It wasn’t until I had left El Retiro that I noticed in my guidebook that I’d marked next to Lanquin in pencil a big asterix. Really I should have marked it with a gold leaf star. The hostel here is fantastic, the scenery is amazing, the food is huge, there’s plenty to do, and the people are so friendly. I’d figured this about by Sunday evening, the day I had arrived, and had made my mind up that I’d be here for a while.

The setup here is wonderful, perfect for the solo traveler. There are little banana leaf roofed dorms each holding just 4 people, and there’s also room for another two people in the lofts above each dorm. The restaurant and bar area has two happy hours, board games, hammocks, and big uni-halls style buffet meals in the evening - practically all you can eat. I had Sunday Roast my first night, and can you believe it they had bloody brussel sprouts! Brussel sprouts in Guatemala! I had to give my self a bit of a reality check after that.

At the bottom of the valley runs the river, the same one that comes out of Grutas de Lanquin just up the road. It is a gorgeous turquoise blue - I assume because of the chalk that is dissolved in it, and is a somewhat ‘refreshing’ temperature. That said, Lanquin is a far sight hotter than Nebaj or anywhere else in the highlands, so a ‘refreshing’ dip mid afternoon works a treat. Further up the meadow is a place where you can get in, hop under the barb wire, wade out into the middle and then just drift down stream, making sure to swim over the side in plenty of time!

Sunday and Monday were both pretty quiet days for me, I spent most of time chilling and socialising. I learned to play backgammon, drank lots of gin and tonic (I’d come over all colonial), swam, sun bathed, ate, and relaxed in this sublime setting.

On Tuesday I went on the ‘famous’ El Retiro Semuc Champey tour. Semuc Champey is a series of five limestone pools about 11km down road from Lanquin. The river runs underneath these pools after having eroded away the limestone beneath it a long time ago. The first half of the day was exploring the caves near Semuc Champey. After a quick swing into the river to cool off we headed into the opening of the caves, each of us armed with candle. We’d been told to wear old trainers or flip flops because some of the rocks were quite sharp, although I’m inclined to think it was to avoid the feeling of bat guano squelching between your toes.

Most of the trip we spent waist deep in water, but at times the water was shallow and at others we had to swim - and that’s pretty difficult whilst holding a candle and trying to keep your sandals on your feet. There were also ladders bolted to the rocks when we had to climb upwards and these were very very slippery. When we reached as far as we could go the guide took it in turns to take groups of five around a large central pillar, underneath a waterfall and then into a deep pool beyond. Needless to say, the candle didn’t survive that one.

After the caves we all hopped into the some old car inner tubes and floated off down stream of the caves for a little while, after which we had lunch. On entering Semuc Champey park itself it started to rain, which was a shame, but soon after it cleared up a little and we made our way to the viewpoint (mirador) overlooking Semuc Champey. It was a tough ascent to do in soaking wet sandals and a little sketchy as we were waved rapidly up the path to shouts of allez! allez! as some locals tore down a fallen tree. The views from the top however… stunning, proper postcard material.

The rest of the afternoon I spent swimming in the clear pools enjoying the fresh water. Swimming in fresh water is so much different from swimming in the sea. And even having swum in the Lake Atitlan and the river by the hostel, you’re always a little wary of sewage from further up stream. But this, this was crystal clear - you almost felt as if you could drink it. Just before we had to leave we went to final pool before the river continued and walked down the waterfall on a rope ladder to see the river rushing out from underneath. It was unbelievably powerful; it blasted out so hard that it rose up again ominously against an opposite wall.

By Wednesday by G&T consumption had left me bankrupt and I had to make the four hour round trip to Coban to get some cash. No fear, I treated myself that evening by tubing down the river from the opening of the Lanquin caves. You’d have thought tubing was a fairly placid affair, but not this. On occasion there were rapids, but more often than not the current took you straight towards some overhung branch or broken tree in the middle of the river. A few of the lads I was with found it especially challenging as they attempted to paddle away without getting their hands wet, or what they were smoking in them. I managed to convince our group to carry on past the hostel a little to the next bridge, after which the others chickened out. However we soon found the bridge was locked, barbed and spiked which made matters a little more challenging.

