Puerto Lindo and the Euro farce

Whilst in Panama City we came to a big decision about the next step of this journey.
Panama, to a degree, represents the end of the road, figuratively and literally; it's the last country in Central America and it's southern state, the Darien Province, is purported to be a lawless wilderness with few settlements, no roads and more ways to prematurely end your days than perhaps anywhere else on the planet.
The guidebook says that 'some travellers have reportedly made it across the Darien Gap by land but the fact is that some have not. Do not attempt this unless you have a death wish'.
Given that we think twice before nipping out of our hotel after dark for a bottle of water we needed no more encouragement to seek an alternative way of getting to Colombia.

There are really only two options as far as we could tell; fly from Panama City to Bogota or charter a yacht from the north coast via the San Blas archipelago to Cartagena in northern Colombia.
It was no contest.
Fly? Pah!

A youth hostel in the city was the place to make tentative reservations for your passage and we paid a small deposit to secure two of nine places on the "Manigua", a boat captained by Jose, a Spaniard.
With sailings only every five to six days it was more a case of selecting the boat that was departing when you wanted to travel as opposed to picking the best boat or more experienced captain.

In the lobby there was an ad for a German crewed boat which offered passage past the Darien Gap to the border and though we had an email conversation with the captain of this vessel we discounted it as not really being best suited to our needs.

With that exciting if slightly tenuous arrangement made, tenuous because we didn't know when Jose would set sail nor how we could contact him, we travelled by train to Colon on Monday morning where we would change for a bus to Puerto Lindo, anticipated departure point of the Manigua, assuming we could locate it and its captain.

The train was expensive but a real treat. We travelled alongside the Panama Canal and through dense jungle making it an utterly unique experience. No briefcases and umbrellas, standing room only or disaffected city types miffed at the latest fares increase on this little beauty, just excited and awe-struck gringos lapping up the free coffee and dodging the rivulets of water seeping through the domed roof of the observation car.

All too soon it was over and we were in Colon, a former colonial jewel but left to rot for nearly 100 years now and, my goodness, does it show.
Hawkers at the station advised we take a cab as the place is dangerous but we didn't really know where we wanted to go so, after a brief and heated exchange, I opted for us to walk.

If you can imagine the seediest and scummiest hell-hole you have ever had the misfortune to clap eyes on then I am sure that would look like heaven on earth compared to Colon.
If it were human it would be the love-child of Myra Hindley and Adolf Hitler and its culinary equivalent would be a mouldy and maggot infested apple.

We walked 400 yards into town marvelling at how anywhere could be quite so run down then spied a McDonalds, hardly Egon Ronay but at least we could get breakfast and then get the hell out of here.
Unfortunately it was closed, it wouldn't open until 1100, in some two and a half hours time, so we stood in silence, looking around for a flash of inspiration or better, to be spirited away somewhere that didn't feel so menacing.

Help arrived in the form of two policemen who, on learning we needed some nosebag, insisted on escorting us to a nearby hotel that had a buffet breakfast offer. Thank goodness they showed up. The streets we walked through were so poor and dirty and awash with the great unwashed that there's no way we'd have done it alone.

Sated in the form of unidentifiable pap and cold scrambled egg we next sought the bus station so I went outside to hail a cab. Quite why the driver was carrying a large wooden dining table in his boot was unknown but it did mean that Kerry was wedged in the back seat along with our four bags for the short journey.

In the first stroke of luck of the day we found our bus straight away and it left within five minutes of our boarding.
Adios Colon you fetid pit of depravity and despair, if I ever see you again it will be a warm day in hell.

90 jiggly minutes later we were in Puerto Lindo and enquiring at the inaccurately named "Hostal Wunderbar" if they had a private room. They did so but rooms built close to a swamp, of bamboo construction and with football sized holes in the walls are more for your hardy twenty something backpacker than your air-con and queen-sized bed loving correspondent so we politely declined and sought somewhere more up our strasse. On the way out of the hostal I asked a couple if they had problems with spiders in their room at night.
"No spiders, but there are lots of crabs on the floor at night".
Decision vindicated, nein danke!

With Puerto Lindo being a tiny place we ended up in the only acceptable accommodation, the extortionately priced "Bambu House" run by a couple of French Canadian travellers called Gen and Sebastien, fresh from their own eight month road trip from Mexico to Panama.
No matter, we're due to sail tomorrow if all works out well so we can handle one night of expensive luxury, we thought.
Oh, did I mention we had to sweat our way up a steep hill to get to the hotel, that the shower was cold and that the electricity was off in the whole town so we had no light, air con or fan?
Hmmmmm.

As we sat in our room wondering how a day which had started with such Panama Canal Railway based excitement had descended into stuffy murk there was a knock at our door preceding our first meeting with someone we would come to spend fully the next ten days with.

It was Arno, a 28 year old French chef from Paris who was spending eight months travelling from Guatemala to Chile with his mate Jerem, an optometrist.
They were trying to get to Colombia by yacht and wondered if we were too.

Ok, before I go on I need to warn you that this is going to get complicated and you'll have to concentrate to ensure you understand what transpired.
If you're the sort of person who watches a film and then turns to the person next to you to ask what just happened then you may as well stop reading at this point.

Arno and Jerem (hereafter collectively known as the Frenchies) had been in Puerto Lindo for a week trying to get passage on an affordable boat to the border. They had finally hung their hat on a German called Jens who was due to sail tomorrow and told us if we would join them then the price would drop by $50 each.
Excitedly I told them that I'd already corresponded with a Jens via email whilst in Panama City but he'd told me he was in El Porvenir in the San Blas.
He may have been then but he was now here and a meeting was arranged for that afternoon to see if we could do a deal after all.

In the meantime the agent we'd reserved with for Jose and the Manigua had emailed us with a telephone number. Helpful. Ish.
We don't have a phone.

Anyway, Jose was on the back burner for now as we made our way to the one restaurant in town, a waterfront place run by the slightly vacant Hans, ex-captain of Cartagena bound boats and his Argentinian wife.

Hans' joint was hilarious.
We were offered a menu but told he had nothing on it.
Asked what he did have he said he'd go to find out but returned ten minutes later to ask us what we wanted.

Here we met with Arndt, Jens' mate, who immediately poured cold water on our expectation to set sail tomorrow with news that Jens had secured a translation job which he must deliver by Wednesday night. Therefore the earliest they could leave would be Thursday.

Thursday? It was Monday afternoon, we had been in town for around two hours and had already seen everything this place had to offer.
I piped up and told Arndt that we were now a foursome and as such we held the cards. If they could not sail tomorrow then we would find another boat that could.
His facial expression told me he didn't like this Englishman trying to force his hand. There was an atmosphere and though we all remained polite and cordial there was strong distrust on both sides.

The Frenchies told us that the fräulein at the Wunderbar knew about boats so we walked back there to see about any other options. Our reception was frosty. Here again were the haughty English who visibly recoiled when shown the crab hut accommodation just two hours ago.

