using my inside voice

Day 167 - 5 Things That Rule About Traveling

Travel | November 14, 2009

Here are five things that rule about traveling. I haven't included the obvious ones, such as meeting new people, seeing new places, trying new food and drinking too much rum/wine, because I think those are all givens of any trip abroad. Instead I have tried to highlight some of the more unusual positive experiences of traveling, in the hope of providing at least a vague picture of what we spend our time doing here in Central America.

Maybe this will also win back some of those readers that decided I was an ungrateful wench after my last post...

1) Riding in the Back of Utes

For those non-Australian's out there, a ute (or utility) is basically a pick-up. And, in most countries in Central America it is a-okay to cram as many people as humanly possible into the back of any old ute (along with their chickens, small children, sacks of vegetables, machetes and other farming paraphernalia), thus creating a viable means of public transport where none exists.

Once the trayback is sufficiently full to warrant a trip to wherever this particular ute goes (which, by the way, you probably have no way of knowing without asking the driver, and even after asking you will probably still be confused). You then get driven at break-neck speeds along narrow and winding roads, stopping occasionally when someone bangs on the roof or whistles at a high pitch to indicate they wish to be let out of the sardine-tin like confines. It's awesome fun.

There's just something about the wind in your hair and a Mayan in your armpit that's inexplicably exhilarating. It's real-life dodgems, where you have no control, no safety-net, and only a machete-wielding, gumboot-wearing young lad for cushioning (and, come to think of it, I'm not sure how effective that machete would be at cushioning in the event of an accident).

In Central America, for the most part, there is no such thing as workplace health and safety, proper road rules/etiquette, or waiver forms.

Where else could you go on a tour through a series of caves, wearing only a bikini and your foot-slappers (tied on with string), swimming and slipping your way through tunnels, waterfalls and wide, deep pools, with only a candle to light your way (that you have to somehow keep lit and above water the entire time).

Where else could you careen down the side of the youngest, most-active volcano in Central America, wearing shorts and a tank-top, with a board made of plywood, moments after observing the steaming, sulfurous gas rising from the volcano's crater?

There is almost no end to the number of stupidly dangerous activities on offer here, so come down adventure seekers - the risks are abundant and exhilarating.

2) Napping in New Places

Anyone who knows me well, knows I place a high value on a good nap. Sleeping ranks up there in my list of favourite things to do. And, on this trip, I have found a veritable treasure trove of new and exciting places to nap.

There is nothing like going off for a good nap, and waking up to realise you are in Costa Rica with a beach down the road and a monkey at your windowsill.

Number one on my list of new and exciting places to nap would have to be in a hammock.

When you first jump in you begin your napping session with a series of hardy swings, pushing off any available surface to get a serious amount of momentum going. After a four or five intense swinging sessions you lay back, close your eyes, and let the movement of the hammock lull you into a peaceful slumber.

Now, novices out there may think that swinging in a hammock is an easy task, but there are many and varied types of hammocks that all affect your optimum sleeping position. On top of this, not all hammocks are hung at their correct distance and height, which also requires slight adjustments to your napping pose.

But, after a while, all visitors to Central America have got their technique pretty much down pat. I have not met one traveler that has not enthused to me, "I LOVE HAMMOCKS! I am going to buy a hammock and set it up in my living room when I get home, all you need in your house is a hammock, it is a chair, bed, workstation... everything." And indeed it is. All Central American travelers are enamored by hammocks within days of venturing to these hammock-laden shores.

Other good napping places to try out on your next trip include: the beach (of course), beds/chairs/couches that are outside - because napping outside simply rules, buses, planes, airports, but NOT, my worthy readers, bus stations. Bus stations are easily the worst place to nap. Not simply because the chairs are always made of cold, unyielding metal, but also because it is the most likely place for getting yourself robbed.

Happy napping!

3) Learning Patience

Somehow I have become addicted to the game of patience (also known as solitaire). Any spare moment I have, while waiting for the coffee to finish brewing, while waiting for the water to boil, while waiting for the bread to heat in the oven (and instead burning it to perfection) I seem to start playing a game of patience on my computer.

I have also learned another brand of patience on my travels, and that is patience to wait out almost any situation. Many people that know me are aware that patience has not always been a virtue I have possessed in spades. But, when traveling in places like Central America, if you don't have patience and the ability to simply go with the flow, you will swiftly and surely lose your mind.

Here are some times when you require more than a small modicum of patience:

1. The driver of your coach in Cuba stops every 10 minutes to trade fruit and other items with various residents that live along his route. You have a connecting bus at the next station, which you may or may not catch, depending on whether he has factored in his enterprising venture to your travel time.
2. You are told that your shuttle is 'direct' when in fact you stop 4-5 times, change shuttles 3 times, and drivers twice. There seems to be no logic to it, but you soon learn that they have somehow worked out a system that operates with controlled chaos, so you just sit back, let them move your packs (and you) wherever they want, and somehow end up in the correct town, with all your things, just a few hours later than originally anticipated.
3. You are sitting in a restaurant, observing that there are at least 3 staff members sitting idly picking their nose, talking to each other, staring intently into the distance, or performing one of a variety of tasks that are completely unrelated to their actual job. You are going to wait at least 10 minutes before service of any kind is offered, and another 20-30 before your food will arrive. It's just the way it is.

So, you learn to be patient. And, while at first you might find these situations frustrating, in the end it is a good lesson that things don't have to happen when you want them to.

You also start enjoying yourself much more. If you can be happy simply sitting waiting for something to happen, taking in all the other things around you that you have probably never seen before, and will likely never see again, then life is a much more pleasant experience, and traveling so much more rewarding.

4) The Moon, the Sun and the Stars

How often do you look out your window, or up at the stars, and marvel at the beauty that is above you each and every day? Not often I'd wager (or at least I didn't used to when the tedium of working life was oppressing me).

Now, however, I find myself constantly watching sunsets, sunrises, moonrises and the stars at night.

I've realised the importance of paying attention to the world around me and staying tuned to what it's doing at any given moment. Each sunrise is a little different, each sunset projects a new array of colours, and it's really a privilege to have the time and leisure to observe it.

Even the rain hammering down on our tin roof carries its own fascination, despite the fact that it's happened each day we've been here. There's something so powerful about an intense downpour, as it fills potholes and drenches you on your ride home. I used to hate getting caught in the rain, but now it doesn't bother me at all, and I only use an umbrella if we're in transit and I have my computer with me.

