Escaping San Juan

My next stop was San Juan del Sur, on the pacific coast. It cracked me. It´s a surfing town choc-a-block with gringos, which I did know before I went... and I think I also knew I wouldn`t like it, but as usual I listened to all the other travellers I`d met who loved it and said I must go... and go I did.

The first night there, I met some guys from Canada and went out for lunch and dinner with them (horribly cheesy quesadillas which made me ill, followed by pizza...) They were nice guys, but on a very different kind of trip to me: theirs being hopping from one party-town to the next with the aim of getting as many intoxicants into their system as possible in a very short space of time. I enjoy heavy drinking less and less these days, because it drains me the next day when I will inevitably wake up at dawn and have to travel somewhere. Also it's just not what I'm here to do- I can and will enjoy mass drinking when I return to England and need to comfort myself from the rain and misery of normal working life. I've met a lot of Canadians while away actually; they're generally an adventurous bunch who like to travel a lot but also there are a lot of them who work seasonal jobs- often earning a lot of money working in grotty mining jobs for half the year, and then spending the money travelling for the rest of it. It makes sense therefore that pretty much all Canadians I have met from the first circumstance are the coolest, happy and funniest people around, but unfortunately a whole lot of those which fall into the latter category are blundering idiots who cannot spell their own name but have more money than they know what to do with.

Anyway! That evening a storm broke, (the rainy season has finally caught up with me) and being stuck in the hostel made me not feel like drinking anyway. I watched my group of people do shots of rum to the eyes and struggled to stay up until half ten out of courtesy or something similar. I went to bed, and decided that the next day I would make a new plan...

I´d been looking at a map of the nearby coastline and seen a place called El Ostional. I`d also seen a bus with that name on the front of it. So I jumped on (admittedly three hours later than intended since the first one didn`t come) and imediately felt good. About an hour down a dirt road and I`d arrived in a very small village indeed. The guy from the roof of the bus told me that I had to pay him extra for handling my bag, but he knew as he said it that I wasn´t going to.

[sidenote: on local buses there are always a couple of men whose job it is to haul luggage onto the roof. When someone gets off the bus, they haul the luggage down again, sometimes stop to buy a drink from a road-side vendor, run after the already departing bus again and launch themselves back onto the roof until the next stop. They are always sweating, laughing and fit.]

Now what? I was definitly the only gringo in the village. I asked a man in the street if there was anywhere I could stay the night.
     "Sure!" he said, "stay in my house!"
Hmm, staying in a random man from the bus' house didn't seem like the smartest idea in the world, but said I`d have a look and found that he had a nice wife and a spare bed (although now I think of it, they might have kicked their son out for the night for my benefit). We agreed on a price of $4 for the night, and she said I'd be very welcome before very casually mentioning that there was "no running water until the morning". While she prepared the room for me and cleaned out the family wash bucket, I went for a wander to find the beach.

I'm annoyed I don't have my camera memory card with me right now, but not even photos can fairly show how beautiful this place was. A long, rounded bay with perfect golden sand closed inbetween two cliffs. Across the water, no more than a couple of km, was the mountainous coast of Costa Rica. Fishing boats sat on the sand after the day's work, and not a soul was in sight other than me and the crabs.  It was perfect, and pretty funny to think of all the surfers and sunbathers crammed onto the beaches around San Juan, while this place sat so secretly and deserted.

Heading back to the group of houses which made up the "town" (which also seemed to serve as one open farmyard- kitchens and bedrooms included), I was told that I could eat my meals at Maria's- the best cook in the village. Indeed, Maria was very skilled at cooking the egg, beans and rice I had for dinner; also the egg beans and rice I had for breakfast, but possible not as good as the egg, beans and rice I had for lunch. What did make the meal however, was the unlimited mango juice: the family were mango salesmen and seemed to use mangos for pretty much everything you could think of, including soap.

Maria's husband was called Doniel. He was shy at first, although suprisingly unsurprised upon seeing a blonde girl at the dinner table. He said very little for the whole meal, but at the end as I paid them and turned to leave, he very quietly asked what I had planned for the evening. I had to admit that I was quite excited about reading my book and falling asleep early.
     "Would you like to come with me to watch the turtles?" he asked.
I had no idea that turtles came to this beach, but it turned out that Doniel was part of a turtle conservation project and voluntarily sat out on the beach almost every night to try and protect the turtle eggs from poachers.

So at around 8pm, I followed Doniel to the beach. There was a huge full moon so no need for torches. We walked up and down the sand, he slowly becoming more and more chatty until he was confident enough to correct me on my spanish and occasionally make fun of my mistakes. We didn't see any turtles unfortunately, but he showed me a closed off area where he was protecting some buried turtle eggs from a few days ago. We sat near the enclosure and talked for a while longer.