After some superficial pleasantries she made a call to the captain of the Tango, a six berth vessel leaving tomorrow. Last she heard it had two spaces left so we agreed that if that was still the case then the Frenchies should take them.
It was an irrelevant accord as those last two places had gone.

No matter for us, we had Jose to fall back on. Back at the Bambu I borrowed Sebastien's phone and dialled the number I'd been emailed.
A guy answered in Spanish and passed me to someone who spoke a little English:

"Hi, is the Manigua sailing tomorrow?"
"Que?"
"Is Jose's boat, the Manigua, sailing to Cartagena tomorrow?"
"No"
"Oh, we'll when is it going?"
"We don't know"

Exasperated, we sat in the communal area at the Bambu and discussed our options, agreeing that they were evaporating quicker than a raindrop in the Atacama. We began to understand why the Frenchies had been here for a week and began to fear we would too.

Kerry and I toddled off to Hans' to mull our situation over and whilst dining on his quite delicious king prawns we saw a chap looking agitated and apparently looking for someone.
I asked if he was ok and it turned out he was the captain of the Tango and he was two passengers short for his sailing tomorrow.

Oh really? Well, captain David, I may be able to help you out there. We are looking for a boat so maybe we can take their place?
He agreed on the proviso the missing two didn't show up on the last bus and if they did not he would come to the Bambu later and brief us.

Later that evening David came to see us and told us we were in and to report to the dock at 0800 next morning.
This was great news but we were not really prepared. Nevertheless we had to accept, we couldn't stay in Puerto Lindo indefinitely.

An hour later David was back. He'd found his missing people so he was sorry but we were out!

Despondently we turned in for the night only to be roused by a knock at the door. It was Arndt and Jens armed with an offer: sleep on their boat on Wednesday night for free, sail Thursday AM and arrive at the Colombian border on Sunday for $325.
Despite our reservations about just how trustworthy these guys were we struck a deal to include the Frenchies.
We were sorted.

This gave us time to secure provisions so that cold day in hell arrived and we drove to Colon on Tuesday to go to the supermarket with Arno and Sebastien.
It was also an opportunity to withdraw cash to pay for the trip as there was no such facility in Puerto Lindo.
When I tried to do so I got an error message but Kerry was successful so I didn't think too much of it.

When we got back to Puerto Lindo that afternoon we learned that two captains had been to see us with offers; Frank, a Frenchman and...............Jose!
We had lurched again from a choice of one to a choice of three, though of course, had shaken with the Germans.

Frank came back later and spoke eloquently and elegantly about "Amande" and came across as a really nice guy. The only drawback was that his captain was in Panama City until Thursday so we couldn't sail until Friday.
Oh, and we'd shaken with the Germans.

That evening at Hans' we got talking to an English guy called Ed who was here for a boat to Cartagena too.
"Which boat are you on?"
"The Manigua".

This was great news, I could tell I was going to get along with Ed. Originally from Leicestershire, a Leicester City fan, ex of the stock exchange and most recently having spent five years as a banker in Singapore but having given it up to go travelling before opening a business in the UK.
Meeting people like Ed is one of the great joys of travelling.

At last Jose then made an appearance. He was a nice chap and had an absolutely top drawer yacht but couldn't speak one word of English. This worried us because surely to be able to communicate with your passengers is vital on the grounds of safety, not to mention to ensure they get the most out of the trip.
We had lots of questions such as where do we sleep, do you provide life jackets, what sort of food do you provide, do we get to go snorkelling etc so he grabbed Frank to translate.
That Frank did so with good grace when he was vying for our business too said a lot about him and pretty much made our minds up to go with him.

Though we had of course shaken hands with the Germans.

Exhausted by this maelstrom of deals and plot twists we agreed a fee with Frank, for Ed to join us and arranged for Frank to explain the situation to Jose when he returned from wherever he'd just disappeared to.
We would deal with the Germans which we achieved by using that most manly and honourable method of communication; we sent them a text from Arno's phone.

Yes, I know that's pathetic but there were mitigating circumstances. The phone signal in PL was dire so the chances are we would have got cut off mid let-down had we called, we had grave reservations about putting to sea in their 32 ft boat at all and we were still consumed by distrust.
On top of that the Frenchies had spent the day with them on Saturday and had sailed to a nearby island with them before disappearing into the interior. When they returned the Germans had left so our boys were marooned. Seeing a kayak on the shore they stole it and began to paddle back to the mainland but immediately fell under a hail of gunfire. They ran for their lives into the jungle and hid out all night before swimming for 90 minutes back to the mainland at sunrise.
This is a true story and a big factor in our ability to renege.

Wednesday morning was a horror show.
Jose arrived at 0800 spitting Spanish barbs in our direction. He was livid we'd let him down and also that we'd convinced Ed to desert too. It was uncomfortable to be the subject of his ire even though the situation was hardly all of our making.

An hour later Arno and I bumped into Arndt and Jens and spent almost a full hour explaining ourselves, a bum-clenching squirm fest that I have no desire to ever repeat.
To their credit the Germans were magnanimous and merely sought to understand what they could do differently to ensure they keep future custom. Had they been so affable and humble from the off then I don't doubt we'd have sailed with them.

With a day to kill Kerry and I sat at Hans' and had to endure his Argentinian wife laying into us for letting Jose down. I'd had enough of this by this point and left her in no uncertain terms that she should keep her hooter out of our affairs, paid for my piña juice in coppers and boycotted the place thereafter.
This saw us eat dinner that night in a local woman's house having been tipped off by Jerem that she'll cook for you for just $3 per meal providing she has five hours notice.

With all this ill-feeling directed towards us I desperately needed some space and spent all afternoon alone down by the waterfront considering the madness of the past couple of days while Kerry swung in a hammock atop the Bambu.
Also on my mind was why I couldn't get my hands on my cash. Not only would the cash point not pay out but checking my account online told me my account was frozen.

This was the background then to our negotiation of the infamous Darien Gap.
Adventure not dementia? You bet!

Panama City

To enter Panama City from the west sees you cross the Panama Canal by means of the grandly titled "Bridge of the Americas", a fantastic early glimpse of one of the principal reasons for coming here at all.
Our excitement was high what with that and the first sight of skyscrapers since Mexico City; we were indeed back in civilisation.

One bus station serves the city, a picture of chaotic organisation with literally hundreds of buses blasting their horns, manoeuvring or just laying over between services.
Once we'd been through the charade of luggage reclamation we made for the taxi rank seeking the Hotel Andino, booked online that morning.

The first cab picked us up and drove just ten yards before the driver asked us to get out again because he didn't know our hotel.
This is apparently common here, drivers don't so much have 'the knowledge' as the lack of it and we were careful to be sure they knew the place we wanted before future rides.

We drove through utter slums on the way to the hotel, Skid Row would look like Malibu against one particular road, but to be fair to the Andino it looked ok from the outside.
Inside was a different matter. Restaurant? Closed. Wi-fi? Not at the end of the hall. Hot water? No. View? Of a razor wire fence. Tiny semblance of a welcoming or homely feel to the room? Not on your nelly.

