The full extent of Jane´s ignorance started to emerge and she swiftly became one of those people whose very breathing would irritate you. Plus she has the table manners of an animal, lacks any social grace and her naivety is astounding, meaning that she has nothing to offer a conversation, coupled with the fact she doesn´t actually listen anyway. So the evening turned into everyone else conversing and her sat around the table, ignoring the fact she was being ignored and trying to claim some stake in the conversation unsuccessfully." We were happy to take leave of her the next day, heading south to Isla Ometepe, and be done with her... or so we thought.

Granada - Nicaragua

Having spent twice as long on Utlia as I had expected, and servery cutting into my travel time before I needed to be in Costa Rica to meet my friends, I decided to forgo the rest of Honduras and try and get straight to Nicaragua. With me was Judith, a German girl I had met in Belize and now, having finished her diving on Utlia, wanted to do the same thing.

Getting to the Nicaraguan border wasn´t that bad, crossing it was another matter. As soon as we stopped the collectivo at the immigration station, we were swarmed by money changers and guys with tuk tuks all wanting to ¨help¨us. The surrounded Judith, whose Spanish was much better than mine, and started negotiating fares to take us across the border. One guy went a step further and took our bags from the car and put them on his tuk tuk. We asked him a price, and he quoted us 20 Limperias to take us across. A fare offer, we climbed aboard.

Not twenty feet later, when I asked him what the conversion rate was, he started quoting a different price for the ride. Now he wanted $2 each. Judith, not one for tricks, became furious and told him to stop. He pretended not to hear us and kept on. At this point we both told him to stop and started getting out of the tuk tuk, while it was still rolling down the hill. Not wanting to loose his fare, he agreed to our original price. We made a stop off at the border patrol to get stamped and then road on to the Nicaraguan side, where we had read buses would be waiting to to take you on to other destinations. But the driver, who, when asked about where the buses were, shook his head and saying they were, Pinche (assholes). That very well could be true, but I still wanted to find these assholes and I catch a bus.

I was beginning to get an uneasy feeling about this guy, who now avoided talking to us and was looking around as if to see if anyone was watching. He rolled to a stop in a vacant lot behind a abandoned truck inspection station. Judith asked him where the buses where and he repeated that they were assholes and then demeaned $2 from each of us. I was getting ready to step up and act brave saying we would not pay, but Judith, who saw this coming beat me two the punch. She tore into him, with unabated curtness and unsuppressed imfromality (as Germans can well do), saying that he was a lier and they was no way we were going to pay him anymore then the original price. He stood there looking at us, first her then me, who could only offer a nod as if to say ´yeah, what she said!´Shaking his head he took the Limperas and turned around calling us both Pinche Gringos, and we walked on from there.

After a lot of searching and asking, we found the out of the way hidden bus station where every other tuk tuk driver was dropping and picking up passengers and got our bus. We headed to Leon, a small city in the northwestern province famed for its charming colonial ambiance and distinctive local flair. Plus, I wanted to meet up with Mike, a friend from Guatemala, who had sent word that he was waiting for me there. We stayed there for a total of four hours. Both Judith and I had grand visions of towering colonial cathedrals and, indigenous artwork and clothing shops lining the streets, but found it to be a little uninspiring and dead. I guess when you´ve seen a parque central in every country you go to it losses its luster after a while. We stayed there just long enough to get some lunch and check my email, where I learned that Mike had moved on just that morning to Granada, another colonial city on the coast of lake Nicaragua. Wasting no time we took the next bus.

Granada was great. While it was still another typical Latin American city with a central park and cathedrals, it also possessed a certain vibrance that was laking in Leon. We met up with Mike, at one of the hostels and had a chance to catch up over dinner and drinks. Mike is a 33 year old school teacher from England who I met during a poker tournament in San Pedro, Guatemala. He is young at heart and can party with the best of them and always seems to know whats going on.

The next day, the three of us took in some culture, Judith going to a local village nearby and Mike and I touring some churches and the local museum. Both were underwhelming to say the least but we felt good about ourselves, having exercised our intellectual side. Check that off for a few more months. Meeting up with Judith in the afternoon we made our way down to the lake and took a lancha for a tour of the Isletas. A group of over 360 miniature islands that pepper the lake just off the coast of Granada, the Isletas make up a charming labyrinth of mangroves. Each island, only about 100ft from shore, owned a house, restaurant, or bar with wide verandas overlooking the far eastern shoes of Lake Nicaragua. We found bird sanctuaries and curious spider monkeys that liked to jump from the trees onto your boat and look through your belongings, and finally we found a bar were we stopped for a few beers before heading back to Granada.

Back in town, we met up with Emily, a South Londoner and a friend of Judith´s. Together the four of us set out for a tour of the nightlife, which didn´t disappoint. After a controversial pool game, which the Brits claim to have one on the last shot (who the hell thinks you don´t have to call the 8 ball?) we went to a salsa bar, where, Emily being my experienced teacher, taught me the finer points of the Salsa and Meringue. I can´t say I was graceful, but it was a lot of fun, and I have to add that to the list of things I want to learn before returning to the states.

Again, my time here was cut short because I of my impending rendezvous with my friends in Costa Rica, and also because there was a lot more of Nicaragua that I wanted to see. Next up it was going to the volcanic island of Omotepe, located just off the southern shores of Lake Nicaragua.

Utila - Honduras

After the previous few days of relative stressfulness, I was searching for a safe haven from bad weather, hustlers, and angry landladies. I found reprieve from all three on the tiny Caribbean island of Utlia. One of three sandy outcrops just off the north coast of Honduras, the Bay Islands have a unique history. Columbus landed there on his fourth and final voyage in 1502 and subsequently wiped out the indigenous populations and the island remained uninhabited for many years. Not much changed until, in the mid 1700s, the British expelled a group of rebel slaves to the islands where they repopulated and established a society that is today known as the Garafuna. It was also a popular hideout of English and Dutch pirates who used it as a home base for robbing Spanish gallons returning home with there treasures.

With a rich and diversified history such as this, in is no wonder that these islands, while still technically Honduran, are in a world of there own. Utlia is considered the cheapest of the three, and is therefore a beacon for backpackers. Beside being a chilled out, English-speaking Caribbean play land for backpackers, Utlia also has the cheapest dive courses in the world; costing around $200 for a four-day Open Water Certification. Although never really one for Scuba before, I felt that this was an opportunity that I couldn't pass up and signed up at one of the islands more reputable shops known for helping nervous first-time divers. And, while this was their biggest selling pitch it would prove to be an moot point, as both my classmates, myself, and my teacher where going to make it a wild and bumpy ride.

Chiara, a 23 year old California girl had just finished her instructor certification and we where her first class-though we didn't learn that until much later in the course. She was friendly, enthusiastic and I felt relatively comfortable putting my life in her hands. Along with myself there were two others in the class: Doran, a 20 something Israeli who could not read or understand English very well -a definite problem when you have to get through a 175 page PADI book in the first two days of the course- and Bill, a 56 year old trucker from Nevada who was as blind as a bat and had trouble hearing. Needless to say that the first part of the course, consisting of reading, classroom videos, quizzes and confined water diving skills, was a bit of a process. Chiara, who you will remember had never taught a class before, had to find a way to teach Doran all the things he was not willing to read in the classroom, and a way to demonstrate underwater skills to Bill who couldn't see two feet in front of his face. As you might surmise, there was a lot of repetition in the early stages and it was taking us twice as long as in normally would. I for one was fine with this because I had been putting off diving for a week due to a head cold and wanted as many extra days as I could muster to try and unclog my ears before entering the open water.