I'm not sure what started this obsession with being on the beach at sunset or staring out the window at the moonrise. Since leaving North America we've spent close to no time in large cities, and I suppose that brings nature to the forefront, because you're so close to it all the time when you're in a small town or on a Caribbean shore.

5) Spontaneity

Freedom is one of the things I craved so badly in the lead up to this trip. Some mornings, on my Skytrain ride to work, I would find myself wishing that I could just hop off at another station and spend the day reading a book at a coffee shop, wandering round Vancouver, not doing anything of import, but also not going to work. But, that sort of spontaneity does not exist when you have a job to go to. You can't just hop off half-way along your bus trip, grab a coffee at one of the best cafes in Vancouver, and sit watching the world go by.

But, when you're traveling you can.

If you arrive in a town that is not to your liking, you simply leave the next day, doing a bit of research to find the next place that might take your fancy.

Luke and I have been traveling for 5.5 months now, and after becoming somewhat travel weary, we decided to sit still for a while. So, I jumped online, performed a few Google searches, found a wee house that was to my liking, booked it for two weeks, and here we are, loving every moment as we sit on the deck with a cup of coffee and jam on toast. If we wanted to stay here until we left for Australia we could, or, we could spend our last two weeks traveling to any place in Panama or Costa Rica that we pleased.

That is the beauty of travel.

Another important thing you learn when you're traveling is to do what you really and truly want to. Sounds simple? Well, it's not actually as straightforward as you might think.

When you arrive somewhere new, after reading your trusty Lonely Planet, you realise there are a myriad of sights to see, activities to partake in and tours to nearby locations that apparently most people at the hostel have already done, and are raving about.

You start feeling obliged to do these things too, even if watching a giant turtle lay it's eggs at 11pm that night isn't at the top of your agenda of things to do while in Costa Rica. What you really feel like doing tonight is sitting on your bum and finishing that trashy novel you've been reading for the past three days. So, that's what you should do.

A friend in Vancouver told us that on his European adventure it took him quite a long time to start doing what he really wanted to do, instead of what he thought he was supposed to do. If you want to sit around the hostel all day eating bakery goods and drinking coffee, then that's what you should do. Sometimes you need time out and you shouldn't have to feel the need to justify it. It's spontaneous not to do the activities too right? You can either not do them at all, or do them on another day, just make sure you're doing what you really want to do.

I had a vague notion of doing my Open Water Dive course here on Isla Colon in Bocas del Toro. Now, I have not only completed it, but also started on my Advanced Open Water course, because I have the freedom to decide what I want to do from day-to-day, with few to no other plans getting in the way.

That's all part of the wonderment of traveling. Once you get a job again, you can't just decide to sit at home on any random day, so do it now!

So... there are my top five rad things about traveling. I hope they have once again restored me in your esteem, and you re-key my email address into your contacts list post haste, re-friend me on Facebook, and feel justifiably bad about judging me so harshly in the first place.

If you have any other things that you love about traveling I would LOVE to hear about them in the comments.

More soon...

Day 163 - 5 Things That Suck About Traveling

Travel | November 10, 2009

When I came up with the concept for this blog post, in two parts, I wasn't sure what should be part 1, and what part 2. If I did the things that sucked first you would all label me an ungrateful wench, who didn't deserve the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of traveling North and Central America for 6 months, and in fact, come to think of it, you never really liked me anyway, so it's about time you de-friended me from Facebook, deleted my phone number from your mobile phone, and just imagined that life had always been devoid of my presence.

On the other hand, if I wrote the things that rule first, you would assume I was blatantly shoving my wonderful trip in your face, aiming to tickle your jealous bone, and now that you contemplate it, I always seem to be boasting about the grand things I'm doing, and truly, you're just sick to the lower intestine of it, so this blog post is as good an incentive as any to delete my email address from your account, poke my eyes out in all the pictures you have of me, and just hope that one day my existence in your life will completely fade from memory.

So, let me just say right now, the point of these posts is to show that traveling truly has both its ups and its downs.

There are good times, when you can barely believe you're swinging in a hammock, in the fading sunshine, with a Flor de Cana rum in your hand and a night of talking, eating and laughing stretching out before you.

There are the bad times, when you've been on a bus for 10 hours already, get stuck in a traffic jam, and realise that there is no way on God's green earth that you're going to be able to find your way to the hostel in the dark, and hence will simply have to trust yourself to one of the many taxi drivers hustling travelers as they disembark at the bus stop.

And, there are the plain old mundane times, when you might as well be sitting on the couch at home, scratching your bum and watching the same bad TV you seem to be watching in the middle of Guatemala on a sunny Sunday afternoon

So, I flipped a coin, and here are the top 5 things that suck about traveling (in no particular order):

1) Border crossings

It's hot.

There is a line of people ten deep that you know will take a good 30 minutes to get through. You're number 11.

You're lugging your giant pack and day pack through the queues, money changers, and plethora of innovative hustlers at the immigration office.

You have to find the damn immigration form somewhere, but where remains a mystery. And, when you finally do find it, you're asked for a "propina voluntario" (voluntary tip) from the person that handed it to you.

Oh, and this is only the exit border.

You have to then walk through the hot, hot heat, usually for 10 minutes or so, with all your junk, avoid eye contact with a new batch of hustlers at the entry border, find the form you're supposed to fill in, maybe buy a ticket out of the country that you don't need, to somewhere you don't want to go, because that is a requirement of entry, buy a tourist visa, and then, finally, line up behind all the other weary travelers doing the exact same thing.

ARGH!

2) Organising

I know, not everyone feels the need to be as organised as me. But, I would assume, everyone must do at least some organising to get where they're going.

Which bus to get on? Where to get off? How many buses to get where you're going? Where to buy a ticket, and for how much? What hostel to stay at? How to get there? Where to go next?

I know, I can hear some of you groaning that if these are the worries of my life at the moment, then I haven't got it half bad. But, after 5 months of doing this every 3-4 days, it's started to make me feel like my head is going to explode. This is part of the reason we have chosen to sit still for two weeks at a lovely little apartment in Bocas del Toro.

3) TAXI!!!