After going out for dinner and one incinerated fish, alleged chicken and terrifying walk back to the hotel trying to avoid the menacing figures lurking or lying prostrate in the shadows later, we vowed to check-out next morning and find a better place to stay.

We changed hotels alright but it's debatable whether three flights of stairs, disco next door and being on a chicken bus route with an 0530 start-up was an improvement. The racket chicken buses make has to be heard to be believed and you have to wonder too who is around at that early hour to warrant half a dozen blasts on the air horn?

The old part of town is called Casco Viejo and offers a fascinating insight into the past, a little look-see at the present and sneaky peak into the future.
Every building is a colonial beaut and they are in varying states of decay. What is most interesting though is that somebody somewhere is investing millions of dollars in a restoration programme and there are scores of separate works going on to bring the place back to the grandeur of its heyday.

Completed restorations are absolutely beautiful and when the whole lot is finished it will be truly magnificent.
Add the canal, the waterfront, classy shopping malls and investment from the likes of Donald Trump and the Hard Rock franchise and you can see that something big is happening in Panama.

That 'something big' turns out to be the extension of the canal, the full details of which were made apparent to us during a visit to the excellent Panama Canal museum.
The upshot of the extension is more capacity, bigger ships, higher tolls.
The average toll is currently $30,000 per ship but this will rise when the new locks open in 2014 and the current annual revenue of somewhere around £450m is expected to triple.
Incidentally, the highest toll ever paid (it is determined by vessel weight) was $200,000 by a French cruise liner; the lowest was 36 cents by a guy called Richard Halliburton who swam through in 1928.

Being such a forward thinking and cosmopolitan city Panama City offers Hop-On/Hop-Off city bus tours, a great way to see the sights whilst resting the creaking old bones.
We took a tour of the new part of the city, skyscraper central, also visiting the ruins of the original Spanish settlement from the 1500s.
With a high proportion of new world gold passing through the isthmus of Panama this was prime pirate territory and the original city was the focus of Welshman Henry Morgan. I understand he went by the name of 'Jones the Cutthroat'.

All this took care of our first day in the capital but we needed to eat so went into the restaurant next door to our hotel to ask if they had fresh veg.
"Si, si"
"What? Carrots, broccoli?"
"Si, si".

An hour or so later we returned and ordered the delicious looking meat from the pictorial menu and fresh vegetables.
"I don't have vegetable, only salad"
"But you said an hour ago you had vegetables"
"No. I only have salad"

This type of exchange typifies our time in Central America. I don't know if we are mad, they are mad or just that the whole continent has lost the plot.
Fortunately we find it all hilarious, though that's not to say we don't hanker for a bit of half decent service every now and then.

Saturday was a day we had long looked forward to, our visit to the canal proper and specifically the Miraflores Locks.
Before that however I had to try to repatriate myself with my iPhone charger, left plugged into the wall at the previous hotel when we left yesterday morning.
To cut a long story short it proved to be irretrievable. Torn between cursing my own stupidity and wanting to flay the opportunistic bar steward who had made off with it, I consoled myself that we were at least in a city with an apple store, though it was a painful $30 to part with.

The Miraflores Locks are one of three sets on the 60km long waterway and the visitor centre and viewing platform allow you to watch ships pass through.
We secured a great position by elbowing a few chest height natives out of the way and watched agog as the first two ships did their stuff.
It took about an hour for them to pass us out of a total time to transit the canal of around ten hours.
As I stood there I couldn't help but think how much my old Dad would have loved to have seen this. He loved his ships from his youth in Liverpool and this would have been right up his alley.

You might think we've seen enough of buses for a lifetime but our 48 hour pass included a night tour so after exercising our one culinary option by eating next door to our hotel again we braved the Panamanian night to see the city in lights.

Tonight's meal was worse than before. In a piece of misleading advertising that would put even High St burger joints to shame, the plump and juicy steak I pointed to on the menu materialised as a 1mm thick, breaded piece of pork. It also disagreed with poor Kerry to such a degree that she was up in the early hours with the Eartha Kitts.

Anyway, the night tour, a great way to spend a couple of hours looking at the twinkling lights of a fine city from a road called The Causeway which links the mainland with a couple of islands 6km offshore.
In accordance with the need for all vehicular transport on this continent to be late we met with gridlock in the city centre towards the end of the tour and sat immobile for 25 minutes. The long and tiring day thus ending on as frustrating a note as it had begun.

Sunday was a day off, we have them occasionally. We lazed about in the room in the morning and then dodged heavy rain showers and went to the shops in the afternoon.

High on our shopping list were sea-sickness tablets (explanation to follow in subsequent blog), a tricky thing to purchase when you only know the Spanish for "sea" and your farmacist is Chinese.
Once we'd acted out being on a boat and vomiting, to the great amusement of other shoppers, we got there and set about purchase number two: a neck pillow for Kerry.
This one was beyond our youthful shop assistant and was a tricky request for us to act out so assistance was sought in the shape of the assistant's one-eyed father.

His sales technique was rather theatrical to put it mildly: lots of "oooooooohh" noises, jerky movements which may have been bows and rabbiting in Mandarin accompanied by a humorous smile. No neck pillow but with us all cracking up in the end it's fair to say everyone's day was brightened by the exchange.

To compensate ourselves for the culinary abomination of the previous day we travelled to a swanky part of town so that we could get some veg inside us.
We have not yet worked out why the local markets are awash with vegetables whilst expecting to find them in most restaurants is pure folly.

Creamed spinach and courgettes set us up nicely for the 0715 departure by train (yes, T-R-A-I-N, ie, not a bus!!) to Colon next morning.
Toot toot! "All aboard for a one-way ticket to Insanity Central. Change there for a dose of incredulity, armed escorts and hasty exits. Passengers with anticipated connections to Colombia should expect to meet with long delays, pirates of German, Spanish and French origins and, by their innocent and uninformed actions, to lower the reputation of Englishmen abroad.

Bocas del Toro and David

Another day, another border crossing and there was no super-duper Transcontinental bus to take us from Costa Rica to Panama, the land of fetching hats and possibly the greatest engineering feat the world has ever seen, so we had to do this one off our own bat.

We took breakfast in Cahuita on Monday morning in a peculiar place run by a black family who hadn't quite got going when we turned up.
There were various members of the family milling about in what we took for their own dining room, including a lady in a nightdress and curlers and a poor old fellow who looked as though he'd had a stroke.
As he sat there looking out onto the main street of Cahuita I felt so sorry for him and it struck me how lucky we are, not only to be fully functioning but to be in a position to travel the way we are doing.
Ever the pragmatist, Kerry pointed out both that not everyone wants to travel and that if you're going to have a stroke where better to be than a slow-paced Caribbean village?
Fair dos but it doesn't hurt to consider your good fortune every once in a while.

We decided to head to a place called Bocas Del Toro, an archipelago just a few miles off the mainland of Panama, for want of anywhere more exciting within range as much as anything.