Thursday was party day. The Brahva girls were in town (chicas de Brahva) and the Brahva party was at El Retiro (Brahva is the Brazilian brand of lager which I think is called Brahma in the UK). That lunch time I made my way to the local bakery which is run by a couple of British guys and a Dutchman, and reportedly did the best burgers in town. The Brahva van was parked up opposite the bakery pumping out some hideous music, and the owners of the bakery were sat outside complete with bright red Brahva t-shirts and beers in their hands.

I joined them for a drink and ordered my burger with Ben, a North Eastern guy (and Sunderland fan). It appeared to be Chris’s birthday, the other British owner, and he’d been awoken at 9am after a previous heavy night, to the sound of the Brahva van. It was only after the mention of chicas de Brahva was there an incentive to get up and see what all the fuss was about. Luckily for him, one of the locals had tipped off the Brahva party that it was his birthday and over the tanoy they announced there was a birthday kiss for Chris from the Brahva girls. And all this whilst Chris was having his morning coffee and cigarette and trying not to sweat.

I sat with Ben, Chris and their friend Ray enjoying the afternoon and talking. They were greeted occasionally by the locals, a few birthday congratulations for Chris, and the odd order from Ben to the girls working behind him in the bakery. They were good guys, trying to make a living in a foreign country and enjoying the bachelor lifestyle that came with it. In that moment I saw a more contemporary version of what Orwell had depicted in his second novel Burmese Days. In it he talks of the British working in Burma earning a living working for the military or logging firms and living the life of a burra sahib. They bakery guys knew the local language, the politics and the women, and there are numerous other parallels in the book. But for a time and a place (the 1930s, Burma, the British Raj) that I thought was so far away when I read the book I ultimately realised that lifestyle wasn’t too far away at all.

Later in the afternoon I went and explored the Lanquin caves which are known for their bats. Every night the bats come from the cave and fly along the river eating all the mosquitoes (bless em). Its a pretty impressive sight that I can just see from my hostel but at the entrance to the cave… wow! There was hundreds of them, all flying around you. The occasional one skimmed my hair or I felt the flap of a wing very close to my face but they never hit you.

That evening much beer was drunk, much reggaeton played, and many a photo with the chicas callientes taken. I had a bus to catch to Flores early Friday morning and I was fully expecting to take a hangover with me. The trip to Flores was a nightmare, I was crammed into the backseat of the mini-van for 8 hours of so with not even enough leg room to sit straight. I had to sit with either my knees high up against the seat in front of me or with my whole body twisted to the side. But we eventually arrived and I just managed to get the last bed in the dormitory of the very popular (and rightly so) Los Amigos Hostel.

I’ve decided not to go to Tikal, the very popular ruins nearby, but instead am going on an adventure! (C. Howe, Manchester, 2006). I got chatting with some people last night and have decided to go on a 5 day hike through the jungle to the not much uncovered ruins of El Mirador! (its best if you say it as if it was Mordor, in a LOTR style). I leave tomorrow at 6am and have a 120km round trip to complete. I’m going to need to be DEETed up to my eyeballs, and I hear its very muddy, but that’s why I brought my boots

Until my return on Thursday!

Ed Grylls Andy

I left Panajachel on Friday morning in very much the same way that I had made my way to Chichi the previous weekend. The exact same way in fact; with no other westerners and the only other English speaking person being a Peruvian volunteer with whom I discussed the effects of a drift towards the Left of Latin American governments (as you do) and who also raised his eyebrows when I told him I planned to cross to Coban through the highlands. “Would you do it?”, I asked, “No” he said. Ah.

At Chichi I caught a mini-van to Santa Cruz del Quiche, the capital of the Quiche province. Santa Cruz was a refreshing change, even if it was only for a couple of hours whilst I waited for a bus to Nebaj. People didn’t seem to be that bothered about me. No one was trying to tout or sell stuff to me. It just an ordinary Guatemalan town which wasn’t on the gringo trail. I even had a woman come up to me whilst I was just sitting there and ask if she could take a photo of me! Well you know I did have my shades on and was wearing my Pop The Toast t-shirt. Carril, a lass from North Wales who I ended up waiting with, was a little quicker off the mark and promptly held out her hand and butted in with “Cinqo Quetzales!”