I saw a couple of men lingering on the edges of the beach, "are they waiting for the eggs?"
     "Yes," he replied
     "Do you know them?"
     "Of course I do. I see them every night, I've tried talking to them but there's no point", he said wearily.
Doniel explained that most villagers collected the eggs from time to time because turtle eggs are a delicacy and it's what they've done for generations to celebrate special occasions with. The difference is when dealers from the bigger market towns come over and collect all of the eggs, not just the ones they need, in order to sell them on illegally. These poachers do it so regularly that it's impossible for the turtle population to be sustained.

Eventually, I was tired and headed back to bed, but the next morning when I went for a swim I saw several dug out areas of beach. I watched a couple walk along, stopping at each disturbed area and dig through to collect up any eggs. I knew they had some because of the careful way the woman carried her basket.

Despite how sad this was, I had a great morning on my very own private beach, eventually tearing myself away to go for my rice and beans and investigate the bus schedule. But before I reached the road again, I saw a group of fishermen standing around something in the sand. I'd been dawdling along, taking pictures of other fish washed up along the beach and assumed that it was something they'd caught and were proud of. But when I got closer I saw them shaking their heads and realised the grey shape was actually a huge hammerhead shark- dead, it's fins having been cut off by poachers. I exclaimed my surprise to the fishermen, who told me that Asian fishermen from the Costa Rican coast often fished around these parts to collect the fins for soup. One bowl of shark fin soup can sell for over $100 in China, and these people come to the Central American coast especially where the sharks are plentiful and coast is largely unsupervised. It was the saddest and most beautiful thing I've seen throughout my trip. The men told me it will have drowned slowly after being thrown back in the water. I wondered if they were going to take the carcass to eat, but they threw it back in the water out of respect and let the retreating tide take it back out to sea. Over lunch I told Doniel what I'd seen but I got the impression he had seen it a few times himself.


I'd had a fantastic day away from the chaos of the gringo trail, and El Ostional was beautiful, but one day of such intense spanish speaking was enough and I felt it was time to head back to San Juan ready for the next place. The locals told me there was a bus at 3.30, but I sat for an hour at the side of the road before being told that it wasn't running that day after all. It seemed that I'd have to spend another night, which wasn't a huge problem, but then I might be stuck in San Juan longer afterwards... it just so happened that there was a reunion at a nearby school along the way and the police department of San Juan del Sur had come along to watch the goings on (perfect day for pickpocketing tourists back in San Juan). As the event was ending, I saw the police van leaving the village, it's truck back and roof piled up with locals taking the opportunity for a free ride into town.
       "You need a ride, white girl?" The chief of police called to me, and I jumped on.
The next hour was the most uncomfortable, but hilarious ride of my trip. Old ladies sitting on young men's laps giggled and shrieked every time the truck turned a corner and we all fell to one side in a pile. Every now and then a local would hail the truck down at the side of the road and I'd think "no, there's no room- surely there's no room?" but they'd climb on and make room. Forty minutes into the journey, the driver decided that time was pressing on for dinner and put the flashing lights on. I received more than a few funny looks from returning surfers as I jumped off the racing truck back in San Juan. The chief of police high fived me, and they went on their way. Best adventure yet.

Island life continued

Flies. So many flies. Flies in my bed, flies in my knickers, flies in my food. Flies on my towel when I came out of the shower and therefore flies all over me. Flies in my contact lenses when we went dirt biking. OH yes, just by the way we went dirt biking. Here is something especially for my mother:

I have to admit that I never thought I`d learn to ride a motorbike. I`m scared of them at home... not the idea of being on one so much, but because everybody knows somebody who died on one or broke all the bones in their body etc. They swerve in and out of traffic and it drives me crazy when I`m in my car and they pop out of nowhere. BUT, this was Ometepe, the magical island at the end of the world, and it sounded like fun.

It was Canadian lady number one who wanted to hire bikes- we shall call her biker girl. Gerard seemed happy enough to endure our company if it involved petrol, although he didn`t realise until all too late that he and biker girl were the only two out of our five who knew how to ride them. After bargaining with a man who owned bikes and assuring him that we were all experts (neither party were convinced), we sped off into the horizon in our leathers.

That`s not exactly how it was. I sat on the back of Gerard´s (who I immediately decided was my guru and I must trust everything he did and said) while biker girl and extra male friend John (there´s no point in trying to think of a clever nickname) gingerly tried out the (pretty big) bikes around the hostel, under the increasingly worried bike owner. John got the hang of it pretty quickly, but had problems with the stopping part. This resulted in several topplings and an extra damages fee at the end of the day. Eventually we made it part of the way around the big volcano, Volcan Concepcion, and stopped for lunch in a place with a royally stoned waiter who couldn`t comprehend the idea of chicken in any language. Then it was my go.