The first leg of the journey was by local bus to the border town of Sixaola and though Costa Rica is far too civilised to operate chicken buses, two hours on the sort of bus one would catch around an average English town is quite enough.
I've said this before but we think we have damaged our backsides so prolonged periods sat on them is not much fun.

At the border we had our passports stamped by Costa Rican authorities and then had to trudge about 400 yards by means of an old railway bridge across a river to enter Panama. Whilst this sounds simple enough, the fact that one could either walk on the sleepers between the railway lines (a couple missing, some rotten looking, many uneven) or on loose planks on either side of the lines (prone to unexpected movement) it was anything but.

I started out between the railway lines with my case on my head but after almost misplacing my footing a couple of times I tried my luck on the planks.
We both made it across without incident but as border crossings go it surely must see its share of casualties.

Once into Panama we needed two further buses to reach the port of Almirate, gateway to the Bocas.
The first of these buses was like being in a school disco with the driver playing a medley of 80s songs mixed with a pumping beat.
Through much of Central America we've heard so much music from our youth, it's been great.

The final part of the journey was the best; high-speed panga out to Isla Colon, appropriately named given the amount of 'dunnies' which were positioned in shacks over the water. I think if I had to totter down a rotten looking boardwalk to a shack for my nighttime "gypsy's kiss" I might think twice before that second glass of stagnant water.

Isla Colon wasn't the most prepossessing of places. It was cloudy, chock full of gringo backpackers, many of whom had gone 'bush' - sporting dreadlocks, bare feet, sitting in the street playing bongos and it just had the wrong vibe for us.
It's a fine line: too remote or no gringos whatsoever and we feel conspicuous; too many gringos, particularly those living on tuppence ha'penny per day and we don't like that either.

Despite our reservations we had gone to a lot of effort to get here so we found a room, with the help of a dreadlocked El Salvadorean we'd met on the bus, and went out for a gastronomic splurge.  Our mantra of 'meat inland - seafood by  the sea' was played out in the form of langoustine and lobster and the bill was higher than that of the room!

Next day we were still consumed by apathy but again reasoned that we had to give the place a chance.
After a little look around we took a bus up to the north of the island to a place called Bocas Del Drago and supposedly the best beach for swimming without the threat of being caught in a Dutch Antilles bound riptide.

It was still cloudy so it wasn't the greatest beach weather but we did come across a place called 'Starfish Beach' which was a good place to snorkel. Some of the starfish must have been 12-14 inches across and I hadn't realised how many different sorts there are.

A couple of cafes had set up on the sand but sitting on their chairs didn't seem to render us safe from sand fleas.
Why my Limey bod is so irresistible to anything in the Americas with a mandible is unclear but it seems to be so.
The only satisfaction I have is that Kerry is also becoming more and more susceptible so I figure that any that bite her wont bite me, plus, by way of wiling away quiet evenings, we can scratch each others inaccessible itches.
That's true love for you.

That evening's meal was the antithesis of the night before with a chicken thigh, thimble full of beans and tea spoon of rice masquerading as a filling meal. That it was served to us, the only diners in the joint, by a transvestite seemed somehow appropriate. Personally I feel we should have gone for the sausage, or at least the meat and two veg.

We were very grateful for street vendors outside selling skewers of meat, particularly as they were only a dollar each and our tranny meal was so paltry we had to buy eight to satisfy our appetites.

A dollar each? Yes, Panama uses US currency which is very useful for us as we need to load up on it before heading south.
It's officially called the 'Balboa' here, nothing to do with Sly Stallone, Vasco Nunez de Balboa was first mate on the ship which discovered Panama in 1502 and 'twas he who 'discovered' there was another, rather large, ocean on the west coast twelve years later, claiming it and every piece of land it touched for Spain.

With Isla Colon failing to inspire us we made for the mainland next morning and the city of David, a convenient waypoint en route to Panama City.
Once we were back over the water we took a bus across country, arriving at about 1500, a jolly jaunt of five to six hours in all.

This was our first proper opportunity to see the Panamanian countryside and it was a true joy to behold.
We travelled through a verdant, mountainous wonderland of twisting roads and low-lying cloud, thick with tropical vegetation.
For the habitationally curious among you, most houses seem to be of wooden construction and are situated on stilts.

Our bus, a little 20 seater, was pretty full when we boarded so Kerry and I ended up sitting apart and the lady I found myself sharing the rather inadequate seating with could politely be described as having child bearing hips.
Kerry fared slightly better although her seat mate had apparently forgotten to administer deodorant that morning.

And so to David, Panama's second city and an opportunity to pass some time with some childish jokes.
"So you're going to David are you? After all we've been through"
"Do you expect David to be hot?"
"I bet you'll like David better than me"

Oh, how the time flies when you ran out of worthwhile conversation two months and six countries ago!

It rained on arrival but we opted to walk to find an hotel in the interests of frugality. We located an absolute pearler in the Hotel Cervantes and then went out for a little wander, working out quickly that the Lonely Planet is right, there isn't anything here to hold your attention for long.
It's just a large town; it reminded me a bit of Wellingborough only there were more 'tat' shops.
We did find a great restaurant with a friendly waiter who couldn't comprehend that we didn't hail from either Liverpool FC or Manchester City but, that pleasant little interlude aside, David didn't do it for Kerry.

With some relief then we boarded a swanky bus on Thursday morning bound for Panama City.
We're four and a half hours in to that journey and despite being admonished for using the luggage rack to stow luggage (go figure) all is well and, we hope, unabated excitement awaits us in  what is labelled Central America's most cosmopolitan city.

Costa Rica: Ever sweeter in Cahuita

With 50% of our party still completely abuzz at the previous days retail therapy in the name of Reef Fanning flip flops and the other half irascible due to the nocturnal habits of our French neighbours, we made good our escape from the city and headed once more for the Caribbean.

If we've learnt anything about ourselves over these past months it's that these tepid waters and golden sands are what really does it for us. There's a much more laid-back vibe there compared to where we've been on the Pacific side and it's also a Brucie Bonus that the water isn't wont to pound you to within an inch of your existence either.

There were a couple of places to choose from really, Cahuita or Puerto Viejo de Talamanca and after careful consideration of the scant information available to us we took a punt on Cahuita.
The bus station was only a few blocks away so we took Shank's Pony, my case catching my heel on every fourth step and flipping over onto its wrong side whenever one wheel or the other was confronted by even a microscopic obstacle.

My mood was dark anyway because of a lack of sleep. I'd nodded off all well and good at about 2200 last night but was awoken at 0325 by next door who seemed to be checking out early to catch a flight. The couple and their seven or eight year old daughter made an inordinate amount of noise considering the ungodly hour, mother sneezing, daughter gabbling and father spending about 15 minutes summoning  phlegm from somewhere around his ankles by the sound of it before theatrically discharging it into the sink cum spittoon.
Sneezing you can forgive (although I defy anyone not to want to strangle the protagonist after listening to 25 or more straight off) but the child should either have had a sock stuffed in her mouth or told that if she doesn't shut it she'll be wing-walking back to Charles de Gaulle. As for Monsieur Mucus, one can only guess at how that sounded from within their room when through the wall it sounded like someone was hoovering up jelly.