I arrived in Nebaj mid afternoon after the standard 3 hour chicken bus ride, although I at least didn’t have a small child sitting on me for the most of the journey like Carril. Carril and I checked into the Half Sun Half Moon hostel, booked ourselves on a days trekking and sauna for the next day, and then spend the rest of the afternoon drinking cups of tea, chatting, reading, and sock shopping (for Carril). The climate in Nebaj is cold, cold like a British summer, possibly colder. You definitely need trousers and two layers on top in the evenings. Its also very wet, and grey, and rather grim looking. I think that’s probably what triggered my instinct to find a warm place to drink tea and eat cake.

The next day Carril and I went on our hike to the nearby village of Cocop. We were led by a local Ixil guide Nicholas who was a bit of a funny old fella, quite short, and prone to stopping randomly mid hike for a ‘bit of a lie down’. The first half of the day was a little disappointing since we juts followed the dirt track road out of town up hill to Cocop. The views were pretty impressive from the ridge but I was yearning for some off road action.

On arrival in Cocop Nicholas took us to a local family’s house where we were going to have our lunch. They brought out a couple of tiny chairs for us to sit down on, the sort you toddlers have at nursery school, and I sat down to take in the surroundings. The house was very basic, as you’d imagine. The roof was tiled and supported by half a dozen wooden pillars around the main building which house the fire and a hammock. The yard was mainly hard trodden soil and there was the constant tweeting of young chicks following their mother and the occasional gobble of a turkey in the distance.

Inside the main building the lady of the house was making corn tortillas and cooking them on a large metal plate over the fire. Both Carril and I had a go at making some tortillas but I can say for mine at least that they were bloody awful and I think most of them made the reject pile for the chickens at the end of the meal. However, I did try to break with tradition and crafted myself my very first rectangular tortilla.

Lunch was a soup with the tortillas that we had made earlier. The soup was mainly chicken stock with an egg poached in the middle of it and a collection of green stems and shoots that we had seen growing on a frame outside. I’m not sure what this plant was but it resembled the leaves of a vine plant and had thin curly stems to help cling onto things, at a guess it was pumpkin, courgette or pea. Regardless, it was rather tasty. We ate with our hands and tortillas and drank the remainder of the couple from our bowls being careful to mind the really hot chilly I had added to mine. Dessert was a maize/corn mashed drink with the heap of sugar added to it (there’s a lot of gold teeth in these parts).

We thanked our host and left, this time by a different route, along the river heading out of town. It was really quite picturesque as we walked through meadows and corn fields with the sound of the stream crashing through its rocky bed. And then it started to rain. The remainder of the walk was spent trying to watch our feet as we stumbled along the slippy rocks and muddy path but at least I got some more wear out of the poncho.

When we returned to town we were rather looking forward to our sauna, or a chu, after the days walking. However, what we got wasn’t quite what we expected. I had imagined a Ray Mears style contraption of bent over willow saplings holding up a tarpaulin dome with rocks in the centre heated by an earlier fire on which we good pour on water and get steamy. What was actually case appeared to be a brick hut with a very low entrance at its base, maybe only 2 or 3 feet high, and inside a fire heating a large cauldron of water.

The little Ixil lady that ran the chu started to instruct us to get changed, so I started to change into my swimming shorts and Carril got undressed having already put on her bikini. It was at this point that the little lady stopped us in our tracks and pointed for Carril to get inside before taking off her jeans. Odd we thought but what the heck. I tried to follow but was subsequently shooed out by the lady and told to wait. Once inside, and after much confused conversation in Spanish, we came to realise that what we had in fact signed up for was not a sauna but in fact a bath. Carril had gotten a very odd look at the suggestion of pouring water into the fireplace and was instead instructed to take the hot water and add some to the cold water  in a separate bucket and use bowls to pour the warm water over your body.

It was at this point that the lady asked if Carril and I were married. Now, given the situation - two semi-naked westerners in a small very hot enclosed space - we should have said yes. Instead Carril replied, “No, we’re just friends”, and so it became that we had probably committed a very large Guatemalan social faux pas which was the Western equivalent of sharing a bath with someone you’d known all of 24 hours. Despite this, the lady still questioned Carril upon her exit and seeing her bikini why she still had her underwear on.