The fateful day finally came where we went out for our first open water dive and lets just stay it was memorable. We all made it into the water just fine and Chiara, working to tread water with an extra weight belt of about 25 lbs was quick to explained our dive plan. We would descend to a small sandbar 30 ft below the surface and work on a few skills before having some free time to explore the surrounding reef. Sounded great in theory. But as we tried to descend both Bill and I could not attain negative buoyancy and floated on the surface. Chiara, obviously fighting to stay up with the extra weight struggled for five minutes trying again and again to properly weight us. All the while we were being carried further and further from the sand patch, and the boat, and he had to struggle to get back to our drop zone. She did her best and again started our slow decent. Then everything went to hell. My left ear would not equalize and before I hit 2 meters I was in a lot of pain. I signaled to Chiara that something was wrong but she didn't see me. She was too busy chasing after Doran, who, apparently not understanding the final exam he had somehow managed to pass, let all the air out of his BCD and was dropping like a stone to the bottom. She managed to catch up with him about 20ft down at which point I couldn't wait any longer and made my way to the surface. Bill, oblivious to the everything that was happening, was turned around in the opposite direction still trying to descend. When Chiara finally surfaced with Doran, who was bleeding from his nose, Bill was floating off in the strong top currant and couldn't hear her yelling for him to return to the group. She had to race over there and toe him back to us, all the while still toting the heavy weight belt in her hands. At this point she made the wise decision to cut the dive and we faught the currant back to the boat defeated.

Doran ran to a corner, now terrified of the thought of diving, and mad that Chiara had not warned him about what happens when you drop four atmospheres in 3 seconds. I couldn't hear anything out of my left ear and was jumping around trying to get the water out with a bottle of water and vinegar. Bill, tripping over fins and weight belts was following Chiara around trying to figure out what happened. Even though time would have permitted it, we decided not to try another dive. I could see the obvious frustration on Chiara's face, whom I felt bad for having had the luck to get the group from hell for her first class. She didn't let it show though, and only gave us positive encouragement. In the end that proved to be her, and our saving grace. She convinced us all to give it another go and two days later we made two successful dives. I got down to 57ft, Doran learned the you only get one pair of sinuses and is best not to crush them, and Bill got a pair of subscription goggles and was able to get down (where you can hear better because sound travels faster underwater). We even saw a huge pod of dolphins on our boat ride back and everything seemed perfect. Two days later, we finished our course and became Open Water divers! Chiara quit the next day.

Aside from many hours spent at the dive shop, Utlia has a great social scene. When you get a group of people from all over the world in one town for something as adventurous as diving, you get a great blend of people. I made some great friends, Russell, Orin, and Bruce, were a group of Brits who singled-handily changed my view on the British. There was always something to do, a trivia night, an all you can eat/drink BBQ at the dive shops, a black belt drinking challenge (where you have to drink six shots in a row; all the levels of the belts. Proud to say I am a black belt). Lots of people come here for their open water and stay for their advanced and dive master, tacking on a couple extra months to their stay because they love the place so much. Unfortunately for me, I didn´t have the time, or the money, for that and after a week, I moved on... to Nicaragua.

Omoa - Honduras

Happy to leave the Caribbean coast of Guatemala in my wake, I crossed the boarder into Honduras and traveled to the sleepy seaside hamlet of Omoa. Halfway between the boarder and the busseling transportation town of San Pedro Sula, Omoa offers travelers a cleaner, safer way point for a stopover. After consulting my guidebook there seemed to be only one real hostel in the area, Roli´s Place, and I took a tuk tuk there and checked in. I couldn´t understand why my guildbook had called this place, ´the best hostel in Honduras.´ It was just a group of houses clustered around a fenced courtyard. They had also said that the owner, Roli, was a treat to meet, but he had been shot a couple weeks before for his environmental efforts to shut down an oil refinery in the area. He was currently recuperating and his less then inviting wife had taken over the duties of the hostel. She showed me the doom rooms, which looked to be an exact replica of the previous nights accomodations in Rio, with a dark room with bare mattress's and no mosquito netting. My spirits fell as I conceded another sleepless night fighting off mossies when Allan walked in the door.

Allan, an Aussie I had befriended while studying in Antigua, was a funny easy going guy who was always up for a beer. Relieved, I threw my arms around him before he even had a chance to put his bag down. We checked into one of the hostel's much more accommodating doubles. They even had sheets and fans! We waisted no time in walking down the road to a beachfront bar and catching up over a few cold beers.

Returning to the hostel a few hours later I bumped into a Canadian couple I had met in Tikal and a party of sorts ensued. Along with a couple other people in the hostel, and a couple bottles of rum, we all gathered together around a picnic table in the courtyard talking over IPOD music and drinking Cube Libres . Somewhere along the way someone had the bright idea to roll up a joint. A note here, we had seen a lot of fliers and post its up around the hostel warning that drugs and loud noise was not acceptable. But, after hours of loud noise with no complaint we didn´t see anything going awry if we were to burn one down. We were wrong. The landlady came running out with a phone in her had yelling at us in inaudible Spanish. I didn´t get all of it, but I definitely heard ¨no,¨ ¨marijuana,¨ and ¨Policia.¨ We filled in the blanks and apologized saying we would put it out and go elsewhere. She gave us a scowl as we headed out the gate and down the road to the beach.

After a few minutes, Allan decided to go home, slightly high and slightly annoyed by Vince, the Canadian guy with us who decided to tell us how everything was better in Montreal. He took our key, which was needed to open the gate at the entrance to the hostel but Vince told me he had his and the two of us set off for a Discotec down the beach. After about an hour of watching locals shuffling their feet on the periphery of the dance floor to blaring reggaetone, we decided we had taken in enough culture and headed home. Arriving at the gate I waited for Vince to retrieve his key.
¨So, are you going to open up the gate or what, eh,¨ he asked after a beat.
¨Vince man, I thought you said you had your key,¨I replied with unsuppressed annoyance.
¨No man, I said don´t worry, you have your key.¨
¨How would you know if I had my key or--¨
I cut myself off there. I was not going to get drawn into a he said, she said debate with a man who thought that Montreal had the best Cerviche in the world. I looked at my options and came to a logical conclusion. Instead of ringing the bell and waking up the already disagreeable landlady, I would hop the fence and return with the key. I did just that, but, as I came back with the key the landlady was standing there with the phone in her hand yelling at me again for letting in non-guests. Whereas before she was completely warranted in her tirade, this time around I knew she was mistaken and tried to explain it to her in a calm and respectful way. She was having none of it however, and after a few minutes I gave up, ¨Fine, call the damn police,¨ I said and went to the front and let Vince in. I returned to my room to prepare my statement, but, as I suspected the police never came. The rest of the night passed without incident.

In the morning, over breakfast, I recounted the previous nights dramatic conclusion to Allan who thought it was a riot. He didn´t however, find it so funny upon our return to the hostel finding our belongings thrown out into the hallway and our room already cleaned for the next guests. The landlady was standing there, arms crossed, waiting for us to say something, anything. We knew better and quietly packed up our stuff in the hallway and left without a word. I didn´t mind the whole thing, but I felt bad for Allan, who in all truth got kicked out because he was with me. He had planned on staying in Omoa for a few days and now, being barred from the only hostel in town, had to move on. He wasn´t sore about it though and even gave a light-hearted laugh as we parted ways and he walked off down the road. My advice this time around is don´t stay in a hostel where the regular owner has been shot and his irate wife is filling in and don´t rely on a Canadian who thinks Montreal is the cultural, culinary, and ecological capital of the world.

Livingston and Rio Dulce - Guatemala

GENTEL JACKINGS AND SOGGY BEDS

Slowly making my way down the Caribbean coast toward Honduras, I opted for one last foray into Guatemala and stopped over in the Garafuna port town of Livingston. Now, I had heard mixed reports on the place, some people loved there time there, some people hated it. I would definitely agree with the later take on it; I hated it.