As all my friends and family like to remind me, although I may have passed my driving test first time, I failed my cycling proficiency test when I was 10 by pulling out in front of a tractor. I was physically fine, but the mental wounds will never fade. Gerard showed me how to start the bike we´d be on, and as he pushed me off, I had sudden memories returning of me, aged nine in a car park with my frustrated, sweating father running along behind me ("keep peddling! keep bloody peddling!"). Since I couldn´t actually reach the ground the whole stopping thing was also an issue, so Gerard stressed out at me a bit, declaring me a hazard (true,) and later I switched to the girls´ bike. To my suprise found myself moving forward in a balanced, motor-powered fashion. Then I tried to stop and found myself on the floor.

The next half hour was spent watching poor Gerard trying to jump-start my bike with the restaurant owner running up and down the car park. I tried to keep my expression one of concern and that as if I might be thinking of a solution- at any moment about to help in some way. In reality of course there was nothing I could do to help and I have never felt like such a girl. The running excercise succeeded, the engine started and we were off. For about a minute until we realised another bike had a flat tire.

Three coca colas later and a stroll along the beach, the ever suffering bike owner had found us and changed the tire. Losing daylight, I was happy to let Gerard take driver position and we zoomed around the volcano a bit more, stopping briefly for good photo opportunities involving the volcano and maximum skin bearing. After missing the sunset because of another bike related problem, we realised it was getting dark and time to head back to our side of the island. I decided that this was the time I would learn to ride a bike properly. And so I found myself speeding along the long, dark winding road in the dark, dodging vegetable carts, donkeys and idiotic villagers. It was freaking awesome and kind of addictive and now I want one. Sorry Ma.


Gerard wanted to climb one of the volcanos, so we invaded his trip the following day. The girls had decided before we arrived that wanted to give the smaller (but still pretty challenging) volcano a try, but I had no intentions of climbing any more volcanos or in fact anything more than a flight of steps, after having seen so many in Nicaragua and Guatemala. I am however very easy to pursuade and the Fear Of Missing Out meant that I too was up at the crack of dawn, armed with three litres of water and ready to do battle with mother nature.

The great this about this place was that unlike Pacaya in Guatemala, the volcano boarding in Nicaragua and all the other little hikes and attractions in other places, there were absolutely no pestering locals offering to be a guide, no women with horses convincing you to rent a horse because you "will not make it otherwise" and no entrance fees. We could just walk straight up the the volcano and start climbing it.

Biker girl and I struggled quite a bit, and decided that we would stop at the viewing point an hour and a half up, letting the other two fitness freaks go the rest of the way alone. Of course once we made it to the viewing point and I`d eaten a granola bar, I decided that actually it hadn´t been that difficult at all and I would go to the top after all. Biker girl very sensibly refused. After another hour uphill with Gerard and Canada-two, I started to feel very dizzy. We estimated that we still had another three hours to the top and I decided to just be happy with the view from where I was and then go back. We´d also seen howler monkeys by going that little bit further up, so I was happy.

Massive treee

I was having a whale of a time climbing back down by myself- I felt like an adventurer and saw loads of cool stuff, like a butterfly as big as my face and all sorts of crazy tropical bugs and birds. The way back down was familiar for about an hour, but since the jungle was pretty wild and paths were not very clear cut, I soon began to wonder if I was going the right way after all. I tend to be pretty stubborn with directions- convinced that if I just keep going, I`ll eventually find my way... but eventually I had to accept that I was lost. Alone. In the wilderness. On a volcano. Nobody would find me, until days later with half my dead carcass eaten by monkeys and monsters from the lagoon. I ventured on, my concerns overshadowed by my excitement at being in the jungle.

After what felt like forever, with all my water finished and dizziness ensuing, I found myself somewhat at the bottom of the volcano, but in the middle of fields. Stumbling through shrubbery, I walked out into a farmyard, where a pretty puzzled farmer dropped his hoe and came out to stare at me. I asked him where I was. He repled that I was in his farm. I asked how I could get out of his farm and he pointed me in the right direction, continuing to stare open mouthed as I walked away. I kept turning to reutn his stare as I walked, and tripped over a plant, falling and rolling spectacularly into a cow trough. He turned away. Eventually I found a road, a flagged down a girl on a motorbike (somehow females on bikes seem less of a danger) and she gave me lift back to the farm-hostel we were staying in. I found Biker girl, also just recently back after an extended walk and the two of us gorged on ice cream, thinking of the other two hiking for a further five hours.