If I had a dollar for every time that has been yelled at me while I'm walking down the street, and CLEARLY don't need a taxi, I'd be a rich woman (or at least a woman with maybe $100 extra in my pocket).

The other thing is, even though I CLEARLY don't need or want a taxi, I'm still unsure what my reaction should be.

Some of the people yelling TAXI!!! at me are people I know have yelled TAXI!!! at me for the past 3 days, so if I recognise them, surely they recognise me?

Do I need to say no again? Can I just ignore them and hope they go away? Do I shake my head? Smile politely and shrug? Give them the old hairy eyeball?

You'd think after 4 months down here, I'd know the appropriate response, but alas I do not. Instead I rotate randomly through all the above responses, hoping one of them is the right one.

Sometimes I wish I knew how to swear in Spanish.

4) Finding food

The search never seems to end. You feel like a pioneer striking your way through uncharted territory, with only your nose and a subtle sense of what's right and wrong in the food world to guide you. You sniff a little to the left, see a bunch of locals entering a seemingly innocuous-looking comedor. You hover near the door, glancing at the chalkboard menu that lists neither prices nor ingredients, hoping for some sort of sign. But, the other locals leaving the seemingly-innocuous comedor all seem to be in good health and spirits, so you figure you might as well give it a try too.

At each new town it's the same problem.

What and where to eat.

There is a subtle mix of factors that come into play when finding the ultimate place for a bite; price, location to hostel v.s. how hungry you are, menu selection, who you are going to eat with and what they like.

I, personally, get so sick of searching for places to find food that I starting blessing the hostels that provide dry toast, weird jam and black, instant coffee for breakfast. Not only does this save money, but it also removes one meal from the constant search for food.

Now, don't get me wrong, I LOVE trying new things, and have adored almost all the food I have eaten on my travels. From tacos in Mexico, to comida corrientes in Nicaragua, beans and eggs in Guatemala and barbecued lobster in Belize, I've scarfed down my fair share. It's just the constant search that starts to get me down.

After eating at one good place in a town, you find yourself wanting to go back over and over for the familiarity of having a constant in your life and the ease of eating there over finding another place to dine. Once again, another reason for stopping for two weeks at an apartment with a kitchen - the search has ended (at least for a little while).

5) The Lonely Planet

The Lonely Planet is both the bane of my travels and my essential travel companion.

How is that possible? I hear you ask. Let me explain.

The Lonely Planet lets you know how to get from point A to B, what buses to catch and where to catch them. It provides hostel listings that are safe, and even a selection of relatively cheap places to eat. It also provides inspiration for choosing your next destination.

The thing I don't like is how it does it.

Lonely Planet authors write with whimsy and wonderment. They express excitement at the most boring and mundane towns, and seem to find a positive in almost every tour and activity on offer.

Why can't they just say when something is, let's be honest here, completely and utterly crap?

Why can't they let you know in plain terms that a town is dull in the extreme and not worth visiting?

Why do they omit the fact that while a hostel may have a good 'vibe' the rooms are veritable prison cells, the toilets need a good clean and the staff a surly and sullen?

I've been misled too many times to count by the Lonely Planet.

I've eaten at unauthentic, overpriced restaurants, stayed at dark and dank hostels and visited towns whose main attraction is a run-down church and a smelly market place.

Oh Lonely Planet, how I love you and hate you.

My advice for travelers in the age of the internet is to get a netbook, ditch the Lonely Planet, and have Google as your travel companion of choice.

If you want the Lonely Planet, you simply look at their website, which contains all the same information as the books. Almost every town has a hostel with wifi these days, and if not, an internet cafe, which you will be using anyway. And, if all else completely fails, borrow the Lonely Planet from one of your fellow travelers - they all have the same edition. Trust me.

So... There's my wrap up of the Top 5 things that suck about traveling. Please comment. Let me know if you've deleted me from Facebook or your email contacts, just for my own peace of mind. Also, let me know if you think I'm a unappreciative wench, truly, I'm really interested.

More soon...

Day 126 - 136: Cuba; The Good, The Bad and The Propaganda

Travel | October 25, 2009

Cuba, a land of contradictions, where hedonism lolls comfortably beside frugality. Where one scantily clad senorita scoffs a 500ml tub of ice-cream and another queues patiently at a ration store for her monthly quota of rice. Where dancing in the street on a Sunday afternoon is commonplace and begging for change in old Havana is a legitimate career move. This country is everything and nothing like I thought it would be. We drank mojitos and smoked cigars, but also learned a thing or two about what life is like for those that are living each day under a regime they call socialism.

Here is a round up of the good, the bad and the propaganda.

The Good:

Mojitos

Yes, they really are as good as you hoped they would be. Sitting at El Patio, a restaurant in Habana Viejo (Old Havana), on a lazy afternoon, sipping mojitos and smoking cigars is really and truly all it's cracked up to be.

Flamenco dancing

Not the traditional dance of Cuba, but catching a live performance unexpectedly on our last night was definitely a highlight. As they clapped and stamped their way through a few hours, and we drank and ate our way through a bottle of red and a delicious paella (chock full of prawns) it was hard to imagine wanting to be anywhere else.

Ice Cream

Apparently Cuba has somewhere in the region of 16 brands of ice cream. And boy, do they know their stuff. It gave me some hope that if people are at least able to afford to eat ice cream most days of their lives then things couldn't be too terrible... right?

Casa Particulars

Having the opportunity to go inside an actual Cuban home is both eye-opening and heart warming. More so when you consider that any

house that is not a Casa Particular must apply for a permit from the government to welcome a foreigner inside (I guess we would start spreading too much capitalist propaganda and create dissent among the masses). Sure, they don't let you totally into their lives, but being somewhat of a voyeur was almost enough for me.

The Bad:

National Pizza

Imagine a McCain's microwave pizza. Now imagine a pizza with a quarter of the taste and toppings of a McCain's microwave pizza. Now imagine those measly toppings being a strange tasting cheese, and a sauce that may or may not be tomato-based, all you know is that it's red. There you have NATIONAL PIZZA. The apparent lunch choice of thousands of Cubans each day, and one of the cheapest options around, costing about 20c a slice.

National Hot Dog

National Hot Dog is the other apparent lunch option for Cubans everywhere. Whether it's meat is questionable, and the mustard is surely more water than anything else, but this daily staple will create a taste sensation unlike any other you have likely experienced to date (and I'm not sure that that's a good thing).