From in instant I stepped off the boat from Belize I did not feel comfortable in this crowded dingy little town. In the 30 meters it took me to walk to the immigration office from the dock, I was offered to buy weed four times. Each time the offer was more aggressive than the last, as the pushers would try and cut you off as you walked. Then, while waiting to get my passport stamped a young Garafuna man started chatting with me.
"Where ya from maan... oh, California... West side... I gotta family in LA..."
His name was Tom, he was about my age and had an inviting smile, which made me wary.
"So, do you smoke weed?"
"I'm from Berkeley, of course I do," I responded without thinking.
"Good! As soon as you done I take you to buy som."
"Oh, that's OK Tom," I answered with detectable hesitancy, "I need to get a hotel room and everything."
"I take ya to a good place mann, reeal cheap," Tom insisted.

At this point I knew there was no getting rid of him and at least I would not get hassled by anyone else if I was walking to my hotel with him. He waited until I had passed through customs and we walekd out together, the immigration official giving me a knowing look, as if to say 'kiss your white ass goodbye.'

True to his word Tom took me to a cheap hostel just down the road and blocked the exit while I checked in and stood in the doorway while I put my stuff in my room.
"First, you go get papers, then I take you to get weed, den we smoke it down at da beach an drink beer."
I noticed that he had strategically placed 'you' before the word buy and 'we' after it and I was beginning to see what was in store for me, and my wallet, in the near future.

We walked back through town and stopped in at a tienda to pick up the necessary supplies. Then we cut down through the residential side of town toward the beach, all the while people giving me knowing looks. We came to a vacant lot, which had walls to all sides and only a narrow whole in a fence to get out. I looked eerie like the set in a Scorsese film that someone would be taken to get executed. I put my hand on my pocket knife and waited for the ambush.
"Give me da money an wait here," he asked, though not really asking.
I did as told and happy figured I would wait for him to leave, cut my losses and get the hell out of there. But, before I could make a break for it he came back around the corner again.
"He don have non here, we go to somwhere else I know." We walked on.

Up until this point, Tom had been very talkative, asking me questions about where I was from and telling me about his life and those of the Garafuna people. It was almost like a guided tour, which I was happy to have since we were descending deeper and deeper into the barrios of Livingston, not a place to walk by yourself. But slowly, knowing that the further and further we walked the less and less he would have to work to keep me with him, the conversations and questions ceased and an uncomfortable silence seeped in.

We cut through another residential section and descended down a dirt path to the beach on the far side of town. He made me wait outside again while he went off to make the score and I passed the time trying to look casual and board instead of nervous and highly alert as packs of local youths passed by me on the beach. Returning about 15 minutes later, Tom produced a few sacks of dirt and took me to a bar down the beach were he ordered a couple beers and rolled up a joint with the papers that I had bought but he had kept. We sat there in silence while he smoked my weed, occasionally offering me a hit and calling over his friends, who appeared to be anyone passing by, for a toke. He ordered more beer and rolled another one and sparked it up. After a polite length of time after the second round I excused myself saying that I was tired and wanted to take a nap before dinner.
"First yous pay for da beer," Tom insisted. I had anticipated this and was ready with my nullifying reply.
"Of course I'm going to pay for the beers Tom, you have been great. You showed me the city, told me about your people, found me a great place to stay and helped me enjoy my afternoon." He seemed stunned by this response. Going with it I put my hand on his shoulder and added, "and when I see you tonight, I'd love to buy you a couple more."
"yeahhh," he said with a convinced nod. "Das right." And with that I made a hasty exit.

Walking down the beach, more groggy then high, I was convinced that Tom's finally words of 'go down the beach and turn right to get back to your room' where in essence throwing me to the wolves. Even the Lonely Planet, which tends to gloss over many of the dangers that places can present can be quoted as saying, "don't walk alone on the beaches in Livingston, they are not safe." I made my way along the beach, flashing my hip knife to all the packs of locals who stopped talking to watch me as I passed by. I actually managed to find the road up to my hotel and, relieved, started up it back toward the center of town. I was about half way up when another guy came up to me and asked me if I wanted to buy weed. I told him that I didn't smoke the stuff and started to walk on.
"Well den," he said stepping in front of me, "give me a dolla for a beer."
Where Tom had only been using me for a free high, a gentle jacking if you will, this character was flat out trying to take my money. I told him that I didn't have any change, he said he would take me to the bank. I told him that I had Belizean dollars and no Guatemalan money and he said he would take me to a place to change cash. Finally I said, that I though I might have some left over money from the boat and reached into my pocket to fish out a couple loose bills.
"A ten will do," he said snatching a bill from my hand, "and remember, if you wan som weed, jus com see lil' Cesar!" Yeah, buddy, you just made a hell of a sales pitch, since you were so warm and friendly I'm defiantly going to try and find you again.

I ran in terror back to my room and shut the door, venturing out only once more a few hours later to make a made dash across the street to a small comedor. I hid behind a wall as I ate a quick dinner and then I streaked back to my room and did not come back out until the next day. That was at 630 pm.

I awoke in the morning to a pouring rain, but I drudged down the street to the dock and got soaked to the bone taking an hour and half long boat ride in an open aired water taxi up the river just to get the hell out of Livingston. I stopped in at a backpacker hostel in the small town of Rio Dulce. Partly due to the horrific day I had had before, and partly due to the fact that the hostel was a shithole, I did not enjoy myself there either. After an atrocious dinner at the hostel restaurant -which ended up giving a guy food poisoning in the bunk next to me- I spent an awful night in a damp
dorm room with twenty other beds and no mosquito netting, having to pay extra in order to attain a sheet to put over the bare soggy mattress. In the morning I made the easy decision to move on to Honduras, finally willing to say goodbye to Guatemala. While my experiences there where not common and many people have had great times in these places and seem truly shocked by the stories I've just told, there are still my experiences. And, if I can pass any advice on to you it would be to not travel in said towns alone and if you must, lie til you are blue in the face and never stop to walking. Otherwise, you can kiss your white ass goodbye.

Caribbean Coast - Belize

Parting ways with my Tikal companions, I left Guatemala and crossed over into Belize. I was going to a place I have long since wanted to go but had never been before: the Caribbean. It´s something you always hear about when talking to people whom have traveled. ¨I spent a week in the Caymans,¨ ¨my family went on a two week sailing trip off the coast of Venezuela,¨ ¨I caught a huge Marlin on a charter boat in St. Thomas.¨ Always amazing stories of pristine beaches and tranquil seas, a wide verity of rum drinks and thatched hut cabana bars. I felt it was my duty as a world traveler to investigate the legitimacy of these claims.

I made my way to Caye Caulker, a small island 30km from Belize City. It is considered the smaller, backpackers version of Ambergris Caye, a large upscale island just to the north. With only one principle town, consisting of three sandy roads backing a cluster of beachfront hostels, bars, and restaurants, Caye Caulker epitomizes the nation´s motto: ¨Go Slow.¨

Inhabited by a mix of Latin and Garafuna Belizens, the island has blended these two distinct cultures into one chilled out ideology that can be summed up in one word, ¨Mañana¨ (tomorrow). Beside offering a relaxing atmosphere, Caulker also boasts some of the best snorkeling and diving in Belize. Just an hour´s boat ride to the east lies the famous Blue Hole, one of the worlds top diving destinations. Not being a diver myself, I opted for snorkel cruse around the outlying reefs which, to me, seemed equally amazing. In one particular reef, you could jump into the water and find yourself swimming with Stingrays and Nurse sharks. Treading water they would swim up, around and beside you. Truly amazing. That stretch of reef is appropriately called ¨Shark Ray Ally.¨

Needless to say, with an endless supply of beach bars and and steady stream of backpackers, Caye Caulker has a healthy nightlife to pass away the evening hours. My memories of those nights are a little fuzzy (rum, lots of rum), but they consisted mainly of drinking in waterfront hammocks and late night swimming off the docks. I could have stayed there for a month, but I only allowed myself two days, because while it is still cheap by American standards, it can be astronomically expensive compared to the rest of Central America.