That evening we wandered around town, grabbed a little street food and also ascertained as to where my 5am collectivo for Coban was to leave the next morning - a supposedly beautiful but bumpy 5 hour ride across the highlands and into the mouth of the El Peten region of Guatemala where I could carry on to the bat caves of Lanquin and the limestone pools of Semuc Champey. And with any luck, a bit of sun.

Andy

I arrived in Panajachel, the main town on the shore of Lake Atitlan, on Saturday after escaping Antigua. As these things happen I got chatting to a nice American lady called Beth who was out here to learn some Spanish before going back to New York to continue Med School. She has some friends already in Pana, who we ended up meeting, having lunch with, and before you know it, hopping into a boat for a quick tour of the lake.

Beth’s friends were a couple of other Americans, who for all the lovely Americans I have met so far, these guys make up the stereotype we so often hold against a nation of 300′000+ people. Also along for the ride was German Constantine, to whom, after an initial mix up, I referred to as Freddy for the duration of the day. The tour was to a couple of villages to the south of Pana, clockwise as you face the lake, and also a stop at some hot water springs.

The villages were a fairly mediocre affair, there wasn’t a great deal to see at them, although we did enjoy a nice beverage with a beautiful view at beer o clock. The highlight of the trip had to be the hot water springs. They aren’t as you may initially envisage, a hole in the ground with steaming water coming from it, but instead an area by a lake wall where hot water seeps through the rocks and rises into the lake. Constantine and I jumped in, leaving the Americans in the boat who had complained of the sewage pipe they had seen running into the lake further down stream. As you swam through the water there was the odd sensation of passing through very chilly patches and then into a warm patch and back out again. Closer to the rocks and the waters edge it was possible to find a patch that was just like sitting in a hot bath. It warra lovely.

The following day I made my way to Chichicastenango market. I decided, rather than take the overpriced private shuttle buses, to do the journey to Chichi by chicken bus. In all fairness, they really aren’t that bad. Yes, the drivers to tear around blind corners down hill at silly fast speeds, and yes, at times there were three people to a seat with a seventh suspended over the aisle, held there by the force of the other six. But then the chicken bus was a quarter of the price and much more of an experience. Its refreshing to be the only gringo on the bus rather than being all gringos in the rather sterile private shuttle environment.

As for the market itself, it really is now just a showpiece for tourists. The exceptions are the food stalls in the centre and the corn sellers in the periphery, but for the most part each stall sells the same Gallo beer t-shirts and the same selection of local textiles. Which isn’t to say that the market is a complete waste of time; it was genuinely interesting to walk along the narrow aisles and corridors formed by the stalls and at times I would be surrounded by a swarm of local people all pushing at me from all sides like at the change of band at a music festival. But everyone is so small, the tallest locals reach my chest at most, I must have looked like Gandalf at a Hobitton village fete.

I’d tired of the markets after a couple of hours, and since I wasn’t tied down to a fixed departure like those on the shuttles, I decided to make my way back. I was engaged in another round of ¿Donde es?with a petrol station forecourt worker when I bumped into Lucy and Ainsley who had been on the Raggamuffin sail boat tour in Belize. I said my hello’s and arranged to meet them for a drink later that evening in Pana. They’d spent a week in language school in Xela, and so were able to point me in a slightly more accurate direction towards the bus stop home than I’d managed with my pigeon Spanish.

After having met up with Constantine, Lucy and Ainsley the previous night (Constantine had not gone to the market because of a bug he’d picked up) and having a drink and a bite to eat, we met up the following day and all went off to San Pedro, a village on the lake about a 40 minute boat ride away from Pana. On arrival we checked in at a place by the dock which had amazing views of the lake from my window and a small dock from which you swim off into the lake beyond the questionably murky shores. We booked a volcano hike for the following morning and spent the rest of the day chilling.