Street Performers

As I said, begging in the streets of Habana Viejo is a legitimate career move in Cuba, with many successful entrepreneurs making more money per month than a doctor.

There are also other lucrative street careers such a singing, performing, and drawing sketches of tourists.

As Luke and I were enjoying what I would probably class as National Pasta, we noticed a gentleman with a clipboard and an intent expression sketching earnestly away for a good ten minutes, with surreptitious glances at Luke every few seconds. We knew we were about to be harassed for some money to pay for the unwanted sketch, but as I thought about it, I figured that if it was a good drawing it would probably be a nice reminder of our lunch in the shade of a giant poisianna tree. When finally the drawing was laid ceremoniously on the table in front of us I had trouble keeping my scoff from escaping and wounding this would-be-artist's pride. The drawing was laughable, something even my 10-year-old niece would not be proud to hang on the fridge door.

Luke's dreadlocks had been turned into spiraling scribbles and were the only consolation to his actual appearance, the pencil was pushed so hard onto the paper I'd imagine it would have been possible to shade over the sheet below and get a negative of the original, and the face could have been that of any old joe in the street.

Sadly we had to decline payment. My guilt didn't last long however, as I saw him wander immediately to another unsuspecting diner.

Casa Particulars

Yes avid reader, you are correct, this was also listed in The Good list, but staying at a Casa did have its downsides. As you may gave guessed from my listings about National Pizza and National Hot Dog, dining in Cuba isn't always the highlight of a trip to the Caribbean Island. But, somehow, Casas manage to source amazing food from somewhere, and we dined on Lobster not one, not two, but four times during our stay.

However, there is sometimes quite an intense amount of pressure to take up the owner's kindly offered breakfast and dinner services as they try and squeeze as many tourist dollars as possible from their foreign guests. So, we ate at the Casas a lot, especially for breakfast.

And, because I do know how hard it is to source food in Cuba, I found myself politely swallowing whole a variety of foods that were not to my liking. For example, a plate of guava washed down with fresh guava juice so thick a straw would stand up unaided in its pink depths, mounds of glistening papaya (paw paw for the Aussies), swished down with a mammoth glass of dark-orange papaya juice, and bread so stale it could probably be classed as a crouton. But, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, and by the end my aversion to papaya had decreased immensely.

The Propaganda:

Signs

While in Cuba there is no real advertising of any kind, for that next pair of jeans you have to buy, the shampoo that will make your hair oh-so-silky-smooth or the tea that will slim your waist in a matter of weeks, there is advertising of a different kind.

Slogans like Patriotism or Die really rammed home the reality of a life in Cuba, where poets, artists and nouveau-revolutionaries that dare to question the socialist word are locked up in jail like murderers and common thieves.

Images of happy workers, in blue shirts and hard hats, lined up side-by-side, loving their country and it's repression truly hit a nerve.

The propaganda lined the streets for all to see.

Dual currency

For those that don't know, there are two currencies in Cuba: the Convertible (CUC) and the National Peso. National Pesos are only supposed to be for Cubans, and it's the money in which their wages are paid.

Convertibles were created for the tourists, and any product or service worth having in Cuba is paid for in Convertibles.

Technically tourists are not supposed to have pesos, but you can easily change CUCs for pesos at the Cadeca (change booth). However, all you are likely to buy with your pesos is National Pizza or National Hot Dog.

Tourism itself, and the CUC to add insult to injury, have created a situation in Cuba where locals flirt dangerously close to capitalism, but never with any real follow through.

They need the CUC's to buy shampoo, electronics, anything other than basic food items, and so much more. But, to get them they either have to exchange their precious pesos (they only get paid about 300 pesos a month), open a Casa, have a market stall, beg on the street, or partake in some other endeavour which is purely capitalistic in nature.

They are hugely desired and make the local currency pretty must useless (and also worthless, there are 25 pesos to 1 CUC).

Casa Particulars

Yes, Casas feature once again. Part of the reason for the insistence on eating at your host's house has to do with the regulations that are enforced on Casa Particular owners in Cuba.

They must pay between $100CUC and $250CUC per month to the government for this privilege, whether they have guests or not. They are allowed only two rooms in their house, and only two people in each room. Plus, Casas are banned from resort areas such as Varadero, a 22km stretch of pristine sand east of Habana that is crowded with all-inclusives.

They need all the money they can get, and they will politely insist, with a smile on their face and their intentions on their sleeve, that you partake in another huge lobster meal to keep them afloat.

Museo de la Revolucion

The museum of the revolution recounts the history of Cuba's emancipation from Spain, as well as the subsequent rule of Castro and his entourage.

This is an intensely interesting topic for many, and for the most part you can get some sense of how it all transpired through a visit to the majestic building.

There are, however, some things that just don't sit right.

For example, Americans are constantly being referred to as yankees, the enemy, and the imperialist invaders. They are accused of many questionable acts, all of which could not possibly be true.

Sure, we know they didn't play nice, but the museum, which sees crowds of school children through its halls each day, really takes it to another level, in what could only be considered brain washing to those young, innocent minds.

You do get to see a pair of Che's pants though, so maybe it's all worth it...?

So, what did I think of Cuba?

So, from what you can see, Cuba left an indelible print on my mind. People keep asking me if I liked it, and I truly haven't been able to answer that question. Maybe I need more time to absorb it, and figure out how sometimes the world can get it so wrong, while at the same time the people do seem legitimately happy (at least to an outside observer). But, imagining what it might be like to live and work in Cuba would run the risk of trivialising it, so I won't try.

I think a fellow traveler summed it up best. In Cuba, you feel like a spectator. You can see what's going on, and maybe even why, but it's hard to imagine really feeling like part of that life.

Day 122 - 124: Part 2 - An Island of My Own

Mexican Travel | October 15, 2009

I wallowed in our private room for an hour or so after Luke left, crying in between naps, before I moved all our luggage into an 8-bed dorm. And boy, was the dorm dreary. I quickly changed into swimmers and headed to the beach, preferring the sand and sun to an empty white room filled with bunks.