The third night was spent in a nice hotel nearer the ferry dock, where there were significantly less flies. They weren`t bitey flies as such, just really weird, tiny things that were terribly designed. They`d sit on your face by not move out the way when you swiped at them. I suppose that`s why there were so damn many of them- they had to reproduce like crazy to counteract their inability to move out the way of things that can squash them. In the fly-less town, I was convinced into getting my very first pedicure- Canada one and two being totally shocked and appalled that I had never partaken in such activities before. It was about one pound fifty, and I didn`t have the energy to do anything else that day, so I agreed. The poor woman assigned to my feet made an "aaiiiigggee" noise when she saw them, before announcing that "nothing is impossible". In the time it took my friends to get their feet and nails done, she managed to transform my feet. I bought flip flops to celebrate and for the second time in two days felt like a real Girl.

The Canadians had to move on the next day and left on the earliest ferry. I had some breakfast and once again caught the local "largo" back across the lake, watching out for bull sharks which I`d secretly hoped to see (although not too close). Fun fact: they`re the only population of sharks adapted to freshwater in the world! Supposedly Lake Nicaragua was once part of the pacific, but the volcanic eruptions eventually cut the place off and the sharks remained.

For the first time, I felt a little sad to be alone once again- our little island group got on so well- Gerard too, as much as I joked that he hated us. [Must stop thinking that his name is actually Gerard...] The girls were flying home within a couple of days and had been quite excited about it- I still wasn`t homesick or anything, but it got me thinking about what home was like and what my friends might be doing as I was sailing across the biggest lake in Latin America. Then I started eavesdropping on a two french speaking guys who had just met and going through the usual traveller small talk ("How long have you been travelling? Where is your next stop? Have you been to Semuc Champey?") before getting out maps and planning a route together. Back on the mainland, I battled through persistent taxi drivers and went over to the french speakers to suggest we share a taxi. And the next adventure had already begun.

Notes from the Beach

Boats, trucks and carnivorous chickens: the road from Granada continued

I sit writing this blog post in front a a whopping great volcano on the magical island of Ometepe, which is in the middle of Lake Nicaragua. It's the stuff of fairy-tales: two huge volcanoes joining to make up the island. Now that have learnt the great new skill of sticking in maps to illustrate my locations, I will add a map. But not right now, because I am using the old tablet today which as we all know gets confused easily but now also has a massively cracked screen. This makes things difficult, but it´s not a desperate problem- I mostly use it for skype and email, and I mostly skype my parents but they seem to have given up on me in the last month... I have come to the conclusion that they have forgotten they have a daughter and are spending my wedding fund in Vegas, or maybe somebody disguised as me has turned up at their house pretending to be me. They probably secretly know that new Rachael is an imposter but since she is more willing to put the kettle on and put the dishes in the washer, they've decided not to say anything.

Meanwhile in Ometepe, I have just seen a chicken kill and eat a great big lizard two minutes after I ordered eggs for breakfast. I think I want to become vegan.


After the beach, our little group headed back to Leon for steak and an early night before the next adventure: Laguna de Apoyo. Actually, let´s dwell on that food for a moment. I´ve had a pretty good couple of weeks´eating here in Nicaragua... it helped to have a good group of people to go out to restaurants with, but I haven´t had a bad meal in the whole time I´ve been here. And it´s so damn cheap- A really good quality steak for three pounds; breakfast for one pound fifty or something. The hostels have also been the best I´ve stayed in for the money I´ve paid... usually $7 or 8 US for a dorm bed. They often have pools or a handy nearby lake to swim in, too... I like Nicaragua.

Moving on: the journey was smooth enough- a local bus with all our luggage piled on top of us (the driver was trying to punish us after I refused to buy my bag its own seat [yes, it is really that big...]) and later a taxi who played us the entirety of Abba's greatest hits at full volume. We had arrived at Laguna de Apoyo.

I loved that place. I realise that I declare love for most places I visit, but Apoyo was pretty perfect after being in a sweaty city for a few days. It's a volcanic crater with supposedly the cleanest water in Nicaragua. We were staying in a hostel right on the water, with nothing else around it bar a couple of other lodges. In the mornings the boys had spanish lessons and the Yank and I would swim, sunbathe and write. I have decided that one day I will return for a couple of months in solitude and write a novel. I have actually bumped into a guy several times on my trip who is doing just that, but just before reaching Apoyo had his laptop stolen... When I saw him last he seemed to be wandering around in a bit of a daze, but like a true artist is positive to the point of sick enthusiasm that the experience will all the more enrich his writing. I genuinely look forward to reading his work.

Other lakeside activities included perfecting our diving, kayaking and card playing skills. Great company and piña coladas on demand made me want to stay forever, but time is - ticking and after ten days of tagging along, the boys and I went our separate ways- ie. north and south. Besides which, it was probably quite healthy to get back to civilisation: one afternoon,Yank and I caught the shuttle into Grenada and came over all excitable and overwhelmed by the sights of the city. The free tasters of chocolate liquors along the way probably helped.