The bus station raised our spirits somewhat though. No grimy street corner or chaotic market place for Costa Rican buses. No sir, they have a proper bus station with signs and indicators so you can see what's going on without relying on young men shouting incoherencies at 300 mph.
There was our bus stop, next bus at 1000 - 20 minutes time and there's the ticket office window.
"Two tickets to Cahuita please"
"Standing room only on the 1000. Seats available on the 1200".

Hmmmmm. A tricky decision. Stand up for four hours or sit and wait for two and a half before we even get going. After a quick conflab we decided we'd go for the standing tickets, at least we'd feel we were on the move and we could always sit on our packs.
We weren't alone in having standing tickets, there were about ten of us in all and two of them decided that standing or even sitting on the floor wasn't for them; they lay prostrate in the aisle and even appeared to nod off - a triumph of self interest over decorum.

It was even more of a relief than usual to arrive at our destination and it caught us somewhat unawares as we pulled into the unpaved bus station at Cahuita.
I shoved my iPhone into my pocket with earphones dangling down and went to the hold to get our cases. I had to bend down to get them out and when I had successfully done so I stood in the hot sun aware of a non-Kerry shaped presence to my left. In the space of half a second I saw he had a bag, that he was putting an iPhone in his bag, that this must be my iPhone and had retrieved said iPhone from his bag with an accompanying "Oi, getcheranzoffmefone".

It all happened so quickly I honestly don't know whether he pick-pocketed me or whether I'd dropped it and he was opportunistically helping himself to it. Whichever it was I know that I was a hairs breadth away from losing probably the second most important thing I have after my passport. I can state quite categorically that I couldn't give a monkeys if I lost my main pack and if I lost Kerry, well, I'm sure she'd turn up safe and sound somewhere.
No, if I lost my iPhone it would be the end of this blog, no keeping tabs on the footy, no emailing my old mother each week, no scrabble, no facebooking to keep in touch with the lamb chops, no camera and no iPod.
It just doesn't bear thinking about and I genuinely felt Tom and Dick for an hour afterwards as I considered how close I'd come to my personal doom.

We found an absolute belter of an hotel right on the beach with wonderful sea view and balcony after a quick search around the village and after checking in went straight out to cool our boiling selves in the Caribbean.
The beach was a classic tropical paradise with thick jungle providing the backdrop to the golden sand. Palm trees and banana plants were leaning out to try to outdo each other in the quest to gain as much sunlight as possible.
It felt like we'd been parachuted into Utopia and was very much another feather in Costa Rica's cap as far as we were concerned.

The beach was about four kilometres long so we went for a walk about halfway up it to stretch our legs. On the way back we were just approaching a group of people when some howler monkeys in the trees nearby began to roar, sending all of us into reflexive spasms of terror before we realised what it was. These monkeys sound like jaguars or leopards and come dusk they start to get agitated and.......go ape.

The village was really quaint; one paved road about 300 yards in length and four unpaved roads leading off it, enough restaurants to give some choice but not too many, a couple of bars, two mini-supermarkets and a handful of hotels. It was compact, safe, warm and friendly. Suffice to say we loved it.

The Cahuita National Park entrance was next to our hotel and takes the form of an 8.3km walk inside the jungle which skirts the beach.
We set out on Saturday morning and had a thoroughly enjoyable three or four hours hike interspersed with animal spotting.
The fauna seemed to come in waves with crabs first up - big, horrible blue and red ones scuttling about all around us, then we saw a couple of snakes, one deadly viper, then it was into spider-land.
Much as we both abhor spiders and almost came to freezing on the spot when surrounded by them and their webs it was somehow therapeutic to be able to observe them at very close quarters. I think our imaginations were beginning to run wild so to see some in the wild, black and yellow striped legs and all, wasn't such a bad thing in retrospect.

After the spiders we were treated to about a dozen howler monkeys putting on a show for us, eating fruits, swinging about and trying to position themselves directly above to perform who knows what mischief on us.
They're amusing to watch but you've got to be wary around them, particularly  when there's a possibility of being shit on from a great height. Once in this lifetime is quite enough thank you!

The last thing we saw was a raccoon, sitting on the trunk of a palm tree extending out towards the sea as though posing for National Geographic.

We caught the bus back to town once we'd completed the full route and then spent the rest of our time there relaxing, lounging on the beach and declining the kind offers of the local populace to purchase marijuana.

We absolutely loved Cahuita. It had the perfect set-up for us as described earlier and our time in Costa Rica has been some of the most memorable of the trip so far. Also, I wasn't bitten once by anything during our time here - a first!
The only regret we have is that we haven't seen any colourful birds in the wild: toucans, macaws or parrots, which is surprising, we thought they'd be everywhere.
Perhaps Panama can sate that desire in us?

Into Costa Rica

Ask someone to sum up Central America in three killer statements and the chances are you'll get something along the lines of "political turmoil", "Panama Canal" and "Tropical rainforest" in return.
The next leg of our journey would see us enter the country most associated with the latter, whilst leaving the one perhaps most synonymous with the former.

With no real plan other than to pass through Costa Rica en route to Panama  and South America, we toyed with a couple of options before deciding to head for a national park called Monteverde. Here we could look forward to seeing the spectacular flora and fauna that the country is famous for and there were some adrenaline junkie pursuits to indulge in too should we feel so inclined.

Our digs in Rivas in Nicaragua were close to the Tica Bus offices and we therefore discovered a rather convenient 0900 departure to San Jose for Monday morning. Queuing to buy tickets, I spoke to the young lady behind us learning that she was from Bristol (partly given away by her "I Love Bristol" bag) and also that she was just coming to the end of her and her fellas' nine week tour of Panama and Nicaragua. It's lovely to share your stories with other travellers, even if the only other things I'm likely to have in common with an osteopath called Rupert is that we suck oxygen and we pee standing up.

When buying the tickets I was quite clear in asking if the bus was direct to Monteverde. The answer was unequivocally in the affirmative but just to be sure I checked by stating/asking "so no change?".
Kerry and I were slightly surprised that the bus would be passing through the very place we wanted but reasoned that perhaps the chicken bus gods felt we needed a break after recent traumas and were about to lay us a golden egg.

We waited by the side of the road with Rupe and Amelia, a couple of Chinese backpackers and five surf nazis from New Zealand who were travelling down the Pacific coast of Central America with their boards.
And we get hacked off with our cases!

Half an hour late the bus pulled up and the first thing the driver said on seeing our tickets was "Change at Estrilla".
I queried this in light of my earlier conversation with the ticket wench but just received a lengthy and unintelligible response so slunk onto the bus not really knowing what the day would entail.

The border was only 20 minutes away so we were soon there and through that, once we'd proved we had a flight home and once the ignoramus who dealt with us had obliterated my Cuba passport stamp with a Costa Rica one.