I cried, and swam, cried and swam some more, hoping the sea water would mingle with the tears and disguise their presence. I looked out at the ridiculously blue ocean and marvelled at feeling so sad in such a glorious setting. I took a perverse sort of pleasure in the notion, imagining myself a heart-broken heroine in a Mills & Boon novel. But after a couple of hours it wore thin and I headed back to the hostel.

Two Israeli boys had moved into my dorm before I'd left for the beach and I returned to find them both sleeping in their underpants and nothing else, oblivious to my entrance and snoring to their heart's content. Their previous night at Cancun's famous Coco Bongo had obviously been too much.

I tiptoed around their barely-clad bodies, showered, changed, and escaped as soon as humanely possible.

The rest of the day is a bit of a blur, but somewhere along the way I met Julia, a German girl traveling with her sister. The two girls turned out to be my saviours, and provided much company and distraction for the next two days. I spent that night with them, eating dinner, then having a take-out mojito on the beach, but went to bed early when they decided to head to a nearby bar.

I slept fitfully with smelly boys surrounding me, aware of their breathing, small movements and general presence. To me it seems quite intimate to sleep in the same room as other people, since you are really in a most vulnerable state once your surrender to the land of nod.

This feeling was exacerbated by the fact that I was the only female among 5 boys.

At 5.30am I was woken by the sound of Spanish pop-music blaring from a computer. Obviously, listening to music was helping someone go to sleep, but it certainly wasn't helping me. Honestly, who plays music in a dorm room at 5.30am? I was close to saying something, but was praying one of the others would do the job for me. When no-one spoke up, I decided to let it slide - confrontation mid-sleep is not my idea of a pleasant situation.

Also, I'm pretty sure the guy playing music was the hostel's resident drug dealer. There was an overwhelming smell of pot smoke pervading the room every time he entered, and he kept popping in and out all night, rustling with things in his locker and crackling plastic bags. I'm almost 100% certain I heard the sound of small measuring spoons clanking together at multiple times during the night. That is a definite sign right?

The next day I decided partaking in the hostel's snorkel trip would stop me worrying about Luke, wondering what he was doing at each moment of the day.

On the trip there was me, an Israeli guy called Liron, two Israeli girls who deemed it unnecessary to speak to me, 4 older Mexican women who didn't snorkel, and an older Mexican couple who didn't snorkel either. This should have been a sign that the trip was not destined for good things, but I was already on the boat with nowhere to go.

It was really the most dismal snorkeling trip of all time. We were required to wear life vests at all times in the water which meant you couldn't dive down to see things more closely. I'm not sure whether they thought we couldn't swim, or if it was just some sort of cruel joke. And, the two snorkeling stops were so lame it was almost laughable.

At the first stop everyone had to swim in the same direction, following a little track marked out by bouys. The coral was pretty much ruined from a previous hurricane, and you couldn't get near it anyway because of the life vests.

The second stop was another very small area with a few fish and that's about it. I just sat in my life vest and floated about for the 10 minutes we were there.

Afterwards we were offered the opportunity to go to a turtle farm (for rehabilitation and release). No-one seemed to want to make a decision either way, so we ended up puttering there in the boat and only Liron got out to have a look as the rest of us waited for half an hour in the hot, hot sun.

Afterwards, we stopped on the way home for our "included lunch" which consisted of fish, cold rice, weird spaghetti with red sauce (I'm not saying tomato, because I'm not 100% sure that it was) and shredded cabbage with no dressing. Delicious.

The only real up side to the day was meeting Liron and having someone to talk to.

By the time we got back I was desperate to get to my email and see what tidings it would bring.

To my excitement and relief, Luke had everything organised and was going to be on a bus again that night, arriving the next night at around 6pm. I was ecstatic.

I showered, changed, and decided reading and relaxing on the couch was in order. But, no sooner had I sat down, then a moderately seedy looking Israeli guy came and sat next to me, let's call him John.

"Do you mind if I sit here, it looks much more comfortable?"

I thought raising my book quickly in front of my face after agreeing to have him sit on the couch with me would thwart any attempts at conversation.

I was wrong.

As his lisped his way through a varying array of mundane conversation topics I started to figure he was mostly harmless. And after about 30 minutes of chit chat I managed to get back to my book. But, he didn't move off the couch.

I'm pretty sure he wasn't reading his book either.

When my stomach started rumbling, I decided having some company for dinner was better than no company. So, against my better judgment, I asked if John would like to grab something to eat.

When his response to my offer was, "I'd love to have dinner with you!" I realised I'd made a big mistake.

As we wandered down the main street I spotted Julia and Hannah (the German sisters) at a restaurant and thought I was saved, but unfortunately they were already paying their bill. I promised to meet them at the hostel for drinks.

I tried suggesting dinner at the hostel to my persistent companion, so I could just walk home with the girls and be out of the jam I'd managed to get into, but he wouldn't hear of it.

So, at the next suitable place I sat down at and tried to get through things as fast as possible. The weird thing was, John wasn't even hungry, and when we got there he ordered one measly taco (they are really small in Mexico) which made me feel even more odd. Who comes out to dinner when they're not hungry?

When one of my dorm mates sat at a nearby table I engaged him in conversation for as long as possible without veering into rudeness, hoping to ease some of the tension that hovered over our table. It didn't work, so I stuffed my face with burrito in lieu of small talk. If the silence didn't put him off, maybe a girl that scarfs down a burrito in a matter of minutes would?

Finally dinner was over and I figured I was home and hosed. But not so my friends.

"Would you mind if we stopped at my place so I can get some more money?"

Yes, yes sure, I will come into your apartment alone with nothing but my wits for protection you lisping weirdo. I will accompany you on your venture for more cash, but you watch out, I am at least 4 inches taller than you, and figure I can hold my own if it comes down to it.

I stayed near the door, ready to flee at the smallest hint of deviant behaviour, as he rifled through bags searching for that elusive cash. Once he'd found it I headed straight back for the hostel, with my little dinner date at my heels, lispering sweet nothings in my ear.

As soon as I got inside I spotted Hannah and made a beeline. We talked about all things girly, and soon John left to pick up a guitar he'd rented, probably feeling thoroughly left out. I was free, and we all headed to a table outside to sit and chat.

As the night progressed, I didn't seem to be getting tired. I had a few 20 peso margaritas, chatted with my new friends, and pretty much had a ball.