So I ventured further south, to another beach town called Placenzia. While not a prime destination like the Caye's, Placenzia does own a nice strech of beach with great reef diving just off shore. This has lead it to be affectionately titled ¨Placenzia, the Caye you can drive to.¨And while it certainly is beautiful, and a fair bit cheaper than Caye Caulker, it didn´t have too much to offer save a canal where you can spot manatees playing in the surf and the Guinness Book´s longest sidewalk in the world. The locals where well enough not to try and market the later attraction. Yet, while simple, Placenzia still had it´s charms and made leaving after a couple of days difficult. But I was burning a whole in my wallet and needed to move on. Plus, I had just made plans to meet up with some friends in Costa Rica after the new year, and that only gave me a month and a half to see both Honduras and Nicaragua, so I wanted to get a move on. But before I could do that, I had to go back into Guatemala, to visit port towns of Livingston and Rio Dulce; Guatemala´s only claim to the Caribbean.

Tikal - Guatemala

In the densely forested Northeastern department of El Peten, Tikal, one of the biggest collection of ruins of the ancient Mayan civilization lays its claim. Once the capital of the entire Mayan empire -and where George Lucas set his rebel moon base scenes in Star Wars- this vast expanse of temples, game courts and limestone housing complexes is so big that you can´t see it all in one day. But, for all the fuss, this destination doesn´t really live up to the hype. With it´s perfectly manicured lawns, sign posts every couple hundred yards and bus loads of tourists it´s hard to feel like your are exploring ancient ruins and not an amusement park. Getting there was actually more exciting than seeing the park itself.

I left Coban with my new friends, two brothers from California, and a girl from Southern Germany. I was glad to have the company because, in opting for the local buses instead of the direct line, we had to make a lot of transfers on the sides of highways and in... less than ideal, bus terminals. In fact, upon arriving at the last bus station before Tikal, we were bum rushed by a group of taxi drivers wanting to take us to the park entrance. We started talking to one guy, but our previous driver told us he wasn´t very safe and recommended another guy instead. We took his recommdation and, in doing so, enraged the first guy. He started yelling at the second guy. They argued for a minute or so and then the first guy punched our driver in the chest. That did it. Our driver ran to his truck and returned with a machete waving it at the first guy and chased him out of the bus station. He returned and told us to get in to his truck. Not wanting to anger him any further, particularly since he was still holding the machete, we quickly stored our bags and took our seats and drove out of the station.

After a few minutes the diver calmed down and apologized for the whole thing becoming much more friendly. He even joked with us and stopped along the road so we could take pictures of a gorgeous sunset over Lake Izabal. As dusk descended on us, we entered the dense rain forest surrounding Tikal park. We could see many animals foraging alongthe roadside as we entered the park and stopped often to watch them. At open point we came to a halt as a large flock of wide turkeys pecked at some seeds on the opposite lanes shoulder. We snapped some photos as the driver described them to us. We were so mesmerized by the multi-colored plumage of these big birds that we didn´t see the car ripping down the road in the opposite direction. The diver did, and flashed his lights and honked his horn trying to caution the other driver, but he didn´t notice, or didnt´care, and actually started picking up speed. Then with our cameras in hand, the car raced past us and through the flock of turkeys and with a huge cracking sound, caught two birds in its fender and left a puff of feathers in its wake. Stunned, we sat there in our seats as the feathers settled to the ground and the lifeless bodies rolled to a stop 50 meters down the road. the other turkeys also sat there in stunned silence as the car drove on into the night, not breaking once. The driver, also stupefied, decided to drive on and dropped us off at our hotel. The poor guy had a hell of a day and I felt bad for him. I actually thought about walking back to see if I could help the birds, or, if not, cook one up. It was Thanksgiving after all. I guess turkeys arn´t safe anywhere on November 24th.

We spent the next few days exploring the ruins. Arriving early in the morning to watch the sunrise over the temples and listen to the Howler monkeys and macaws as they arose with the dawning sun. We hiked up and down countless limestone staircases, some almost vertical, to get panoramic views of the ruins and surrounding jungle. We returned in the evening for sunset, but the low lying fog prevented us from getting good views. At least the weather was cooler than normal, which usually is baking in the day, and makes for mosquito swarms in the evenings, all of which we managed to avert. All in all it was a little to clean cut for what I would expect from a ruin site, but still it was worth the visit. But, I will always remember the bus terminal machetes and Thanksgiving turkeys before the temples and ball courts.

Samuc Chamey - Guatemala

The 8th Wonder of the Central American World

Half way between Guatemala’s capital and its boarder with Belize lies the small mountain town of Coban and the national park, Samuc Champey. Located in the mountainous Alta Verapaz province, Samuc Champey was a holy site for the ancient Kekchi Mayans and means, ‘Sacred Water.’ Praised for its picturesque beauty, the park’s main attraction is a natural limestone bridge of lagoons that sits atop an aqua green mountain river as it tumbles down a sub-tropical valley. It has for a long time been one of the Guatemala’s hidden gems, but has recently become a popular tourist destination and a must-see for many who travel into the countries heartland.

I made my way from Guatemala City to Coban, four heart-wrenching hours in the back of minibus along a narrow, winding road that traverses the mountainous interior. For added kicks, our driver, either an escaped mental patient or looking to be committed, decided to play chicken with oncoming traffic by overtaking slower cars through blind corners and small straight-aways. This was usually about the same time a huge logging truck would be coming in the other direction and he'd have to quickly slam on the breaks and verve back into our lane just as the 18-wheeler whizzed past. To top it all off it was pouring rain, adding more hazards and increasing the likelihood of an accident and my impeding heart attack.


By some miracle we survived the trip and made it to Coban by early afternoon. I checked into a local hotel that doubled as a tourist agency and booked a tour for the following day and spent the remainder of the afternoon exploring the city.

A chilly sub-alpine hamlet tucked back in the folds of this jagged countryside, Coban is a transportation hub for the local coffee farmers in surrounding hills. This all sounds quiet nice when you’re reading it in a guidebook, but now, walking its drizzly, colorless side streets, I found it lacking in charm and cultural vibrancy, both of which you come to expect from small mountain towns in Central America. It was as bleak and sullen a migrant town during the Great Depression and after an hour of fruitless wondering I gave up and returned to my hotel. I took an early dinner, after which I decided to call it a night, knowing full well that I wasn't going to be missing anything in the way of excitement out on the town.

Arising at 5am, I was greeted with a warm complimentary breakfast after which I, along with a handful of other tourists, boarded a small tour bus with our guides and made the 2-hour drive to the entrance to the park. Again, we traveled along a rough, curving road but time however, the driver had taken his prescription medication and the ride was much more pleasant. We slowly descended from crisp-aired pine forests and dry mountain plains to humid palm-covered lowlands and moist river valleys, stopping along the way to view the beautiful countryside from amazing vistas. Desolate olive green hills, sprinkled with coffee and cardamom farms, rolled back toward the horizon like ripples in a pond, and you truly got a sense of just how vast the Guatemalan interior actually is.

Just before we reached the park entrance, we pass the Cahabon River, both swift and powerful, it is a hypnotizing shade of emerald green and it cuts a narrow, winding track down the heavily forested valley. Just past the river lies the small riverside town of Lanquin, a quiet community with some lovely riverfront accommodations making it a nice alternative to staying in Coban.

On the other side of the river we arrived at the park, paid our entrance fees ($3) and entered into a thick tropical oasis of ferns, palms, and flowering Cecropia trees. Following our guides, we climbed the steep hillsides of the valley on a series of dirt paths and wooden catwalks and found ourselves at a viewing platform 1,200ft above the river. With this aerial view, we could see a series of seven shallow lagoons set atop a limestone shelf forming an arching bridge across the Cahabon as it disappeared into an unseen underground spillway beneath it. The cascading pools, a brilliant shade of jade green, straddled the river for about half a mile before culminating at the mouth of a large waterfall, below which the Cahabon resurfaced from its submerged passage and continued its southern run down the valley. It was brilliant, so impressive that it was hard to believe that it was a natural wonder and not man made.