The scenery became even more lush and verdant as we headed south, exactly what you'd expect, though there was still no indication as to where we should get off or what, if anything, we would connect with.
A chap got on and was selling empanadas (little pies) and when the bus stopped to let him off I went and asked the driver if this was where Kerry and I should alight. He waved me back to my seat as if to say "no way Jose" but we didn't pull away and 30 seconds later he'd caught my eye in his rear view mirror and was maniacally gesticulating for us to skidaddle after all.
I have no idea what all that was about on account of my pitiful grasp of the lingo but how I craved fluency at that moment so that I could question his incomprehensible actions fully.

So here we were again, standing by the side of the Pan-American highway, hoping to be able to reach a place roughly 40km away but not knowing if it were possible or what would follow.
Over the road was a bar/cafe and three men sitting under a tree so we crossed and as we did so the most toothless and leathery of them asked if we were heading to Monteverde, if so the bus would be here in 35 minutes.

Elation!

Making use of the facilities in our vicinity by way of killing that time, we ordered a couple of empanadas, a coffee and an iced tea from the cafe and sat discussing how exciting all this was and how there was nothing on this earth we'd rather be doing right now.
(I withheld anything pertaining to cycling, the world cup or Kylie Minogue and a vat of caramel, I didn't want to spoil the mood)

A taxi pulled up and I asked him out of curiosity how much he'd charge to take us directly to Monteverde. Perhaps, if it wasn't prohibitively expensive, it might be worth doing?
If there is a world record for distance coffee is exhaled then I may have troubled it when he said it would be $75.

Happy with the bus option we sat and nibbled our pies and sipped our boiling coffees. Our ice teas were largely untouched.
Then, in a cloud of dust appeared a ratty old bus with "Monteverde" emblazoned in the windscreen and pulled up 20 yards away.
In 30 seconds flat I had asked for our bill, paid, we had picked up our backpacks and our main cases, shoved them in the hold and were boarding that bus.
The accompanying language to our miraculous embarkation was choice, mainly colloquial and screeched at a pace that would make the commentary of the final furlong of the Grand National seem sedentary.

But we were on and with only 40km to our goal we reckoned on being there within the hour, affording us ample time to source suitable lodgings and to relax a little before dinner.
Then the road ran out.

Well, it didn't so much run out as become an unpaved mountain pass. For the Northamptonshireans among you think Stonebrick Lane near Little Harrowden only with hairpin 20% climbs. Devonians, imagine an unpaved Peak Hill only 20 times as long.
It's amazing how these buses get up these roads but of course, it did, affording us spectacular views as we progressed.

About halfway up the driver pulled over and invited a young chap in the front seat to take over at the wheel.
We initially thought this was some harebrained mates thing:
"Here, I'd love to have a go driving your bus one day Pablo me old china."
"No problemo Juan. Let's do it tomorrow, halfway to Monteverde, away from the prying eyes of the inspectors etc"
But it turned out to be a training session for the young chap before he's let loose on his tod.

How long do you think our 40km journey took then? Even on unpaved roads, uphill, you might think that two hours would be doable. Sadly not. 3 hours 10 minutes we were on that bus, achieving an average speed of about 9mph. And talk about the journey to the back end of beyond. During those hours we passed through places that made Dartmoor look like a metropolis.

On arrival in the town of Santa Elena, main settlement of the Monteverde area, we were amazed. For starters there were houses and people about, something we'd seen precious little of for three hours, the roads were paved, tour agencies were everywhere, shops, hotels, restaurants, a big LCD screen advertising bungee jumps.
How bizarre after the terrain we'd passed through to get here.

We had no room booked but our bus was met by a gaggle of hoteliers all keen to secure our business. Winner of ours was a nice lady talking in amusing pidgin English who omitted to mention that her place was up a steep unpaved road.
Nevertheless it was a pearler. Ostensibly a hostel, it was well-appointed, included brekkie, had a view of the Pacific from our room (yes, we were that high) and had a hot shower -all for $25 per night.
That our louvre windows wouldn't close and a New Zealander and a German talked long into the night outside our room was a mild inconvenience we choose to ignore.

The whole point of coming here was to do the Costa Rican touristy thing so first on the agenda next day was a 3km hike over bridges through the jungle canopy.
If that description doesn't do it for you then think "I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here" when the celebrity walks to freedom or elimination or whatever they call it. Those bridges, that's what we were walking on about 100 feet up.

The great thing about being 4000 feet + above sea level is that the temperature drops significantly. It was only about 23/24 degrees here so my shirt was notably unwringoutable and I'd go so far as to say I felt comfortable for the first time in a long time.
That changed when we went in the butterfly enclosure but it was an interesting inversion of the usual situation where it's boiling outside and you go in to an air-con room; it was 10 degrees hotter for the 45 minutes we spent ogling the massive and colourful insects fluttering about us and a great relief to get outside again.

We had a few minutes to kill before our transport back to town so we went to the hummingbird garden where we were utterly mesmerised by what we saw. Hummingbirds are the tiniest little fellows you've ever clapped eyes on, about as big as your thumb, and they flit and skit about like chihuahuas on hallucinogens. Beautifully coloured in blues and greens and more magical to behold than possibly anything you've ever seen, we were entranced and only sorry we didn't have more time to ogle the little blighters.

We rested that afternoon before the sojourn highlight, the evening jungle walk. This was a guided walk through the pitch black jungle where we could hope to see all manner of things courtesy of our expert leader. It was a bit scary at first, apparently 95% of animals in the jungle are nocturnal and we could expect to see tarantulas, scorpions and poisonous vipers and frogs, but we soon overcame our fears and enjoyed charging about when reports came in for the various creatures.
We saw: a two-toed sloth, a poisonous yellow frog, two scorpions, two tarantulas, a coatimundi, two green vipers and some glow-in-the-dark fungus on a log as well as innumerate insects. We even all turned our torches off at one point and walked a few yards in the absolute pitch to get a feel for how dark it gets in there.
In our group was a young lady and it turned out that she was born in Exeter and her mum lives in Exmouth. Small world!

After that jam-packed day we headed for San Jose and a dose of city life by way of antedote to our eco-tourism adventure.

The early morning bus direct to San Jose on Wednesday was a joy: comfortable, roomy, cheap, a peaceful environment, with just one notable exception; the chap in front's propensity to drop his guts every ten minutes or so. From experience I'd say he had an intolerance to milk or dairy products, either that or something had crawled up his sheriff's badge and died without him realising.

Fortunately the bus windows opened so we could deal with each 'fresh' blast and this also afforded great photographic opportunities as we sped through the quite glorious countryside.
Not only was the scenery wonderful but rubbish was conspicuous by its absence. At last, after months of travelling through litter-strewn countries we have finally reached another where they care enough for the environment to clean up after themselves.
Hallelujah!
This, the houses, the cars and the cut of the populace's gib all told us we were very much no longer in Nica, Belize, Guate or Honduras. No, we were somewhere on the up, somewhere seemingly going places.