I felt awfully guilty at the same time, to be having so much fun while Luke was on the bus ride from hell. But, I knew Luke would be glad I was having fun, and tried to console myself with this fact as I was forced into having another margarita at 2am.

After a 4am swim I decided it was finally time for bed, and pulled up the covers at 4.45am.

The next day was spent with Hannah and Julia at the beach, where if you spent $50 pesos each, you could use the loungers and umbrellas all day. So we had cokes and fries and club sandwiches, swam in the ocean between naps, read books, talked and generally lazed about all day. It was absolute bliss, and once again I chastised myself for being so happy while Luke was away, but it could not be helped.

I headed back to the hostel at 4.30pm to get ready for Luke's arrival, which he'd estimated would be sometime around 6pm or a little later.

As I sat at a table to read my book while waiting for Luke, Lispy the persistent Israeli came up once again to ask me out to dinner. Now, it bears mentioning here, that I'd told him within the first 10 minutes of our first conversation about Luke, and our current situation, but it was not deterring him. No sir. However, there was nothing and no-one moving me from my seat near the door as I waited for Luke to arrive. So I politely declined and turned back to my book.

No sooner had I started up reading again than another dude at the table opposite asked me where I was from... sigh... it seems that without a boyfriend for protection you are open to attacks from any and all gentlemanly admirers. Luckily for me, this guy took the information of my boyfriend's imminent arrival in his stride and we chatted amiably. However, I wasn't all that happy that the first thing Luke would see upon getting back to the hostel was me talking to some strange guy. But, nothing could be done about it without entering into levels of rudeness previously unknown to me.

When Luke did arrive, my new friend said, "Go on, go and give him a kiss," so I got out of it okay, ran up to Luke and did just that (although he did mention to me later that he felt pretty strange seeing me for the first time in conversation with another guy).

He was tired, overwrought and a bit on the pongy side, but I was just happy to have him back, passport in hand, ready to spend the next day relaxing with me on the beach.

More soon...

Day 121: Part 1 - Robbed

Mexican Travel | October 14, 2009

I'm pretty sure we hit rock bottom.

My stomach made its way to my knees on that familiar journey that could only mean the situation which at first had seemed too terrible to be real, was in fact the stark white reality of our morning.

My mind started quaking, barely absorbing the details, hanging in a balance between coping and shattering into 1000's of tiny pieces. As I stared dumbfounded around the Cancun bus station I happened to glanced at Luke and knew that today I had to be the strong one.

Luke was, after all, the one who had lost his laptop and passport. Half of the stolen money was mine, but for a web developer to lose his laptop... well, that's another thing entirely.

So, I was strong.

I tried to speak to the staff at the bus station, telling them that someone had reached underneath Luke's seat and pulled through his daypack, stealthily removing his laptop and money belt (with passport, cash, traveler's cheques, credit card and immunization record inside) before sliding the pack back through. The entire time, we were sitting unaware. But, my Spanish failed me in that moment of high stress, resulting in a mix of despairing cries and flailing hands.

Luckily, one worker spoke English and was summoned to our aid. I explained the situation and told him we would need a written statement from the bus company for our insurance company (or so I thought at the time, we actually only needed a police report), but he informed me that no-one at the terminal could provide that and we would have to go to HQ.

So, 15 minutes later, they bundled Luke and I onto an empty coach for a trip to the bus depot. Luke had spent most of the intervening time standing next to me mute with shock, his face a pallor of emptiness and despair. He did manage to shoulder his backpack and stumble onto the bus, so at least I knew some parts of his brain were still functioning.

For 10 minutes we drove further and further from central Cancun. When we were dumped unceremoniously at the depot gate not only did no-one speak English, but they had no idea why we were there.

I finally managed to convey, through a series on meaningless gestures and odd facial expressions, that could be attributed only to the very young or mentally unwell, why we were there, and soon the security guard was babbling in important tones to someone on the inside of the gate.

An innocent bystander, who happened to speak English, translated for us:

"You can come back at 5 o'clock"

"Why would I want to do that?"

"No-one is here to see you now, you come back at 5 o'clock and someone will see you. I'm only trying to help"

"Right, yes, sorry, thanks very much"

This is the moment when, if I had managed thus far, I would normally have lost it. Cracked, collapsed in a weeping heap and refused to be shaken from my misery and self-pity. But, as I had designated myself as the strong one for the day, instead, I hailed a cab, and asked for the police station.

As we entered what we'd been told was the police station I began to have doubts. There were endless corridors, people wandering aimlessly, no-one available to ask questions and us lugging our giant backpacks through the middle of it like overgrown mutant turtles (possibly ones with highly-developed ninja-abilities).

After being studiously ignored in the small office where we'd been directed, a woman finally took pity, stopped what she was doing, and told us we were in the wrong section. She wove her way through the crowds, and led us to a different part of the building where we could file a police report.

Before I could breath a sigh of relief I became aware of my surroundings and felt the tide of panic start to rise once again. There were people on chairs waiting, people standing with wads of paper waiting, and some people who'd made it to a desk after waiting either on a chair or on their feet, but there seemed to be no logic to any of it.

Thanks to the kindness of one gentleman, with a stack of folders under his arm and an important look about him, we were given a pearl of wisdom that saved us from further despair and futility.

He told us we'd be better off at the police station in the hotel zone, where the officers could speak English. At this station, he said, we would have to wait in line (and who knew where it started or ended, but I had the feeling he'd finally made it to the number 1 position), and, he expanded, we probably wouldn't want to be involved in Mexican bureaucracy first-hand.

So, our third stop for the morning was another cab ride away, to the infamous Cancun Hotel Zone.

Our man had been right, there were no lines at this police station, not one person walking listlessly about, and an officer ready and waiting who not only spoke English, but processed our police report in 30 minutes, and let us use his phone to cancel our credit cards.

Some sense of normalcy was entering our day, and I suppose getting robbed in Mexico isn't that abnormal either is it?

So, if normalcy was now the order of the day, we decided we might as well continue with our original plan and head to Isla de Mujeres (Island of Women), just off the coast of Cancun.

Another taxi ride and we were at the ferry terminal waiting for the next departure.

Luke and I boarded, silent, subdued and thoroughly beaten down. We sat staring impassively out at the sparkling expanse of aqua ocean and I turned to Luke, "Is this ever going to not feel bad?"