On Thursday afternoon I found myself back in Granada for a couple of nights. The Yank in tow, we made the most of the readily available amenities and got haircuts. This was always bound to be risky in Central America and especially so with two hair-stylists who didn't seem keen on speaking to us in any language because their TV drama was on. But I was feeling wild and had the equivalent of three whole pounds in my pocket. Plus I actually trusted these folk more than Sharon from Ipswich who hacked my hair off last time... and it all turned out fine. We celebrated our success with huge steaks and gelato ice cream. I really feel that food is becoming more and more the focus of my trip, but I suppose travelling is pretty exhausting and impossible to do on an empty or disappointed stomach. I don´t think I´ll be returning back to the UK too obese though, because I keep being tricked into doing ridiculous things like climb volcanoes! More of that to come.

I spent Friday taking a boat tour of the isletas around Granada. Fun fact: there are 365, one for every day of the year, located just around the peninsular on the edge of Lake Nicaragua. Most of them are no more than a piece of rock, but some have had families living on them for a couple of hundred years or so (must be pretty incestuous by now). There is also one place named "monkey island" because it is inhabited by a family of five monkeys... they´re the pets of some super-rich Nicaraguans apparently, who never really see them. They monkeys are doing pretty well though- the local islanders keep them well fed and tourist boats like ours visit every day to say hello. The isletas were pretty unique, and it was nice just to be on the water again with a breeze, but I don´t think I could live there. I´d have to get really into embroidery or something. The blog would go a bit stale.

Garlic shrimps and more ice-cream and coctails, before Saturday travelling day to Ometepe. I came here with two Canadian girls who were a lot of fun and have since convinced me to change my life plan to include a year working in Canada. I will tell them all that I am Kate Middleton´s cousin or something and I will be a hit.

Since starting to write this, my computer tablet has well and trully given up on me. I´m over it and can now use a real computer to do this:



View Larger Map

To get here, we caught the chicken bus from Grenada to Rivas. It was packed, sweaty and smelled of fish. Upon arriving in Rivas, we were hounded by a hundred taxi drivers wanting our gringo money- something which is inevitable at bus stations but usually the last thing I feel like dealing with after a groggy two hour bus ride. Either way, we negotiated a shared taxi to the ferry dock with a french guy I´d seen before in Apoyo. He looked a lot like Gerard Butler, but was definitly french in his way of appearing amused while slightly bored of everything around him. At the dock, we managed to grab a cheap ride across the lake on a local cargo boat, which was entertaining. I´m glad I had an empty stomach at that point.

Once on the island, the girls and I opted for lunch before finding our way to a hostel, leaving Gerard to go rogue and bus his way over to Santa Cruz. Of course we spent almost two hours eating and drinking every variety of smoothie and missed the last bus there... never really a problem though, because as usual someone knew someone who had a "taxi" and could take us in exchange for dollars. It was the best damn taxi ride ever. The Canadians wedged themselves in the back of the guy´s jeep while I sat up front with him. We got a pretty good tour of the island, driving inbetween the two volcanoes and dodging farm animals all the way. The driver told me that he´d been recruited by the secret service during the civil war when he was just 16, and lived on Ometepe which was then soley home to the military. I couldn´t help but feel a bit sorry for him now- his life sounded a lot more exciting back then and he seemed to really enjoy talking about it.

We arrived at Santa Cruz (which turned out to be no more than a couple of farms and houses) just in time for the best sunset of my trip. The only resident at the hostel was none other than Gerard, who affectionately said "oh. You again" when we walked into his previously private dorm. Later, we would adopt him as our own and proceed to invade all the activities which he had probably looked forward to doing in peace.

...But right now, I need to negotiate another boat crossing.

In, around and between Leon to Grenada: part 1

Sometimes I look back on the last couple of days and think "wow, how did I fit all that in?" and sometimes I look back on the past week and struggle to pick out what I've done at all. This week is like that. Not in the sense that I've been sitting around doing nothing (well, not quite every day) but in the sense that I've been so relaxed the time has flown by.

I liked Leon a lot. When I first arrived in Mexico in January, I read a book of factual short stories written by novelists about travelling (´Better than Fiction´, published by Lonely Planet: December 2012). One that stuck in my head was about the relationship between an American writer and a Nicaraguan academic. Both married with their own families, they met at Princeton University as Postgraduate residents. While experiencing a very close relationship they never really become romantically involved which makes the story all the more raw in a way which only non-fiction can, I think. But anyway: years later, writer woman visits Nicaraguan man in his home country, having heard discriptions of Leon and Grenada and all the corruption of Somoza and family. So I too after having read of the architecture, the history and the poetry, found myself standing in the central square with cathedral, momuments and politically charged murals all around me. The bizarre feeling of having seen the place before even though I'd never really seen images- only imagined the place through reading the stories. I got a bit of a kick from sitting in the same cafe (or site replaced by cafe- I'm not sure) as Rigoberto Lopez Perez had sat writing and plotting to assassinate Somoza. I bloody love that stuff.