As we approached San Jose we saw we were entering the first "proper" city we'd seen since Mexico City. Yes, Guatemala City, Tegucigalpa and Belize City are cities but they all resemble old mother Hubbards pantry on a lean day. Here there were people purposefully striding about, they looked affluent and European, it looked a bit like home or the USA.
Much as we've loved seeing these other places I think we were both ready for a bit of something more resembling 21st century Blighty than 1960s Kiev.

In the taxi on the way to our hotel, which turned out to be closed for renovations (echoes of Granada) we learned of that mornings earthquake perhaps only 40 miles from where we were on our bus.
We sought a room but guessed we were in the wrong part of town when the first hotel we tried was offering rooms for the whole night or for periods of three hours and the second one, when asked if we could see the room, responded with a flat "no".
No? What, no I can't see the room? That's preposterous. Who is going to take a room without seeing it? How bad must it be?

We ended up in a hostel which had a few swanky private suites, our one being named "The Royal Suite".

It was a slight misnomer. I can't see "her maj" being prepared to step over a case when ever she needed to issue a royal wee on account of her quarters being so bijou, or make do without even one hook on which to hang anything.
It's the minor details that count oh hoteliers of Centro Americana.
People want a bedside table, storage, somewhere to rest your shower gel whilst you lather up your nether regions and a bit of light wouldn't go amiss either. Some of us have fading eyesight so a 10 watt bulb just doesn't cut the mustard.

It's redeeming feature was its bed. A full 6 ft wide bed and comfortable too. If it wasn't for our whinnying French neighbours sneezing, rabbiting and retching at all hours of the day and night we may just have had some decent sleep for the first time since Big Corn.

We did literally nothing all day on Wednesday after checking in. Just lazed about, ate, read and watched the rain pelt down on the city.
On Thursday, nearly 24 hours after arriving, we finally ventured out and despite being told by a few different people that a visit to San Jose was a waste of time, we really liked it.

Only founded in 1738 it doesn't have the bloody history in the name of the Catholic church of much of the rest of Central America, neither does it therefore have buildings of great antiquity.
What it does have is some lovely shady parks, a quite stunning cathedral, some very friendly inhabitants, good museums and a fantastic shopping area.

Ah shopping!
Poor Kerry has been so deprived of late and was almost overcome with the couple of hours we spent in the High St that afternoon.

Despite it being much more expensive here than the last few countries we've been to we're really enjoying it. It's easy to see why tourism is the number one industry and I love the fact that the government disbanded the military in 1948 citing it as a threat to democracy.
That the old military barracks in San Jose is now a butterfly enclosure is surely the greatest demonstration of pacifism possible.

Costa Rica is geographically in Central America but is as Central American as Scotland is English.
It's years ahead of its neighbours and for two weary, near geriatric travellers, that feels good.

Granada and Isla de Ometepe

Having wiled away our last day on Big Corn Island and with the weather looking like it was beginning to turn we were very much ready for our departure and to get back on the road again.
Our flight was at 0745 and with a minimum check-in time of 90 minutes we had to shake a leg in order to get there by then. By chance our hotel restaurant opened at 0600 and with the 'early turn' arriving by cab we had transport available meaning we were actually at the airport before any staff were.

Once we'd checked in for our flight and been subjected to the most scrupulous hand luggage search imaginable (flicking through every page of my diary, opening my tube of air-bed glue and checking to see if my glasses case had a false bottom is surely a tad over zealous in anyone's book) we sat in the departure lounge and awaited the arrival of our plane from Managua.

At about 0730 we heard the now familiar pitter patter of globulous rain drops on a corrugated iron roof and listened as a tropical storm homed in on the island and unleashed its fury upon us.
For all the rain we've encountered over the past month this was the real deal. A deafening rattle from above as though skip loads of marbles were being emptied out on the roof, rivers of water cascading over the inadequate guttering, fork lightning penetrating the recently descended gloom outside and claps of thunder loud enough to burst eardrums.
If you know your Carry On films it was reminiscent of the weather which greeted Dr Nookey at Gladstone Screwer's tropical practise in Carry On Again Doctor.

A few minutes later all power was lost so we were plunged into near darkness and with the runway already resembling a lake our prospects of flying seemed to be diminishing. A slight air of desperation enveloped us; we had to leave, spending any more time here would do our crust.

Two whole hours passed with no let up in the weather. The power intermittently came and went but we began to expect to be told "no flight today" rather than dread it.
Then the gloom lifted for about 10 minutes, after which the silence was broken by a small plane coming in to land. In fact, it was a very small plane, probably a 20-seater, no way big enough for the 40-odd people waiting with us.
It wasn't our plane as it turned out, it was only going to Bluefields about 45 miles away and a handful of passengers were called forward to board it.
As it taxied up the runway the storm returned with a vengeance and as it took off a terrific flash of lightning directly overhead and incredibly loud clap of thunder saw every one of us still in the departure lounge thanking our lucky stars we weren't aboard.

Another hour passed before our plane finally arrived and we were quickly ushered outside into the rain to board it.
We took off straight away, presumably to take advantage of the fact that it was now only pouring with rain and howling a gale rather than what we'd previously experienced.
I'm not the greatest flyer in the world if truth be known so to take to stormy skies in a piddling little 40-seater was not my idea of fun.
I always worry whether my pilot may have had a row with the wife or something but in addition to that concern we had the indecently quick turnaround and the weather to factor in.
Never mind; closed eyes, happy thoughts, buttocks clenched; that'll see me through, as ever.

Half way through I was wondering what all the fuss was about, it was as smooth a flight as I've had with the reassuring drone of the propellers right outside our window.
Then, just as the hostess was administering sweet bread to us the plane dipped alarmingly, inducing screams from the rear of the plane.
It wasn't that bad in hindsight but the tail end of Isaac we'd been exposed to earlier had probably given everyone the willies.

Once we'd reclaimed our baggage we took a taxi all the way to Granada, some 30 miles away.
This isn't the extravagance it first seems. The ride cost £20 and was door to door in less than an hour. When considered against: taxi into town, chicken bus to Granada bus station and then more case wheeling through cobbled streets it was money well spent.

Overtaking horses and carts, chicken buses, tractors and cyclists travelling towards us in our lane, we sped to our chosen hotel at a rate of knots. Even in the back of a relatively well-maintained car did my backside cane, suggesting that Guatemalan and particularly El Salvadorean chicken buses have wreaked permanent damage.

Drizzle greeted us, as did building works at the "Casa Sacuanjoche" meaning it was closed. Cue seething, cries of "typical" and a hunt for some adequate digs to sate my fair travelling companion.

As luck would have it the gentleman next door had rooms for rent so we went inside to have a gander.
Focusing solely on getting out of the rain and settled I was oblivious to our prospective hosts slightly creepy demeanour. I had of course noticed his friend asleep in a chair wearing nothing but underpants and a vest as we'd walked through the parlour but it's humid here, why be encumbered by clothes in your mates house if he's happy for you to pass out in your grots before him?

The room was a little dingy but the bed was comfortable and the 50's furniture seemed to lend an authentic Nicaraguan air to it.
Yes, this would do nicely.