In response Luke snapped a couple of pictures, just so we would remember how incredibly bad we had felt.

We plodded our way to Poc Na, a perfectly located hostel on a beach on the island's northern side. From a palapa-covered restaurant area, to a sandy beach bar, the setting could not have been more idyllic. But, instead of lapping up the surrounds, we dumped our bags, jumped online, and phoned the embassy and our travel insurance company.

Our ordeal was not over yet.

The date was Tuesday, September 29. We had flights to Cuba on Sunday, October 4.

Luke had no passport.

The officer we spoke to at the embassy in Mexico City was incredibly helpful, "Don't worry, you will be flying to Cuba on Sunday," were some of the first words out of his mouth after we'd explained our dilemma. He made it all seem so simple, like he was on our team and together we were going to get through this terrible mess. But, in order to fly to Cuba on Sunday, we would need to travel to the embassy in Mexico City for an emergency passport to be issued.

And, as we soon found out, the bus trip to Mexico City was 25-hours each way. That would mean about 50 hours on the bus over three days to get back to Cancun in time for the flight.

After much backwards and forwards, Luke finally convinced me that it would be better for him to go to the capital alone. I would stay on the island and keep our families abreast of the situation via email/skype, and Luke would be able to travel light to Mexico City without a grumpy girlfriend beside him. Plus, the bus tickets were about $1300 pesos each way (over $100) and until we'd gotten the money back from the insurance company, the less we spent the better.

I resigned myself to fate.

However, the next day, as I walked back from the ferry stop, tears streaming behind my dark glasses, it didn't seem like such a great idea after all. What on earth was I supposed to do with myself on a tropical island when I would be worrying about Luke the entire time?

More soon...

Day 112: Some things not to do on Caye Caulker

Central American Travel | September 20, 2009

DO NOT:

1. cook pasta in sea water. While it seems a good idea at the time, since sea water is salty and you cook pasta in salted water, it turns out that sea water is about 10 times as salty as desired and makes pasta inedible (though you try valiantly to make your way through most of the bowl, probably leading yourself unintentionally towards an unexpectedly early coronary in the process).
2. make a pina colada from fresh coconut and fresh pineapple, even if you did knock the coconut down from the tree yourself and have to find something to do with your spoils. It really tastes like bum. Make it with coconut cream and store-bought pineapple juice as the recipe intended, that way you won't end up throwing precious, precious rum in the garbage.
3. bake fish with lime (two whole limes infact). Lime goes very, very bitter once it's cooked. Where are the lemons on this island dammit?
4. assume two latherings of suncream is enough for an entire day of snorkeling. It is not. You will end up looking like a beetroot despite your best intentions, and while you are sauntering away from your sail boat in the afternoon light, half-drunk from the free rum punch, you will look nowhere near as awesome as you suppose. It will be really embarrasing when you get home and see yourself in a mirror. Trust me.
5. read two Danielle Steele novels in a row. It will give you an entirely warped perspective on life, especially on a small island, where there is nothing to do but read, swim, think and drink too much rum. You will start to wonder if maybe you should strike out and buy a small farm in a sparsely inhabited area of North America to recover from the wounds of your previous relationship. You will be independent, reliant on no-one, and in the end, the Frenchman, who lives with the local tribes and was initially against your move to the area in the first place, will be so impressed with your tenacity and vitality of spirit, that he will fall in love with you and want to get married. (Please don't judge me...)

Day 99 to 101 - The Hike to Hell and Back

Central American Travel | September 6, 2009

The alarm sounded. 5am. I rose easily, having not slept soundly due to nervousness, anxiousness, excitement and a slight chill from a bed lacking in warm covers. My bags were mostly organised, divided into two piles, one for sending onto our final destination, one with the limited supplies I had calculated would be required for a three-day hike from Xela to Lago de Atitlan.

As our shuttle rounded the corner it started sinking in that we had three solid days of hiking ahead of us, up and over mountains, in and out of rainforest, coffee plantations and cornfields, and over rivers tumbling down forested valleys. But, the excitement prevailed over all other emotions and when we stopped to organise our gear into hiking packs and to receive our share of the food, our sleeping bags and bed rolls. It was the sort of reluctant thrill you experience upon receiving a new batch of pencils, books and stationary at the start of a new school year. You know deep down that you are perilously close to the drugery and doom of 12 more months of study, but can't keep the small tingle of titillation from surging up as you turn the page of a fresh notepad and fantasize about that first stroke of blue ink.

So, we set off. Packs settled comfortably, on an uphill toddle through the small village where our hike began. The wide dirt road soon gave way to a smaller and much steeper track through a wooded hillside, muddy and slightly slippery from last night's rain. After almost an hour straight uphill we stopped for a small pause. I was a little winded, but confident that I could continue uphill for a while longer (our guide had previously informed us that it was about two hours uphill, before some flat walking, then some down and up for the remainder of the day - sounded pretty easy really).

Half an hour later, sooner than expected, we crested the hill and a vista of rolling green fields stretched away over the wide expanse of the mountain top. Long grass, wild flowers, purple thistles and fields of corn rendered an image that sparked my imagination, with thoughts of simpler times past and the repeating pattern of day-to-day life that existed for the mayans on this mountain top. We walked for a wonderful hour or so through this spectacular area which also encompassed breath-taking views over the mountains ahead (mountains which it didn't occur to me at the time that I would have to climb).

Unfortunately, after an hour of heady elation and easy walking, we started heading down. Down, and down, and down, for about 2 hours. That's one of the misleading aspects of hiking. One would assume that down would be easier than up, alas it is not. While it may not require the athletic output of an uphill climb, it is far more taxing on the feet and legs, with each step jolting up through your thighs like an elastic band pulled to breaking point.

By the time we reached the bottom I was feeling well and truly drained, with a small tingling pain between by big and second toes on both feet. We continued on.

An hour or so more of easy up and down hill and we stopped for lunch - already 5 hours had passed of walking and overall I was feeling happy with my performance and confident of the coming day's hiking. But, when I removed my shoe to see what that wee nagging between my toes was, I discovered a blister formed on the inside of each big toe, from rubbing against the next toe. Also, my big toenails had the initial pang that comes from constantly pushing up against shoes on a downhill walk.

None-the-less, I felt I could go on for a few more hours, so when our guide announced after lunch that if we soldiered on for two more hours we would reduce tomorrow's walk substantially I did not hesitate in my agreement.