We made our way back down to the water’s edge and ate lunch along its shaded shores. Afterward we put on our swim trunks and walked over to the top of the limestone shelf where we could peered down beneath it to where the white water of the river plunged into the blackness of the underground passageway. The Discovery Channel tried to float a camera through this submerged section of the river to see if it might be passable. After four broken cameras and no evidence that it was possible they gave up. We decided not to try our luck either and instead opted for the much more tranquil lagoons.

Armed with our sandals and a sense of adventure, we jumped into the first pool, where the water, as shallow as a swimming pool, was warmed by the midday sun and it felt more like swimming in a tropical sea than an alpine river.

We spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the lagoons. Each pool, slightly lower than the previous one, was connected by a series of small cascading waterfalls and marshland. We used these waterfalls as a path to get from pool to pool, traversing down the coarse limestone cascades and jumping off the edge into the next hole. Reaching the second lagoon in this fashion we were able to climb up the side of the rocky valley walls from the riverbank and dive into the deeper pools. On and on we went, sliding down waterfalls and diving from one lagoon to the next in the breezy afternoon sun.

At the end of the seventh pool, where the shelf abruptly gives way to a huge, free-flowing waterfall, our guide was waiting for us with a small rope ladder. Then, two at a time, we descended down the face of the waterfall with the torrent beating down on our backs and came to a limestone plateau twenty feet below. From there, we ducked back behind the cascade and, crawling through a small crack in the rocks, emerged into an underground cavern and the submerged Cohaban River. It was incredible, the cave funneling back into dark recesses of the underground passage with stalactites dropping down from the ceiling and stalagmites protruding up along the riverbank. The sun petered through the cracks in the rocks, reflecting slow hypnotic waves of light off the water and along the cave walls. Aided by this dim light, we were able to feel are way along the edge of the riverbank, careful not to loose our footing and be lost in the torrent, and descend deeper into the cave to which point we were standing in utter darkness and the raging water, reverberating in the ground and echoing off the cavern walls, was so loud, that even your thoughts seemed to drown out its shear power. It was an amazing experience. This part of the tour should be done with a guide and is available only in the dry season when the water is low enough to enter the cave.

In the waning hours of the afternoon, we returned to the bus and drove back up the river valley, stopping at some more limestone caves just outside Lanquin. While not nearly as impressive as the previous limestone cavern, it was nice enough and you could tell someone put some work into it.

Well maintained, with celestial lighting guiding you along, you enter the cave and traverse through the darkness along a slippery metal walkways and cut tracks in the rock. As you descend deeper into the cavern, you are meet by signs along the path inviting you to stare at rock formations that someone (someone with too much time on their hands) has decided resembles something. You stare blankly at a spotlight beamed down on a solitary rock, supposedly meant to resemble something important. I couldn’t make it out to be anything other than a funny looking rock with an accent light, but the signs indicated that they were special: ´The Virgin Mary´, 'An African Elephant,' ´An American Eagle´, ´Elvis.´ Well, maybe not Elvis, but they could have said that and I wouldn’t have know the difference.

As you walk further down through the cave, the air becomes cool and damp and you begin to see bats. Increasing in number the further you descend, at first its just a cluster of them on a cave wall, then more clusters, some squeaking as they flutter past, and before you know it, they are buzzing your head from all sides, flapping within inches of your face before veering off into the darkness. Just when you think you’ve found the back door to Transylvania and lord Dracula himself is going to appear before you, the cave abruptly ends and, with a sigh of relief, you’re able to turn around and scurry back toward the entrance without looking like a scaredy cat to the other, equally terrified, members of your group.

We piled back into the bus, exhausted, but alighted, and headed back to Coban. There, we were greeted by a hot shower and a hearty meal. At dinner, we recounted the day’s events with laughter and remembrance and another group of travelers, overhearing us, asked how it was and if they’d enjoy it. With a smile, I said, ¨it’s worth the trip to Guatemala in itself, and I’m sure you’ll love it... you aren't afraid of bats are you? ¨

Largo Atitlan - Guatemala

After a little R & R on the quite beaches of El Salvador I was ready to start traveling again, and I knew exactly where I wanted to start; Largo Atitlan. Another "tourist hot spot" in Guatemala´s northern highlands, it´s famed for it´s picturesque beauty and quaint little pueblos that dot the lake side. I was really looking forward to this adventure and, being one of the cheapest places in Central America, so was my much depleted bank account. I took a mid morning shuttle bus from Antigua and was standing on Atitlan´s shores before lunch.

It has been said by some that Largo de Atitlan is the most stunningly beautiful lake in the entire world. Now, I haven´t seen every lake in the world, but I have seen a few, and this one is up there for sure. Almost perfectly round in its circumference, this vast, 128sq km, expanse of water actually fills a caldera of a long extinct volcano. Its volcanic origins make Atitlan the deepest lake in Central America (its deepest points have never been measured) and gives its waters an entrancing dark blue surface covering a seemingly black undercurrant a few feet below. A haunting void that literary pull you, both visually and physically, into its depths. This has lead many people, including the ancient Mayan civilizations that first settled on these shores, to attributed mystical and spirituals powers to these mysterious waters.

The land surrounding the lake, a dark shade of lush green undergrowth, rises steeply to the towering summits of the three volcanoes that guard Atitlan´s shores. A sparse collection of Mayan villages preside along the lakeside, which in 1955, became a national park to protect this sacred, and economically viable, area. Since then, locals have built it up as a tourist destination and most towns have a host of restaurants, hotles, and bars that cater to travelers. Despite this influx, many Mayans, mostly Tz'utujil and Kaqchikel, still live and work here.

I arrived in Panachel, a noisy tourist hub where buses drop of the hoards of day trippers to snap photos and buy "authentic" Mayan trinkets at many of the street market stalls. Not ready to fill my backpack up with nick nacks quite yet I made my way to the dock and waited to take a boat to San Pedro, a much more relaxed town across the lake. On the boat over I met an Aussie named, Daz. This was his fourth trip to the lake and he was not sure if he was going to leave.
"Your not sure that you are going to leave?" I asked not bothering to hind the surprise in my voice. He didn´t even look back at me, his eye transfixed on the open water.
"You´ll understand when you get there mate."

Old Daz was right. San Pedro is a little bit of everything. It as its famous hippie scene. Reminiscent, intentionally so I think, of Berkeley´s Telegraph Ave, in the 60s; spacey people walking around doning hemp only clothes and beads rolled into their long matted hair. It has its young party scene; with clubs playing a blend of European techno and salsa biased R & B, partiers are supplemented with a seemly endless supply of coke, acid, speed (which some dealers will also call coke), and Ecstasy as they party early into the morning. And then it has something for everyone in between.

A lot of the people I met where travelers, like myself, who had come up for a weekend and just stayed. There was Juan, a Frenchmen who arrived for a week long trip around the lake. He´s been here for three years now, owns a message school and spends most of the time playing with his two year old. There was Jill, an American who came to climb the volcano. She now owns a local bar and plans to open a hotel soon. And so the stories went. "I came up for the weekend... and I just stayed." It was amazing, and a little scary. What was possessing these people, most of whom had other plans, tickets home, ect. to stay. Perhaps there was something in the mysterious water after all...

After a week of exploration; a cross dressing Guatemalan BBQ in the small hamlet of Santa Cruz; a kayaking and cliff jumping expedition in the spiritualist town of San Marcos; clubing back in San Pedro, I was ready to head home. But, I ended up staying longer than I had expected as well.

