Mombacho

Clunk rusty limbs back up to the reception for a breakfast of coffee, the beverage doing little for my jackhammer head. Chat garbage to a revolving cast of hostel workers until the energy for the final descent arrives. Manage to lose myself on a one-track path, remedy with yells of Hola and pointing directions at bemused locals. This time the Mombacho receptions is receptive and thus eco truck up the steep volcano hill, stopping briefly at a coffee museum for foul raw coffee bean eating, remove the aftertaste with french vanilla coffee.

Carry on upwards into the clouds (theoretically, this is supposed to be a cloud forest but I pick the one clear day of winter), and the steepness increases with my heart-rate, another danger day on Nicaraguan roads, and then hit the research plant, which has a scout hut feel. A 4 hour guided tour through the forest is pricey but worthwhile, and the clarity at least means I can see Grenada and Ometepe below, along with craters, steam, bright green butterflies, plants of poison. The light filters through the trees and it permanantly feels like late afternoon as we go up and down and up and down and up and down. Mild exhaustion that the paltry 500ml of water and cheeseham sandwich do little to alleviate. Make it back around 4, me and a French couple the only overnight guests and nothing really to do for a while.

Read real unemotional trash horror novels as the atmosphere outside becomes eerie. Cloud blows around the station, transforming it from community project to a wood shack b-movie slaughter hole and night creeps around the edges and a bitter screeching wind creaks against the exterior. We get a free night walk through the deserted landscape, our guide so enthusiastic and excitable I feel strangely emotional.

Immediately see a huge sloth ambling through the branches, slow and clumsy, our flashlights directly in its cute little face and I feel caught on the wrong side of a zoo cage for a shortwhile. We walk on, continuing the x-files vibe with alien bugs and salamanders, the light hitting the cloud to make it mistlike. This goes on for about an hour, ends with a visit to some bright orange green tree frogs, but then I'm too wet/cold/tired and sleep comes swiftly.

Where the well of human hatred is shallow and dry

Here the coffee is free but the water expensive. Drown myself in caffeine, blame the shakes on that and not the alcohol. Cofee's 99% water anyway so indulging in a health kick. A half hour morning market stroll knocks me out, the heat penetrates everything it touches, a city power cut causing fan shortage hell.

Brave the sun for Mombacho trip intention. Tuk-tuk to reception. My instructions clear, get there at 3PM to ensure the last truck is not missed. Arrive at 2:45 to be sure. The last truck left at 2. My best ´´verge of tears´´ face gets me nowhere so plan B and a 1k ride to a treehouse hostel.

The walk up murder, or at least unassisted suicide. A steep rock & mud path for 500m, the searing heat drenches my light green shirt and turns it dark. Finally arrive at the reception which is conveniently placed at the highest point, but the sacrifice in body water worth it for incredible tree top views, the forest stretching for miles below.

Hang out, brave the rope bridge, sip beer and watch the sun set over the forest and fill the air with twisted orange light, the sky stretching to eternity whilst monkeys climb around.

Switch to rum and coke to kill the evening, the bartender having no concept of a reasonable measure. Attempt a new card game I don't fully understand, yuka, think whist with less cards, and so lose badly.

A lightning storm over lake Nicaragua in the distance, continual flashing over the water providing ethereal fireworks for the evening. Meanwhile a Brazilian Wandering Spider slips into view, terror on 8-legs stalking on the treehouse ceiling above. I find myself transfixed in grim fascination, fearful for the people below in case it loses its grip or just decides to pounce. I manage to tear myself free with the promise of more rum, then a slippery downhill scuttle to the dorm below, making it just before the sky bursts, tumbling rain onto the wooden structures, a breathless end.

Grenada

Ways to make a decision: Flip a coin, pick a colour then pick a card, write a spontaneous line of poetry and count the syllables. More rationally I abandon San Ramon plans with my spastic Spanish the deciding factor.

& so instead work southwards to Granada, desperately avoiding Managua and all that entails. A 3 bus journey the second place, tapatipi doesn´t even exist in my guidebook. Thrown out on the roadside, ´´Masaya´´ the only word I cling to, somehow gets to me a different roadside stop and finally a tiny bus with a heaving clientelle.

A thing I notice and like within 2 minutes of arriving in Grenada: It is 2PM on a Sunday afternoon and the locals are downing litre bottles of lager. Sit down in a market bar with a bottle to accompany a passable chicken lunch, mash potato the highlight.