I spent a good evening and morning wandering round the city, visiting the 'Heroes and Martyrs Museum' which was both disturbing and hilarious as all good Central American museums seem to be. The exhibition was set in the old prison which was interesting , but was comprised of a vast collection of hand made manequins and dolls of people who either died in horrific ways for good causes or were the subject of legends involving possessed demons and/or dangerous witch-like women (purely on the grounds that men would hear said women call and mysteriously end up somewhere they didn't mean to be- fantastic excuse. Definitly dark magic. Definitly). I was also lucky enough to be given a tour by a guide who had eyes pointing in different directions and had obviously learnt a script in english with neither he nor I really understood. We were humouring each other. Once I tried to ask a question but it wasn't in his script so he didn't answer. Instead he said that I had the most beautiful blue eyes he had ever seen and would I like to come to dinner with him in return for scabies and a British visa (he didn't actually voice the last part). I politely declined, even though I'm still not totally sure he was saying it to me rather than someone 100 yards to my right.

In Leon I met a lovely pair of British boys who were able to tolerate me too. We began by consumating this friendship with sushi (not very comida typico, I know) beer and a terrible Nicaraguan club which I don't really remember. With the help of breakfasts fit for kings and a very organised American girl, we fought past the hangovers and set off to the beach for the night.

The Surfing Turtle Lodge is located on the tiny Isle de Brasiles off the Pacific side of Nicaragua:

View Larger Map

My unexpected win at volcano boarding qualified me for a free night´s stay which was rather nice. It took a truck ride, a tiny fishing boat and a short trek to get the the lodge which was pretty much the only thing on the island other than turtles. I spent the day getting horribly sunburnt and watching the boys fail to surf. I also went for a "light swim" a couple of times, which turned into exhausting battles against thousands of tons of ocean. Floating and chatting to a friend, I turned around to see the lodge and beach as a speck on the horizon, having been carried out quite far by the current... but then I turned to my right and saw a dolphin jumping out the water! I was super excited and no longer worried about potentially drowning, because it would probably be just like in films where dolphins come to carry people back to the shore. Chris, my swimming companion, ruined the moment by telling me that it probably meant sharks were nearby and I powered back towards shore like a mermaid possessed. That night we played cards, drank too much rum and sat by a beach bonfire. I saw shooting stars and fell into bed too close towards the time at which I woke up again.

Surviving the Capital and Surviving Volcano Boarding

Let it be known that I stayed in Tegucigalpa for two nights and lived to tell the tale.

The capital of Honduras is known for being a bit dodgy, like pretty much all Central American cities- but not so dodgy as San Pedro Sula. To get down from the Caribbean coast to Nicaragua, I had to take the bus through the city, and I thought I may as well stop over for at least a day to breakup the journey. I dislike travelling through towns without seeing them, and it's exhausting travelling for eight or more hours two days in a row. Plus I just really didn't think it would be that bad.

I'd heard about a nice B&B through a friend, so contacted them in advance- the plan being that they would pick me up from the bus station on Sunday night. Of course when I finally arrived, nobody was there. I sat around for half an hour on a bench inbetween two armed guards with machine guns, but gradually came to the realisation that nobody was coming for me. Rather than bawl my eyes out like the child whose mum forgets to pick her up from school, I got chatting to a Turkish guy who had also been on my bus. He'd had a reommendation for a hotel by two local girls, which was supposedly cheap, clean and safe.

We shared a taxi to this hotel, went in to investigate, and quickly left after asking the price: 70 US dollars each! Either the local girls' idea of cheap was different to ours, or they thought that we were loaded simply because we were foreign. And so our fate was in the hands of our taxi driver, who took us to several cheaper hotels whose only decoration were biohazard and despair. It was getting dark, and we eventually setlled on a place called the Hotel San Pedro (or some similar saint). It wasn't pretty, but it was cheap and a whole lot better than any others we'd seen.

We walked two minutes down the road to find the nearest diner, followed all the way by a crazy guy who had learnt some English. "Five dollar", he whinged over and over while we ignored him. "Five dollar is nothing for you rich folk". The further we walked,the nastier he became, calling me a prostitute and threatening to kill us both. I laughed it off at the time, but I didn't doubt that he was carrying a knife. He even followed us into the restaurant, to our irritation not receiving a single word of threat from the staff or diners. Eventually we retreated back to the hotel, stopping at a fried chicken shop- the only place open which sold beer.