I was going to go home on Sunday, but after a long night of parting on Saturday I couldn´t be bothered with a bumpy boat ride and a winding bus trip back to Antigua. What the hell, my room was only Q15 ($2) a night anyway, I would stay another night and go back on Monday. Then on Monday, a friend told me there was a poker game at one of the bars. It had been months since I played in my usual weekly game back home, I couldn´t pass that up. I would go back on Tuesday. I was ready to go on Tuesday and even bought a bus ticket. I went down to the docks ready to say goodbye to Lake Atitlan... but the boatmen was not. I sat there on the docks for hours waiting for a boat back to Panachel, but there was not enough people to make it work it for him to fire up the moder and waste his precious gasoline boating me back for a $1. I could see what was happening here. It was the Lake, it was pulling me in, into its dark depths with its booze, cheap deals, and Texas hold ´em tournaments. Suddenly, in a flash, I had vision of the future; I was walking down the street barefoot and wearing white Capri pants made out of hemp, with long matted hair covering my face and dancing to music with earphones that weren´t even plugged in to anything. Uh, I grew up in Berkeley and I´ve seen enough of that to know that I dont want to be that guy. I made pact with myself. I was leaving the next day, even if I had to walk back to Antigua.

Luckily for me I didn´t have to. The next day the boatman was feeling generous and fired up his engine. As we pulled away from the dock I held my breath, waiting. Waiting for something to happen; for him to turn back around deciding it wasn´t worth it after all, the engine to die, a huge earthquake to open up a crack in the caldera below and sallow us in a worlpool. Anything that the lake might do to keep me there. But it didn´t, and I was allowed to leave. But, just before I boarded the bus back to Antigua, I took a look back at the inviting waters, the warm hills, and the magic that is Lake Atitlan and I could here it whisper something to me. "You´ll be back." I supressed a smile as I shook my head and boarded the bus. I knew, sooner or later, it would be right.

Playa Tunco - El Salvador

After a few weeks of relative stagnancy in Antigua, I was ready to get out and hit the ol´trail. David Beclis, a fellow traveler I had befriended on my trip to Volcan Pacaya, said he was heading south to El Salvador´s Pacific beaches for a few days to learn how to surf. David was a 24 year old law student from Birmingham who, deciding not to pursue a career in law, was now traveling through Latin America for six months before moving to New Zealand to look for work. He was reserved and polite, as Englishman are though to be, but he also liked to let loose and party at the same time. I liked him from the start and decided to join him on his trip.

We set out early in the morning, taking a shuttle into Guatemala city where we transferred to a lager Pullman. About a half hour out of the city the bus broke down along the side of the highway. Luckily for us, it broke down right next to a pineapple stand so we were able to eat piña fruit sticks while we watched the driver turned mechanic pull out every wire and tube in the engine trying to find the problem. After two hours of fruit sticks it looked like our adventurous ¨mechanics¨ (over the course of the two hours five or six other men had appeared out of the hills or in pick up trucks and were now also pulling out engine parts) where going to be stumped until one man, converged in engine grease and motor oil, emerged from somewhere inside the engine compartment holding up a slit tube. We waited another 45 minutes for a new tube from Guatemala city and then we were on the road again.

Crossing the board into El Salvador is a lenghty and tedious process. We were made to deboard the bus, present our passports to an exit official, then get back on the bus, present them to another agent on board and then get off again to open up our luggage for an inspector. This was typical for El Salvador which is said to have the most uncorrupted, scrupulous law-enforcement in Central America.

We made it to San Salvador by nightfall and after checking in to a hostel in the Bohemian university area of town, set out for dinner and nightlife entertainment. I was excited. I was hungry and had read about a delicious El Salvadorian dish called Papusas, which is stuffed tortillas filled with cheese, spices and vegetables or meat. I couldn´t wait to try it. We set out, wandering the side-streets, which, thankfully, were frequently patrolled by foot police, until we found the ¨main¨street with all the bars and restaurants. We took a table at El Tres Diablos, supposedly the best bar in town, but which failed to have any type of nightlife or any papusas on the menu. I settle for a steak sandwich and we called it an early night, content on saving our energy for the weekend crowds at the beach.

The next day we took locals buses to La Liberdad, a shabby little port city that is a hub to get to all the other beaches. After reading up on all the beaches in our lonely planet we deiced on Playa Zonte, a black sand cove with a decent off shore break and a good selection of accommodations. It was after we arrived in Playa Zonte that we learned that our two year old lonely planet was severely out of date. If Zonte was ever a happening beach town, it had long since died and someone had done everything in there power to cover up its tracks. There were a few accommodations hugging the rocky beach, which was bisected by a river, and no kind of surf shops or tourist centre. We took a moldy double room at Casa de Frita, and waited for the crowds to arrive for the weekend festivities. There were no crowds and no festivities. We waited around until 8pm and decided to try one of the other hostels on the other side of the river, but the hostel clerk said that the river was high and dangerous to cross and that the main highway- the only other way to get to the other side of the beach- was not safe to walk at night. Defeated we sunk back into our chairs and played chess. But, after a few minutes we both looked at each other.
¨The hell with it man, lets have a go at those other spots cross river,¨ David said.
¨Hell yes,¨ I replied and we set off down the beach with our flashlights.
The river looked more like a stream and looked passable aided by the illumination from the full moon. We walked the banks looking for the best place to cross and realized that there was no way to know how deep it was until we actually got in. We waded out a couple of feet before the currant, going both directions because of the incoming tide, almost made me loose my balance on the slippery rocks converging the bottom. I stayed myself, walked on a staggered line down stream, holding my camera above my head in case an ill-placed step sent me into the torrent. Every step was a painful laborous effort because you would kick up loose rocks trying to find your footing which then, caught in the currant, came smashing back into your ankles. It took us about 20 minutes, but we finally emerged, water logged and bleeding, on the other side of the river. We limped up to nearest hostel only to find a few groups of surfers and locals chilling in hammocks and talking quietly. We pulled up some chairs and ordered a couple Gallo beers and waited to see what developed. After about an hour it was clear that this was as wide as the party was going to get, but we stayed and order another beer each building up our liquid currange before hobleling back to the river to go home.

The next day we went out on a scouting mission and found a better beach with more restaurants, more bars, better waves, and more people, and amazing sunsets over a rocky outcrop just off shore. Playa Tunco was just a 10 minute drive down the road and we moved here in the afternoon taking a room overlooking the beach. About 20 Peace Corers were in town on leave which seemed to double the tourist population and the nights turned out to be pretty lively and fun. Everyone else in town, local or tourist, seemed to be a surfer and it gave the town a laid back ¨manaña¨attitude. The main activities seemed to be surfing, eating, and siestas in hammocks. David and I did our best to fit in. We spent the next three days here, chilling out in hammocks by the beach. One day we were meant to take a suffering lesson, but David got food poisoning the day before and we called it off. After the weekend crowds departed the town transformed back into a sleepy little surfing village and we decide it was time to move on, back to San Salvador. I was looking forward to this because, despite having great food, non of the restaurants on the beach seemed to offer papusas.

Back in San Salvador, we decided to check out of the the many malls that the capital has to offer. Despite is small size and recent civil war history, El Salvador has Central America´s strongest economy and best minimum wage (though that statistic is misleading as roughly have the countries population doesn´t have a ¨qualifying¨ job). But you couldn´t help but notice the affluencey. BMWs and Lexus cars in the street. Armani and Prada stores in the malls. Everyone one wore western clothes and looked very European, a consequence of years of genocidal inhalation of indigenous populations. It was a stark contrast to Guatemala´s highlands which are inhabited by many different Mayan tribes.

That evening I set out determined to find a papusaria. I dragged David around town for the better part of an hour, walking up and down side streets and asking everyone where I could find one. Finally, after running out of streets to search, I gave up, deflated and sulking. In the morning I said goodbye to my traveling companion and took the 5am bus back to Guatemala still sour that I had spent almost an week in El Salvador and didn´t get to try there famous papusas. This time the bus didn´t break down, but it still took almost an hour to get through the custom at the boarder. Sitting there on the bus waiting to be let across some venders came aboard selling different items. Newspapers, candies, and... PAPUSAS! I almost jumped out of my seat and quickly ordered three different flavors, my mouth watering in anticipation. They were a little on the bland side.