However, a relaxed time it wasn’t to be for me. That afternoon we went for lunch in a magic little spot by the lake which was reached by walking along narrow dust paths which threaded their way through shaded gardens and small fields of maize. I had nachos, and I’m afraid that was the end of me. That evening I had a sudden turn and felt rather sick. The prospect of eating seemed entirely unappealing and I had completely lost my appetite (yes I know, unheard of). It turned out that I had picked up Constantine’s stomach bug, and probably from something as trivial as not washing my hands before I ate my nachos after using his camera to take a photo.

For the next 24 hours my body did its very best to completely empty itself, I couldn’t even hold down water. The walk I had booked for the following morning was a complete no goer, and from what Lucy and Ains had told me, a good job too. They had endured a marathon 5 hour uphill trek followed by a rapid decent as they were chased down the volcano by bandidos. That afternoon I longed from some comfort food. There was the voice of my mother telling me to have some tomato soup and a piece of dry soup (oh how I would have killed for a tin of Heinz tomato soup at that point), but the best I could do was bean on toast where the baked beans was a homemade concoction of white beans and a tin of tomatoes. Not quite what I wanted.

The next day I was on the road to recovery, self evident by the empty plate of pancakes I left at breakfast time. Ains, Lucy and I paid a trip to the next village on the way back to Pana called San Marcos. Its was supposed to be a hippy hang out and the most beautiful and clean village on the lake. When we arrived it was true that the waters were crystal clear amongst the reed beds, and the little paved and cobbled streets that intertwined the buildings under the dappled shade of large trees that over hung the village gave me the impression that this is what the settlement the islanders in the film The Beach  would have created had they had 10 more years for a bit of infrastructure. There were plenty of places to do yoga and have massages, you even spend a week in silence meditating if you liked, but apart from that there wasn’t a great deal to do so we made a quick exit.

That evening, Ains, Lucy and I went to the thermal waters at San Pedro where we sat in large concrete baths at dusk enjoying a long soak to soothe our aching bones. It started to rain, but as they say, the best place to be when it rains is somewhere already wet.

However, the rain continued, and after saying my goodbyes to Ains and Lucy the next day, I just managed to get back to Pana before the heavens really opened and Guatemala gave me a state of highland rain storms. The streets of Pana were like rivers and after sheltering with some fellow Brits in a cafe for a while trying to enjoy a cup of tea, I had to wade back up town barefooted with the filthy water riding up my shins and the rain lashing down against my poncho.

The rains receded by late evening and I ventured back in to town for some dinner, but for the first time on my travels, without any company. A fact I would have to get used to in the next couple of days as I left the well worn gringo trail for the mountain town of Nebaj, and a route to Coban and the limestone caves of Lanquin without having to shuttle it back to Antigua.

Ta ra

Andy

Antigua is some bizarre continental construct in the middle of the Guatemalan highlands, with cafes on every corner selling coffee and cake, a beautiful central park with locals sitting and listening to the sound of the fountain, and courtyards full of tourists learning Spanish in the dappled shade. But I didn’t like it.

Now I should be fair to Antigua, its probably not the city’s fault. I arrived late morning, after an early start from Copan Ruinas, the shuttle ride to the city and the border being a fairly simple enough affair. It was my first experience of crossing the border between the countries which had signed the CA4 Pact or something. Its probably the entirely wrong name for it, but effectively it means you can cross between Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador and Nicaragua without having to pay extra visa fees and getting your passport stamped. (Have a look at those four countries flags and see how similar they are, must be a bugger playing international football).

Both hostels that the book recommended were fully booked, but they did point me in the direction of another hostel, Hostel Kafka. Unfortunately Kafka seemed to be one of those places that everyone stayed in maybe one night or two before they moved out down the road to Black Cat or Jungle Party Hostel. That meant there wasn’t really that much of a vibe to be had, and that’s very important in a hostel, it can make or break one’s stay there.

In either case, I had more pressing issues at the time. A stint in the internet cafe had left me feeling nauseous and dizzy and I decided that getting to the Doctors was something that had to be done straight away. I asked around a bit to see where was the best place to go and a local travel agent pointed me down the road to a private clinic. I was able to walk straight in and see the Doctor for a straight up Q200 (fifteen quid) consultation, but any drugs they prescribed me would cost extra. I fine with that, I just wanted to know whether bleeding from the sinuses was normal.