Turkey was getting the 5am bus onto El Salvador the next morning.
      "You should try and get out of here tomorrow morning, too", he said.
      "Nahh It's not so bad-" But I was cut off at precisely that moment by the sound of gunshots and screaming just outside the hotel. We barricaded ourselves in one room and drank beer until we fell asleep.

Things seemed better in the daylight and I remained determined not to be intimidated by the place. I would stay a day and see the sights. But first, an attack of sensibility: I needed to stop being so stingy, get out of this area and pay a bit more for a hotel- especially now I was alone. I found a hotel which was about 13 pounds a night- a lot for Honduras, but actually pretty cheap in the grand scheme of things (Why hadn't we stayed here the night before?!). I settled in, had a wash and hailed a taxi into the centre.

I told the driver I wanted to go to the art gallery.
          "There's no art gallery here". He said,
          "But it said there was the national art gallery online?"
          "No. No art. No museums."
          "I just want to find some culture..."
          "Torture?"
          "No... not torture- culture"
So he took me to the centre and I hopped out next to a great big sign saying "National Art Gallery". Triumphant, I went in. Two pre-pubescent looking security guards with machine guns greeted me- or rather, grinned and gaffawed like Forest Gump until I threw some money at them and edged past. It was a nice, old building and I was able to survey my surroundings from an upstairs window. Not so bad- an attractive cathedral, lots of shops... a man running down the road with a handbag...and some posters inquiring after information on a murder.

Inside the gallery, there were some good paintings by Jose Antonio Velasquez, but other than that... well I think there's a reason why Honduran art isn't so famous. Still, I left after a good hour's wandering and daydreaming, before finding a food hall for lunch. The place was pretty busy, so I sat next to a woman and her son, who started chatting to me- fascinted about where I was from and why on earth I was in Tegucigalpa. She told me that many women there try to bleach their skin to look more like me, and I told her that many women in the UK paint their skin to look more like her.

That night I ate a rather depressing picnic of avocado sandwiches and yogurt alone in my hotel room, but for the first time in 4 months I had a TV, and was super excited to find that Friends was on in Spanish. Outside there was a ginormous thunderstorm, the thunder shaking the building every time. I was quite happy, just sitting watching, but later the TV programme changed to a musical playlist of "songs for sad occasions", and suddenly realised that I was sitting in the rain with "All By Myself" playing in the background. To top things off, I´d asked the security guard downstairs to re-fill my water bottle and the idiot had refilled it with tap water. I realised before too long, but suffice to say was not feeling so well that night.

The next morning I set off on the Tica Bus to Leon, Nicaragua. The border was pretty hilarious- basically a warehouse with a spare room for immigration. The driver took my passport off me, which was alarming, but I figured it was ok because the locals had done the same. He disappeared for a very long time with 300 Lempiras of my money, while I was harassed by children trying to carry my bag for a dollar. I snapped at them to leave me in peace and was surprised and ashamed to find that I´d actually upset one of them a bit. I got over it quickly once I saw him eyeing up the pockets of the person in front of me.

The customs officer (or man in a straw hat who had been hired for the day) told me to open up my bag for him to check, before having a rummage through my underwear and asking me suspíciously why I had a tortilla basket in there (good question, really). Despite the fact that my passport had disappeared, I had no immigration form either, he waved me through and I found myself in Nicaragua. The driver did return our passports, although weirdly there was no new stamp in it. So I may be here illegally. But never mind.

Leon is HOT but a pleasant, colonial- looking city to be in for a few days. Yesterday I threw myself down a volcano on a dirtboard, which seems to be the cool thing to do here. I got the fastest time out of the girls, which won me a free night´s accomodation, too. Who knew I was such an extreme sportswoman.

For some reason my jumpsuit was about 3 times the width of everybody else´s.

Under the seaaa

It took me two days to finally escape from Copan, only to find that La Ceiba was a pretty sketchy town not worth staying in after all. I should point out that Copan is really a sweet little place, worth visiting etc. but too much time there alone and too much time spent fussing over buses drove me a little bit mad.

The next morning I was set to leave at 7am. I made sure that I was on the designated street corner well before, and ready to throw myself in front of any bus that looked like it might leave me behind. At 7.10, a bus arrived, but its driver told me that he was not going my way and that my bus would come at 8. I asked around, but the locals gave me a whole mix of answers, and I wasn't sure what to believe. So I marched down to Suarmy the ticket lady (apt name) in the hope that she would enlighten me... but before I'd even walked in, I got a stream of abuse. "Don't come asking me for another ticket! You idiot, you missed the bus because you were late!.." The awful woman was actually shouting at me!