It seemed I had sealed my fate.

We set off again around 12.30pm, so by my calculations we would arrive at our overnight resting point around 2.30pm.

At 1pm the sky attempted rain, but I didn't bother protecting myself as I was mightily hot, welcoming the relief provided from intermittent showers. At 2pm the rain set in somewhat more heavily. I put on my water-resistant jacket, and hoped for the best. My legs were now straining with the downhill, aching toes and painful blisters completing the picture, but if only 30 minutes remained I would make it in one piece.

2.30pm and the rain had started in earnest, a monsoonal downpour that verily tumbled from the heavens in sheets, rendering my jacket useless in a matter of minutes, and soaking through to my underwear for good measure. Plus, the downhill section was an endless treachery, and, once we finally did finish it, there would still be 25-30 minutes of steep uphill before we would arrive at our overnight stop.

I was wet, I was unhappy, I was in pain, I was swearing out loud by this stage and willing myself to put one foot in front of the other over and over, telling myself that tomorrow I would hop on a chicken bus and make the rest of the journey in relative comfort. Why I had decided a three-day hike was a good idea I could no longer recall.

When, in a wave of relief, we reached the bottom of the valley I was close to tears, in incredible pain, and so wet my fingers had turned pruney. Then I saw the bridge, small and rickety, with no hand rails, over a roiling brown river, swollen with the water falling relentlessly from the sky.

If I fell in I'd be royally screwed, and possibly badly injured. I tried to pull myself together and with a mammoth effort stumbled, wobbling at the knees and praying for my heathen soul, across the bridge as the guide told me "despacio, despacio" (slowly, slowly - he'd already seen me scrambling down the hillside like a drunkard after a week-long bender).

Then, uphill. Steep, narrow, with lashings of water cascading down the path in a coffee-coloured torrent. I knew we were almost there, and by an effort of mental determination started my way up, scrambling in the sodden earth, grabbing handfuls of plants and vegetation to ease myself up an incline that would be considered difficult without the addition of a temporary waterway.

Our guide had wandered off ahead, as he had been doing all day, and when the path spilt in two I almost sat down and cried. But, stopping meant getting no closer to ending the unexpectedly hellish situation I had put myself into, so I picked the right-hand path and set off.

I slipped in the mud, got a handfull of dirt up my sleeve for good measure, and finally saw the end of the path, through a corn field and into a village. We trudged the rest of the way, dumped our packs on the porch, and took in our surroundings; A small village in the middle of nowhere, a cement-floored shed to sleep in, and a string from which to hang our sodden clothes, that had no hope of drying overnight. But, we made it. Nine hours later.

Luke and I changed into dry clothes and sat on a small bench on the porch, dazed and confused, not sure what to do with ourselves. Our guide had once again wandered off after informing us where we were to sleep and letting us know that dinner would be at 6.30pm. It was 4.30pm, so we sat, talked, hoped tomorrow wouldn't be as bad, and managed to while away the few hours until dinner.

Afterwards, I fell into an amazing deep sleep, unhindered by the lack of padding between myself and the cold cement, not thinking or caring about tomorrow until it should arrive.

And, arrive it did. At 6am our alarm went off. Packing, breakfast, dressing in wet clothes, and finally putting on squishy, cold sneakers and damp, smelly socks. The small comfort of artificially flavoured porridge warmed my heart somewhat. Add to that the thought of only four hours walking and my mood lightened at least a little.

Two hours uphill passed with only relative discomfort as my pain and injuries were all related to downhill walking. But, after two hours, when we started once again downhill I decided enough was enough. I removed my dripping sneakers and socks, tied them to my pack, and continued for the last two hours of the day in thongs - God bless Havaianas.

We arrived as scheduled for our overnight stop at 12pm; A small, quaint house in a village named Santa Clara. Sure, I could barely walk, and sure, we were sleeping on cement again, without the possibility of a shower. But, there was a view of trees from the drop toilet out the back, and I was watching my clothes and shoes drying in the heat of the midday sun as I waited patiently on a plastic chair for our lunch to be delivered by our ever-silent and seemingly unenthusiastic guide. One of the small rewards of constant pain is the moment when it finally ceases, as it seemed to have done for the moment.

That afternoon we explored the town somewhat, slept, and had a sauna in a tiny brick box out the back of our lodgings. For 10Q each we had the pleasure of inhaling smokey air, sitting just off the ground on dirty wooden benches and scrambling in and out of a sauna that had obviously been made with mayans in mind, rather than 5'11'' westerners. But, there was a giant pot of hot water inside, so I took the opportunity instead to clean myself, and exited smelling of smoke, but still rather happy.

The next day we set of at 5.15am to catch the sun rising over Lago de Atitlan. We sat on our packs on a corner of the bush track at 5.45am and silently took in the pink clouds, turning slowly to orange, the light shimmering off the lake as roosters called out the daybreak and dogs barked in agreement. Lights twinkled in the villages below, turning off one at a time as the sun peaked over the distant mountain. It was spectacular.

Half an hour more and we stopped for breakfast in a shelter with a vista over the small village of San Juan which was our destination. When we started out after breaking our fast I knew it was only an hour more, and with each step my legs groaned in refusal, but my mind knew the end was close, so I plodded along happily in the early light of day.

San Juan. Villagers heading home with plastic tubs of tortilla dough, dogs scratching themselves in the shade of buildings as they decide whether it's worth the effort of getting up as the sun creeps to their sleeping place, and Luke and I knowing that just around the corner there is a pick-up truck waiting to take us to San Pedro La Laguna where we would hopefully spend the day sleeping, tending sore and sorry bodies, and relaxing to our heart's content.

The pick-up, loaded with our packs, us, and locals also needing a ride between villages, took us smoothly to our final destination, and let me tell you, with the wind in my face, and the fact that I was traveling somewhere under the power of something other than my own two feet, I was feeling incredible. Elation the likes of which is rarely experienced flowed through my veins as I thought about that first coffee or a room with a hammock or a small glass of wine while the sun sets.

We made it, in one piece to be sure, but slightly scarred in the process. Our backpacks with the rest of our gear were two hours away, so we set up at a nearby cafe, ordered that coffee I had been dreaming about, and whiled away a few hours.

More soon...