The consultation was an funny affair, I spoke through a translator to an old bearded serious looking Guatemalan fellow, not knowing quite where to look. Do I speak to the Doctor or the translator? I didn’t want to snub either, so settled flitting my head erratically between the two. I talked of my symptoms and how the injury had come about, and finally in English mentioned barotrauma. The doctor picked up on what I said and confirmed my self diagnosis was correct. We went through to the next room where he gave my ear hole a good looking over. It was a bit difficult for him because the bed I sat on was a bit too high. Set just about the right height for a Guatemalan, for me it meant that I towered above everyone. Further hilarity ensued as the Doctor flushed my ears our with hot water and the assistant nurse tried to hold the kidney bowl to my head - she just couldn’t reach.

I mentioned the fact that I had put a vinegar solution in my ear to clean it after the dive and asked whether that was the right thing to do. The doctor replied in Spanish and held up a bottle. I didn’t need to understand his response since the bottle was labeled Hydrogen Peroxide and he was going to put three drops into my right ear. I inferred that vinegar wasn’t too bad then. In the end the doctor prescribed me some anti-biotics, ear drops, and told me to continue to use the nasal spray a Dutchman had kindly given me back in Utila. He said the blood from my sinuses was normal, the ringing in my ear should recede and that all would be well in five or so days. What a relief.

The following day was a sort out day. I bought myself the LP guide to Guatemala under the reasoning that I’d raced through Belize and Honduras so I’d better give Guatemala a good seeing to (a good three weeks seeing to). Then I spent the rest of the day idly wandering around town looking at the various Spanish schools that were available and seeing if any took my fancy. The heavens subsequently opened after that - this being the highlands and susceptible to the cold and the rain.

I rather unoriginally went with the first school that I saw, although this particular one had been referred to me by Thomas and Susanne, a Dutch couple I first met with Tim and Stu in Tulum but had subsequently bumped into again in a cafe at breakfast time. My first lesson on Thursday was in the afternoon, and mainly comprised of my going over basic vocab like my family, things around the house and typical year 7 French type stuff. I hinted that I needed Spanish for traveling, and we spent the rest of the afternoon on restaurants, public transport and asking for directions!

That evening I stayed with a local family. A pretty daunting affair, I turned up and was shown my own room, and was left to my own devices until 7 when dinner would be served. Dinner was fried plantain, refried beans, and bread. I ate with mum, dad, son, two daughters and four other westerners who were residing with the family as well. At intermittent occasions other family members would come in, give mama a kiss on the cheek, wish us all good evening and then depart again. I was a bit blown over to say the least. Of course, English was forbidden at the table, and I got by by uttering odd words of Spanish (mainly a lot of Yes’s, No’s, Thank you’s and Please’s). However for the most part I just listened, and when the meal time was over uttered bien provecho and made my exit down into town for very much needed beer.

It has occurred to me since that Antigua is for most people one of two things. Either it is a place you come to especially to learn Spanish, having flown here most likely from the States on a prearranged package, doing at least 4 hours a day 5 days a week for a period of up to 6 weeks, and living with a host family. Or, it is a place as a backpacker you probably pass through after only two or three days having drunk in the nice cafes, taken photos of the beautiful buildings, and gone up the volcano but then quickly realised the expensive beer and the real lack of much else to do doesn’t really justify staying any longer.

I’d managed to get myself in between both of those types of people. I wasn’t here specifically to learn Spanish, but thought it’d be a nice idea. However, after contemplating the prospect of a further seven days in Antigua realised that it very definitely wasn’t for me. You can only go so long commiserating your less than pleasing day with a beer at Black Cat’s and with that thought I decided to get out. But not first without going up Volcano Pacaya of course.

Pacaya is one of the most active volcanoes in the region and about an hours drive from Antigua. Now when I say its an active volcano, you’re probably thinking what I was thinking and what the travel agent photos displayed next to details of the tour: large molten rivers of lava flowing down the hillside and spurts of natures own fireworks from the top of something akin to the final scene on Mount Doom in Lord of the Rings. Well I hate to disappoint but its not quite like that.