I may have gone a little bit mental. I shouted back that I was on the corner well before the time she gave me, and that she was the rudest woman I'd ever met. Then I took the ticket back and stormed out. Probably not the best thing to do, considering that I wouuld inevitably have to go back for another ticket later that day, but I was tired and tired of being imporisoned by an incapable bus system. I sat with my ridiculous bag in a cafe for several hours (the next supposed bus was at 2pm) reflected on the fact that I'd managed to have an argument in Spanish, and felt pretty pleased with myself. Eventually, with the help of the boy in a corner shop, I returned to Suarmy for ticket number 3. I grinned at her as I left and told her to have an excellent day. She grunted.

I was the first person on the bus, which left at 1.20... A couple of stops down the road, a six or seven year old boy with horribly disfigured limbs climbed on the bus and sat next to me. I spent the whole journey trying not to stare at him, while he spent the whole time purposefully staring at me. Eventually he fell asleep on me, and even I didn't have the heart to shrug him off.

The journey was long and hot. We passed through tiny shanty villages, whhere the children watched the buses from the sides of the road while their cows and horses munched on big piles of rubbish. There was a lot of empty space, and the towns were interesting to see, but noticably rougher than those I'd seen in Guatemala. When the bus stopped in one town, a grizzly old man pressed his face up against my window and stared at me, mouth open so that I could see his greying gums. I imagine that must be how fish feel in aquariums.

I changed buses in San Pedro Sula, supposedly the murder capital of the world (along with Mexico City, Guatemala City and all the rest...) finally arriving in La Ceiba, on the caribbean coast at around 9pm. One overpriced taxi later and I had arrived in what Lonely Planet described as "the best and only real backpacker's hostel in the town" and what I can only describe as hellish. I was the only guest in the Banana Republic Hostel; my bed was in a smell corridor and looked like it carried several kinds of diseases. The shower was a tap in the wall, which when I turned on, bugs came out of. Outside I could hear the obese owners arguing and car alarms in the street. I was so tired all I could do was laugh at how bad it was, wrap myself up in my sheet liner from home, and hope that my face didn't touch the pillow in the night. I was originally planning to spend a coupleof days in La Ceiba, but after those first impressions decided to set my alarm super early and catch the first ferry to the Bay Islands.

And that is where I have spent this week! Utila is a pretty gorgeous little island overrun with divers and dive companies. Most places offer free or discounted stay in their attached hotels for every day that you dive, and mine is pretty luxurious compared to the Banana Republic Hostel. Utila is one of those places where backpackers tend to collect and stay for longer than they intended. Most of the long-term residents along the main strip are travellers who worked their wayup to dive-instructor level and just never left. It's not a bad lifestyle but I think I would probably go a bit mad if I stayed forever. That said, the diving here is awesome- the water is 30 degrees plus, really clear, and it's also supposed to be the cheapest place in the world to do it.

It's been almost 6 years since I did my PADI open water in Indonesia, so I did a day's refresher session and then spent the week doing morning fun dives (as opposed to a course). I'd forgotten how much I love it- floating around 20 metres down with the fish is the perfect kind of sport. I've seen sting rays, eels, seahorses, lobsters, all kinds of bizzarre ad multi-coloured fish, AND- on Thursday we saw a whale shark! They're pretty rare and I'd been hoping to see one after hearing rumours of them being spotted this week. We were on the boat, inbetween dives, when the captain ponted and told us to jump in. So of course I did without really stopping to think about the fact that there was an 18metre shark beneath me. It was freaking huge, and so beautiful it didn't look real. He hung around for a minute before diving down. Probably irritated by the tourists getting all up in his gills.

Today was my best dive: it was just me and 4 instructors, so I had a lot more freedom to go where I wanted. We went down to look at a boat wreck and heard dolphins somewhere in the distance (but didn't see them unfortunately). Sometimes I think I would love to be a dive instructor- it's a pretty awesome lifestyle, but I am exhausted from all the swimming, 6am starts and nitrogen overload.

One of my favourite hobbies in Mexico and Guatemala was counting how many carbohydrates I was usually served on one plate. Copan was no exception- I had a lunch in the market place of chicken,rice, potatoes, pasta, bread rolls and of course tortillas. No wonder they're all so bloody fat. That's another reason why it's a nice change to be on the coast again- loads of fresh fish andveg. I'm gutted to have missed the lobster season though... I told the lobster I saw in the sea that I wanted to eat him. He didn't have much to say about it.

I spent the first half of the week eating out with some Canadians I met in the hotel. They were nice, but talked about Canadian things all the time, telling each other to "Shut. UP." every time someone said something remotely unusual or funny. And they definitly didn't get my British humour. Sorry guys if you're reading this, but I speak the truth! It was still lovely to meet you. For the last couple of days, I've been hanging round with a Swedish girl and a boy from Bristol, both of whom I can be sufficiently cynical and sarcastic with. Tomorrow we'll all get the boat together back to the mainland, share a taxi to the bus station, declare our love for one another and go our separate ways. Such is the life of a traveller!