Antigua - Guatemala

I disembarked from the bus in a dark rainy haze. It was almost 10pm and I had no idea where I was. I rubbed my bloodshot eyes as I flipped through the soggy pages of my lonely planet guide trying to orient myself on the seemingly endless parade of cobblestone streets and Spanish colonial houses. I had just arrived in Antigua, where I would be spending the next couple weeks studying Spanish and acclimating to Latin America. I found a place to stay in a small posada on a side street and got some much needed sleep after my long journey from the states.

In the morning I took a stroll to get my bearings and figure out why all the guidebooks had listed this place as a "must see" when in Guatemala. It didn't take long to figure it out. Enclaved by three huge volcanoes on all sides, Antigua is in a world unto itself. It boasts a populous of over 42,000- and that's not including the smaller pueblos that are scattered in the surround mountains- but has a small town feel where the only horns you hear are people honking to say hello to their friends. An hour's drive from Guatemala City, it is an inviting reprieve from the fume-choked air and unenviting side streets of the capital. Antigua itself was once the capital of the entire Central American Colonial Empire and the capital of Guatemala, but after several devastating earthquakes it was abandoned for today's present sight in the valley below. Suddenly a sleepy little mountain town, it transformed into a bohemian center for local art and clothing.

Having all these attributes, Antigua quickly became an international destination when tourism to Guatemala picked up in the 40s and 50s. Through the 30 + years of increasing tourism, Antigua has lost almost all of its originality save the streets and architecture, but it's still a wonderful place to visit.

Everything seems to stem out from the central park, the town's center. From there you can find street after street with travel agencies, internet cafes, budget hotels, and a surprising array of international cuisine. With all the enmities that a traveler could want it's not hard to see why many who travel through here end up staying longer than they planned. This also may explain why it has a seemingly endless supply of language schools.

After a typical Latin breakfast I set out to find a language school, intent on brushing up on my rusty high school Spanish. With almost 200 to choose from I had no idea where to start. I didn't have a specific idea of what I wanted but I wanted to avoid a large school, typically owned by American and Canadian companies, which seemed to lack the personal touch you get with local run businesses. I also wanted to do a home stay with a local family where I would be the only student, thinking this would be a good way to make me speak Spanish. Both turned out to be a bad idea.

I chose a small establishment "Antigua Language School" and a host family though them. Now everyone told me that it doesn't matter what school you go to but what teacher you get. That was not true for me. My teacher was fine, but the owner, Marcos, reminded me of a used car salesman at the end of the month desperately trying to make his quota. He'd tell you anything to keep you in the room. "I know the perfect teacher for you" he told me when I signed up. He changed my teacher twice. "Come by in the afternoons, we have plenty of activities." I came by often but he was never there. "I have the perfect family for you, great room, great food." He changed my family the morning I was to move in. The family itself was ok, a small private room and three meals a day with the family. The mother, Maria Elana, was nice enough and talked to me when she had time to sit down but the two teenage kids who lived there ignored my presence and I spent most meals in silence. I couldn't blame them though. How would you feel if you had a new person in your house ever couple weeks who didn't speak your language? It would get old.

After a week there, I decided to switch. I went with one of the larger schools, Ixchel, and switched families, this time one with other students as well. It was much better. The host mother, Angelica, was a gem. She made great meals and ate and talked with us. The other students, a French women, a Jamaican, and a fellow American where all really nice and eager to speak Spanish. We all got on well and our meals typically lasted an hour and a half to two hours as we chatted away in Spanish about everything and nothing. I spent another week and half there, staying on at the house for an extra couple days after school was done because it was so pleasant.

Having spent a little over three weeks in Antigua, I feel as if I have come to know the abandoned mountain village turned tourist Mecca pretty well. I've done a lot in that time. I hiked a volcano and learned to dance salsa. I joined a gym. I spent a weekend in a nearby beach town eating cerviche and drinking cervezas. I visited pueblos for ritual Mayan/Christian ceremonies for the cigarette and rum god. I went to a kite flying festival in a graveyard for Dia de los Muertos. I made good friends with locals and internationals, and some enemies, with a guy who grabbed my crotch and said "Te querro," I want you (gay men seem to have an affinity toward me in Latin America). I have history here. It was like when I lived in Sydney for six months, I have come to know the bartenders and streets by name, I know where the best places to get a good cheap meal, I know the best place to go on a Tuesday night out on the town. I feel as though I've lived here. But here is not Guatemala, not really. It reminds me a bit of Fantasy Island in Pinocchio, where little children (foreigners) run around in a play land with no rules and no grown ups. It's time to leave this play land and move on... to another.

Volcan Pacaya - Guatemala

Looming 2552 meters over the south end of Guatemala City, Volcan Pacaya is a popular weekend excursion because it is the only active volcano in the region. A mere 20 minutes from the city (which can quickly become 2 hours during rush hour), one can take a shuttle bus or hitch a ride halfway up the mountain to the small sub-alpine village of San Fransisco. There you'll need to buy an entrance pass (25Q = $3) and can hire a guild to take you up to the summit. In past years, the guilds were for protection from thieves, but, with the creation of Guatemalan Tourist Police Force, crimes in these touristed areas have dropped off significantly. Still, it is highly recommend that you hire a guild because, though you may not face emanate danger from would-be bandits, without the guilds you would get hopelessly lost in the labyrinth of trails and paths that zig-zag up and down the mountain slopes.

We arrived in the late afternoon and, escorted by our guild Pedro, we started our accent. The first part of the trek is the hardest. You slowly climb a sleep broken concrete trail through dense tropical forests while trying to avoid being trampled by passing horses, or as the locals trying to coax you into there saddles call them, taxis). After about a half km we came to a plateau that offered great views of other dormant volcanoes and the small Alpine Pacaya lake. Pacaya, by the way, is the name of a local fruit that grows on the lush hillsides of the volcano.

From the plateau, we navigated our way up the poorly marked trails another 2 km to the cone of the summit, frequently stopping along the way to catch our breath while Pedro pointed out local flora and Fauna. As night descended, we accented the final pitch through the tree line an out into the open volcanic rock fields. We were still a good distance away from the top but we could already see the red glow on the western slope. We marched on in eager anticipation and, coming to the end of the dirt path, preceded slowly on the unstable volcanic boulders. I could see the lava clearly, a neon orange and red river that flowed slowly, but unabatedly, to the depths below. If that weren't enough of a site, I noticed in the distance, that people seemed to be right on the banks of the flows taking pictures and throwing rocks into the magma. Those people got to be crazy, I thought, getting that close to lava, why, at any point the flows could shift and- "Vamanos muchacos," Pedro yelled and started up toward the flows. I waited to see if anyone else ìn the group was crazy enough to follow, but, to my surprise, no one blinked an eye, they just fell into line behind him. So I jumped off the cliff too.

As we drew nearer, we could feel the intense heat that the lava produced as it ate through rocks, trees, and tundra. We passed several rock piles on either side that were actually on fire. That's right, rocks...on fire... That equals, hot as hell. It was pitch dark now and I used my pathetic little pen light to aid me as I stumbled up the volcanic rocks. Twice I lost my balance and had to use my hands to break my fall, and both times my hands fell on hot, steaming rocks that burned the skin. Now I understood why the guild book said not to wear sneakers... the hot rocks burn off the rubber soles. I, of course, opted not to heed the warning. Finally, we made it to the banks of the flow. To my surprise it was not a hostel, foreboding place. It was actually quite peaceful, as the steady trickle of lava slowly broke apart the surrounding rocks and shrubs. Then it hit me, I was standing in a vortex, devoid of time, lava is ageless, ageless as the world itself, and I was witnessing it 10ft in front of my face.