What Pacaya lacks in flowing rivers of molten lava it makes up for in fantastic views and stunning scenery. Once you reach as far as the path allows you are on what was flowing rivers of lava - a slightly hollow sounding bead of porous basalt rock. And occasionally, in the gaps between the ankle break crevices, there is a wave of heat that ripples the air like tarmac on a hot day. This is as close as you get to molten lava: very very hot rocks. Hot enough to singe your leg hairs at a distance or melt the soles of your boots with an incorrectly places footing. Its also hot enough to fry a steak and toast marsh mellows if you so desire.

On Saturday (the 26th) I left Antigua for Panajachel and Lago de Aititlan. Some cool mountains and hot water rocks to get me back on the gringo trail. From there it is on to Coban, possibly via Nebaj, depending on whether this rain keeps up - it could make the mountain trails impassable.

Until then.

Andy

On the recommendation of a certain Alexia Rogers-Wright (ah the joys of facebook) I headed for The Blue Lizard hostel in Copan to enjoy their amazing hot water showers. None of this heated head element with dodgy wires lark, a proper shower, with proper hot water from a tank!

But that was to be the last of the water. The following day I got kicked out of The Blue Lizard to make way for an en masse booking of the whole hostel. My roommates and I went in search of am alternative location but it wasn’t as easy as we’d previously envisaged. The hostels wern’t taking anyone. There was no water, their reserve tanks had run out almost immediately, and since the showers and toilets couldn’t function they’d decided to shut up shop and refuse custom.

Frederick

This is when it becomes very handy to have shared a room the previous night with a multi-lingual Spanish/French/Hebrew/German speaking 19 year old from the States. Frederick went into full charm mode with the hostess at The Green Apple, a hostel little further into town. When things got tricky he asked her to phone her boss who he spoke to in fluent Spanish over the phone and persuaded to let us stay the night on the condition we’d move on the next day and did’t use the toilets. Sorted.

That the left the afternoon for me to wander around the ruins. Copan Ruinas represents a city at its peak in the Mayan age. It was the capital of the local area during the classic era and goverened over large swathes of Honduras and Guetemala. That was until the Kings got a little greedy, overstretched themselves, got in a pickle with the neighbours and upped sticks for a more defensive position down the road. Despite local decrees, some Mayans stayed to live amongst the delapidated city, ignorant of its once noble history, and farmers were still in the area when the Spanish arrived in the 1500s.

Me and Stela (she was all over the place)

I won’t rabbit on about what the ruins were like, the pictures speak for themselves. Although I will say that I got somewhat distracted after my barotrauma kicked in with some blood in my saliva. That spooked me a little to say the least, and convinced me, water or no water, that I should leave Copan for Antigua to see a Doctor as soon as possible. So much for chilling out.

Andy

Matt, Max and I arrived at the port a few kilometers from La Ceiba with just 10 minutes to go. It was a little tight getting there since our taxi very inopportunely decided to fill up on the way there. The driver was quite anxious to get us there on time as well which meant a little pushing in at the pumps, not that there really was a queue anyway. Nevertheless we got our tickets and got on board, taking a place at the back of the Utila Princess II since the covered and air conditioned seats had all been snapped up by passengers with a little more foresight than ourselves.

The journey started well enough, despite being gassed as by the thick rising plumes of diesel fumes as we left port. However, it was as we left the shelter of La Ceiba’s port that we got a real taste for a boat journey on the open seas. Many westerners had taken up seats on the boxes of vegetables and other goods that were kept on the outside of the boat, and some were leaning against the back railings. Bad move. The waves got rough and the sea spray started coming in. Everyone was getting soaked. Max and I scrambled behind the benches that bolted to half of the outside platform. From there we could just about escape the worst of the spray apart from that which clipped my head (a bit too tall you see) and that which formed pools on the deck which soaked our arses as the ship pitched from front to back and rolled from side to side.

From our vantage point Max and I started to commentate on the various suffering passengers to pass the time and distract us from the violent passage of the ship. Matt was getting the worst of it. He’d taken up a position against the back railing of the boat to have a smoke, but wave after wave drenched him and left the dieing remnants of his cigarette his only solace. There was a group of teens from the US that had invaded the Jungle River Lodge the same day and had since followed us to the port. Like kids of that age they were completely unawares of their own mortality and many went to the back railing to join Matt and skid around in an oil patch. It was only after Matt had taken a more solid place in the centre of the boat that they realised the lack of a side railing which could have meant the end of them given a particularly large wave and lack of a good grip.