I was absolutely busting for the loo, the day's events thus far preventing me from adhering to my usual timetable of ablutions, so before I'd even taken my small rucksack off my back I was waving goodbye to last nights beautiful meal via the tradesman's.
As I did so Kerry began vocalising a list of problems: no mosquito netting, air bricks with holes big enough for tarantulas to get in, a mosquito net above the bed which is so situated that you cannot have the fan on at night, the owner reminded her of Norman Bates, there were huge spider webs on the ceilings.

That last point was enough for me but what really sealed it was the fact that the loo wouldn't flush.

I went to see about getting our money back, armed with the Spanish for "musty, cobweb infested hell-hole and the wife ain't happy" but before I could get beyond "we cannot stay here señor" he was waving my $20 note in my direction with a look of resignation on his face.
I felt slightly guilty at leaving my calling card in the toilet but consoled myself that it was at least a 'firm' day.

Brimming with confidence on account of our rejecting the Bates Motel we turned down several rooms before happening across an absolute diamond.
The room was right on the main square overlooking the cathedral and was a grand affair, formerly part of a colonial building used by dignitaries and other nobs. Its high ceilings, heavy wooden doors and balcony overlooking the square were great features, as was the fact that breakfast was included courtesy of our Dutch host and his Nicaraguan wife.

Finally settled, we ate lunch before having a little look at the town in the area immediately around the square.
Granada was once the capital of Nicaragua, inaugurated by the Spaniards and an important city for its location on Lake Managua which has a route to the Caribbean and therefore Europe.
It has the classic grid pattern of streets, the central plaza and the smattering of churches that you come to expect, along with the cobbles, high humidity and broken pavements that also feature prominently over here.

Being shattered from our early rise we left most of the city until the following day, though we did enjoy our cheapest meal here that first night, £1.70 for an 'all-you-can-eat' buffet.

After our complimentary breakfast of fried bananas, scrambled eggs, rice & beans and a slab of fried cheese we set off towards a nearby church where we could climb the bell tower to get a great view of the whole city.
Over the course of the next few hours we visited several more churches, the old railway station, the ruin of an old hospital and spent a glorious hour in a chocolate museum consuming as much as our consciences would allow.
(Me a lot, Kerry not much).

Granada really is a beautiful, if slightly faded, old town and is the biggest draw from a tourism perspective in the whole country. It's people are so friendly and it was lovely to be somewhere with a bit of life after our week travelling to and on the Corn Islands.
But, as is our wont, we were off again on Saturday morning, heading to the Isla de Ometepe, an island formed way back when, by two volcanoes emerging from Lake Nicaragua.

We took a taxi to the bus 'station', during which our driver was trying to tell us something which we just couldn't grasp. In the end he gave up and just deposited us where we'd asked to be dropped, whereupon we discovered we were in the wrong place for the bus we wanted.
Why our taxi driver couldn't have made this plain to us using words we know I'm uncertain.
A dreadful failing on his part!

We took another cab to a market on the south side of town but as we got out a slightly crazed individual was rattling something else unintelligible at us. My tolerance of our inability to understand what's going on is wearing rather thin but we eventually grasped the fact that he was trying to tell us our bus had just left and the next one wasn't for two hours.

In a scene worthy of a tacky Hollywood movie we set off in pursuit, weaving through traffic and cutting up cyclists, horses and carts and an errant cow which was wandering down the road before we caught the bus and drove in front of it to force it to stop and let us on.

An hour later we were invited to leave the bus, another example of being oiked out in the middle of nowhere without the foggiest idea what's going on.
A lone taxi was available so we exercised our one and only option for the 3 mile journey to San Jorge, the port for Ometepe, enjoying a chat with the amiable young driver on the way.
My opinion of him changed when we reached our destination and he asked for $10 for the ride which, according to the guidebook, should cost 30p each.
I gave him £2, the smallest note we had and told him to be grateful.

The ferry chugged across Lake Nicaragua at walking pace which did give us the opportunity to chat at length with a group of Christian missionaries who were coming here for a month to work with children. When we arrived we faced the usual gamut of people wanting a slice of the gringo pie but we ignored all of them with a cheery smile and made for the 'American Hotel' on account of its large rooms, hot water and advert outside for home-made chocolate cake.

The island was described as a "must see" but though it was interesting it wouldn't go down as a highlight of the trip for either of us.
On Saturday afternoon we cycled to the fabled "Punta de Jesus Maria", a spit of sand extending out into the lake for the best swimming on the Isla.
Once our creaking heaps had carried us the five miles there (it's only three but we missed the turning) we found a turgid and miserable place with dirty looking black sand, litter everywhere and water that looked about as inviting to swim in as a sewage farm.

Underwhelmed, we cycled back and went out to eat a huge and almost raw steak that evening, our Argentinian host patently trying to get one over on the English for the sinking of the Belgrano by seriously undercooking our meat.
The power cut we experienced mid-meal did at least deny us the sight of blood spurting out of our food with each incision.

The next day was fun as we hired a moped to explore the island properly, an exercise in pig, cow and horse evasion as they're roaming all over the oche here.
First up was a nature walk at a place called Charco Verde where we saw ants the size of kidney beans and more lizards than you could shake a stick at.
After that we went to "Ojo de Agua", a pool with supposed healing properties which is filled by water generated by one of the volcanoes.
Whether this was true mattered not, the cool water was just what we needed by way of relief from the heat of the day and it was a glorious couple of hours spent in the tranquil surroundings here.

We ate here too, sitting at a table under a thatched roof to consume our repast. We both felt a little itch during the meal but nothing really to suggest that two days later we would be covered in red welts all over our torsos. The gnats must have thought it was Christmas, two juicy and near-naked whiteys to get their teeth into.

Fascinating as the island was it had little else to hold our attention for much longer, unless we wanted to climb another volcano, so we decided to get back to the mainland and be in position for the next days leg, to Costa Rica.

As we sailed away the mist cleared and we had spectacular views of the two peaks which form the island.
Almost as arresting was a young German guy on the boat covered from head to toe in tattoos.
Quite what he himself will think of his calf bearing the slogan "All hippies must die" in later life is debatable but probably similar to prospective employers opinion of his inked knuckles.

We spent Sunday night in Rivas, a rather uninspiring town chosen for its location on the Pan-American highway and therefore a direct bus next day to Costa Rica.
Our final night in Nicaragua was spent in a hospedaje, rooms in a family home, and typically friendly the family we stayed with were too. 

Our final meal in Nicaragua was memorable both for its tastiness and for the fact that when trying to feed a sorrowful mutt, Kerry threw some chicken which hit a fellow diner in the kidneys.

The time we spent in Nicaragua was really enjoyable, helped in the greater part by the friendliness of the people.
They've been diddled, pillaged, had poultry thrown at them and ridden roughshod over since time immemorial yet they maintain a warmth that, for example, the Mexicans can only dream of.

If you're a fan of cheap living, fried cheese and corrugated iron then you should give it a whirl.