We stated up there for an hour, entranced by the glowing warmth of mother nature. Our decent, now in complete darkness, actually required more energy then the trek up because you had to constantly watch the ground in front of you as to not trip on a root or rock and go tumbling down into a ravine. By the time we got back to San Francisco we were exhausted, but still jumping with excitment from what we had just witnessed. It was all we could talk about on the way back. "Oh man, my shoes are done," an American said. "I felt that I was to almost burn in flames," echoed a German. It went on like that all the way back to town. By the time I got home, then almost midnight, I didn't even have the energy to take a much needed shower. But, lying there in bed, I still couldn't sleep glowing with amazment for what I had just seen.

Miami - Florida

I'm not one for omens or signs, I tend to take things as they come and treat each situation as it's own individual moment. However, if the way this trip started is any indication of what might be yet to come... I might be coming home a lot sooner than I had anticipated.

WEDNESDAY MORNING

I was awake before my alarm went off. I couldn't sleep, not with all the anxiety and excitement that I now felt about my impending trip. The morning was a blur, saying goodbye to my family, the ride to the airport, boarding the plane, all of it just seemed to pass by as if I were having a flashback to some distant memory. It wasn't until the plane's wheels left the ground that it began to sink in- I was leaving for a long time.
The flight over was fine, I slept most of the way, aided by American Airline's version of Lunesta, The Devil Wears Prada, and arrived in Miami with an hour and a half to make my connection to Guatemala city.
I walked the half mile concourse that connected the terminals F to A and went to check in at for my flight at TACA airlines. Now, I had read that sometimes, these ticket agents would give you a hard time if they thought you were a hippy traveler trying to go to Guatemala to find your spirit or something, so I did my best to look professional- I wore a buttoned down shirt and tucked it in, I combed my hair, and even shaved! But, from the moment I approached to counter it was clear that I was in trouble.
Liz Hernandez was a stocky middle-aged women with contempt written all over her face. She was less than impressed that I was checking in only an hour before my international flight even though she saw that I had a connection that just landed. She was even less impressed when I told her that I did not have an onward travel ticket and was dismissive when I presented my travel-worn passport. With a thinly vailed smile she denied me right there on the spot and said I would loose my seat on that flight and my ticket. She took some delight in relaying this information to me and was waiting for me to explode. I paused and took a look at my options: 1) Go off on her and her superior and have her red-flag my passport or something and probably never see the outside of a Miami jail cell, let alone Central America. 2) Play it cool and try to work something out. I opted for door #2 and told her I'd talk to United (the affiliated airline I had issued the ticket through) and see what could be done. For the first time, she seemed impressed by me. I waited around for 45 minutes for my bag to be dragged off the tarmac, Then proceeded to walk the half mile corridor back to terminal F where United was located. When I finally arrived, I was told that the passport looked good but that they could do nothing.

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

I walked back to terminal A (that's 1.5 miles if your counting) and talked to another TACA agent who also said the passport looked good and that he would have let me board but that his supervisor, another heavy-set, middle-aged women who saw her chance to get back at 'Whitie' had overruled him. He suggested I try the Boarder Patrol Office, which they had in the airport, located, conveniently, back in Terminal F. Two miles. The Patrol Officer said that he would have accepted it as well but it's up to the airline. Back to TACA to relay the Patrol officer's approval. Getting close to 3 miles now.
At this point, Liz, probably feeling guilty for having me run a track meet with two large backpacks in a dress shirt and slacks, decided to take pity on me... or maybe she was just getting board with my persistence. She gave me the number of a US Passport office in Miami and booked me on a flight the following day (no extra charge). She said that I needed an appointment but that if I showed them the plane ticket they would issue me a rush order and a new passport. I called in, but there were no appointments until Friday afternoon. I was getting tired. I need to find a hotel for the night, Liz told me that there was a list located on level one... in Terminal F... as in 'FUCK' all this walking!
I waited outside for a shuttle and was coaxed into the Miami Princess Motel van, with offers of a cheap room. The driver, seeing the frustration in my face offered me a cigarette which I immediately took and lit up (I don't smoke mind you). As we drove out of the airport I told him my story. After a moment he said, "man, you really could use a drink." Without hesitation he veered off the freeway and down the off ramp into a back parking lot of an open-air Tapas bar, the type of place that had 'locals only' written in invisible writing all over the walls. It was with S-A though and we walked right up to the bar and he ordered me TWO Dominican beers. The driver, Antonio, was a middle-aged Peruvian who dreamed of opening his own hotel in Miami and whom, like me, loved to travel. He seemed generally interested in me and very friendly for a hotel diver. We sat there drinking Presidentes and smoking Dunhills until the sun set and then drove to the motel.

WEDNESDAY EVENING

At this point, I was exhausted and in need of a shower and food. I went up to my room and collapsed on the bed. I didn't even have a chance to go to the bathroom before Antonio walked through my door, "Hey man, come with me, I want to show you something," he said. The last thing I wanted to do was get up, but I didn't' want to be rude, especially since he had been so nice to me earlier. I rolled out of bed and followed him as he took me to a separate section of the motel. "This, my friend, is what I want my hotel rooms to look like," he said as he opened the door to a huge deluxe suite. It was decorated in Japanese-style, it had a circular bed and a huge LCD TV and a stereo system. "Come, I will show you," he said as he slapped me on the back and walked into the room. It had a built-in Japanese bridge over a small plant garden to a Jacuzzi. Uh? I looked around, there were wine glasses next to a bar, silk bedsheets under a huge ceiling mirror. Uhh! This was sex suit, they probably rented it by the hour! Antonio went to the TV and flipped it on to hard-core porn. Uhhh! He walked up to me, and put his hand on my hip and he passed by me to get to the Jacuzzi, and turn on the waterfall next to it. Oh, yeah there was a waterfall too. He glanced back at me an then the TV, "He is big yes!" "Uh, I guess." "I am big too!"! "Uhhhhh-huh." I was starting to see the big picture now. "How big are you?" "Uh, you know Antonio, I think I left the stove on in my room I gotta go," I mumbled as I made my way to the door. I didn't really say that, I don't know what I said, but I just had to get out of there. He gave me his number and told me to call him that night although I told him that I was very tired and had to get up early the next day to go to the passport office.
I slept lightly that night, with the deadbolt on and a chair in front of the door. I didn't know if and when he would come a knocking and he didn't have to knock at all, he had the master key!

THURSDAY

Surviving the night without incident, I went downtown early the next morning to the passport office. They let me in without an apointment because I had a ticket for that day- thank you Liz! Five hours later, and with a bunch of bureaucratic BS I was issued a new passport. After a brief stop at the local library to use the Internet to book and print a seat on a bus leaving Flores, Guatemala for Belize City (my onward ticket), I returned to the airport. It was still four hours before my flight, but I still feared that I wouldn't make it with all the hoops there were still likely to make me jump through. I was almost right. Even though I got a better agent and my passport was flawless, she said the bus ticket was not enough. I need proof a return flight to the US or they wouldn't let me on. I was about to choose door #1 when I remembered that I still had a credit with United for trip to Spain that I had to cancel during the summer (Thanks Sis). a brisk mile later I had my boarding pass.
I was sitting at the gate when, Ellena, another TACA (or as my father calls them CACA) agent who had been witness to my perils over the last two days approached me. My stomach went into my throat. What now? I thought of making a run for the gate, if I could just get on the plane, then maybe they would let me say. Sweat beaded down my face as she stopped in front of me. "I just wanted to wish you a nice flight." I let out a huge sigh of relief and grabbed her in a big bear hug and thanked her. I told her she needed to take a picture so that I would always remember TACA airlines. Yeah it was a lie, I couldn't wait to forget them, but I was finally going to Central America, I would land in Guatemala in less than three hours! My anxiety was gone, all that remained was my excitement.