The journey had taken two more casualties by half way. One of the aforementioned teens broke down in front of us in a heap suffering from a panic attack. She was quickly joined by a number of concerned girlies who offered such gems of advice as “when you’re older you’ll be so glad of this trip”. The second casualty was a Swedish guy who had slumped further down into the now soggy boxes of vegetables. His high cheek bones and slender frame just added to the gaunt ill look he was currently sporting. Its often caricatured on television and in cartoons, but I can honestly say this guy did look green. He quickly became a marked man as a couple of the ship’s stewards came round handing out plastic bags.

After about an hour and half we made it to Utila, in one piece and with the contents of our stomachs intact. Our first night we spent at Under Water Vision dive centre just because they were offering the dorm for $3 (introductory offer only), but if you weren’t diving with them it went up to $8. Max went to find his friend Billy, a Divemaster on the island, returned successfully and even told us there was a pub quiz on that night. The first round was famous deaths, I was rubbish throughout (no surprises there), although I did do quite well on the spot the difference round.

The following day we moved down to Sea Side apartments opposite Ecomarine dive centre where Billy worked as a Divemaster, and also opportunely next to Skidrow bar, the venue of the previous night’s quiz. It wasn’t until the end of my stay at Sea Side that I found at that owner Carlos had in fact spent a year living and working in Derby doing some missionary work with former drug addicts and convicts. He showed me his photos of trips to Scotland, where he lived on Burton Road, Breedon on the Hill Church, and the inevitable Robin Hood shots from nearby Nottingham. Small world eh?

The rest of time on Utila all merges into one. I spent a lot of time on the beach working on my tan - yes I know, vain, but after 8 weeks in Central America I’ll only be mocked for coming back as white as before. On which note: audio books, they are the essential tool for tanning. Especially when they are neatly cut up into half hour episodes. Its not like reading a normal book which can usually induce neck/back/arm ache; just pop on you headphones, make sure the wire isn’t going to leave an embarrassing tan mark and off you go! You can be kept both entertained and have regular intervals with to remind yourself to turn over. Genius.

I did go diving, I think on the Wednesday, but there were complications. I had trouble equalizing on the way down on my first dive. I did manage to descend to about 20 meters after some trouble, but I was aware that my sinuses weren’t quite right. I skipped out the second dive (opting for more sun bathing instead), but by teh time we had reached shore things had gotten a lot worse. My right ear had become inflamed and was blocked leaving my hearing slightly impaired. I rinsed it out with fresh water, then fresh water and vinegar (as advised by the guys at ecomarine), took some drugs and then got some rest. The inflammation cleared up the following day (along with the pain), but a ringing in my right ear still remains and it sounds/feels like there is water in my tubes (not the technical term). Subsequent investigation (google and wikipedia) lead me to the self diagnosis of barotrauma for which I plan of visiting the hospital in Antigua to get it checked out.

Another place worthy of a mention is Tree-tanic, a bar built in the trees and decorated with mosaics of shells and glass and walls of wine bottles. This was also where I saw the infamous snorkel test - a recently graduated divemaster would have to drink a litre or so of cocktail via a funnel into their snorkel. A shot and a bottle of beer was usually added into the mix as well; almost always it would end messily. If the recent graduate was feeling particularly brave or their friends particularly mean they’d also have to clear their mask using the appropriate 5 point procedure - the only difference here being that it was beer that was cleared via the nose. Nasty.

I left Utila on Sunday (20th July) on the 6.20am boat, the ride this time being a lot smoother in the early morning surf. I was able to catch a Hedman Alas bus (luxury) from La Ceiba through to Copan Ruinas via San Pedro Sula. It is here I plan to stay for a few days, maybe until Thursday. I’m well ahead of schedule, at this rate I have a whole month in which to do Guatemala and Chiapas before flying home! I’m only halfway, whoops.

Until the next time.

Andre