The youth hostel I intend to stay is Marycelestial. 5 minutes of yelling and cage rattling into an empty courtyard gets me nowhere. Still, my handwritten notes for the place simply say ´´bed bugs´´. Wander across to the Bearded Monkey (more handwritten notes: ´´Avoid!´´). I´m tired and it´s cheap. Anyway, the receptionists are acting a little loopy, pretending to be bulls and yelling ´´el torro´´ and I´m not sure what this is supposed to mean. Shed the backpack and wander the afternoon streets, and it´s all a bit manic - people clinging to tree trunks, a festival crowd, men on horseback, plenty of street drinking. The mystery soon solved - the name of today´s game is ´´bull running´´.

Find a city centre spot. There´s a few bulls but they just wander the streets aimlessly. Sometimes people hit them with sticks, sometimes they just take a wrong turn and get lost. The crowd surges, groups breakaway and sprint down limbed corridors, the atmosphere electric, but the bulls are mostly lost elsewhere and there isn´t a whole lot to see, so buy some beer from a cool box and soak the sunset. First real drinking in a week so the heat, the people, the alcohol combine to create a drowsyness within. A food attempt turns into more drinking in a city centre bar, and then finally eat a pesto and mozarella panini, not quite the cuisine I had in mind but perfect for my state.

Revisit the hostel that was closed earlier, purely for drinking purposes. A crazed old man in a cowboy hat lies face down in the centre of the bar, drunk since breakfast. The bar staff apologise for their non-appearance earlier, the bulls the distraction. Then the man awakens and tells garbled gibberish about being a fighter pilot. Horrendous nonsense. Then he´s out again. Slip away to another bar with some hostel contingent, s´okay. A guy plays music on an acoustic guitar but nothing really to quicken the pulse. More beer followed by straight rum whilst the time passes into morning into sleep into actual morning.

Monday was supposed to be nothing and the hangover is testament to my careful planning but a discounted island trip tempts me overly and so hop on a boat which includes a couple I met in Livingstone. Our tour guide called something like Mauricio, the first thing he does in the port is grab himself a beer whilst we looks on aghast. By midday half the group has joined him in this alcoholic descent.

The boat so chilled I could sink into the water without noticing. There´s freshwater sharks in this lake so I don´t dangle my hands over the side too long. Islands tumble over the surface, most owned by the super rich. There´s forts and trees and mansions of every conceivable shape. One island contains 3 spider monkeys and one of these jumps on the boat to pick avocado from our hands. Devour two fish for lunch, slight exhortion but I don´t care at this point and then swim in trousers following a swimshort misplacement issue, which makes staying afloat in freshwater difficult but I don´t drown or anything.

Return home and street scout until BBQ beef eaten off a banana leaf, and then meet up with the boat crew for a beer date, Start in an American style bar drinking cosmopolitans, listening to the Smahing Pumpkins and this isn´t quite what I had in mind. My day tomorrow won´t begin till midday so keep drinking to keep up with a semi-alcoholic Austrian and our tour guide, move on to the main strip and cuba libres and then a taxi to a waterfront death disco, the place oozing sleaze that soaks the walls and ceilings and drips over floor, the crowd a mix of prostitutes and pickpockets. Keep in darkened corners, the 5´´4´ guide our only protection, and he´s talking constantly but it´s not altogether audible above pounding house.

Cut our losses in a petrol station snack shop, eat hot dogs, drink super strong coffee, then doglike head outside the taxi door window to feel the night breeze as otherwise it´s stifling. Arrive home for a short confusion over whether the hostel will actually let guests in at this time (whatever time this time is) but eventually the security guard hears my pleas and the night is over once more.

Town Hopping

Get up specially for early Leon getaway. Remember book swap ambition. Cannot swap books till 9:30. Indulge in hostel pancakes and coffee whilst the last of my washing dries in the morning heat. Not quite the intention. Neither was walking all the way back to the bus station when taxis are plentiful. Half the trip achieved in a daydream, the rest in shoulder digging, leg shaking, sweat dripping agony.

The bus station still a mess, moreso when attempting to travel. Men scream destinations at ear piercing volume, timetables an empty hope. Finally a guy asks where I´m going, ´´Éstoli, Estoli´´ ´´si, estoli´´ and then my rucksack thrown on the roof, more items thrown this way as the bus pulls away, a man on the roof organising our possessions at 20 MPH and myself, I´m stood on a ridiculously crowded bus, cramp gathering in my legs as the torture wagon moves slowly.

The bus stops. A lot. Each time men appear outside the bus and yell things in Spanish, something like ´´Oi, Oi, Oi´´ and the man on the roof throws thing at them and the bus never seems to stop long enough for all the necessary throwing to take place so the street behind us is scattered with packages like trash floating down a fastwater river. At one point the road evaporates, 10 foot drop at least either side, a sand road and the bus sways left, right, left again. Close my eyes. Count to 10, then 10 again, and again and eventually it´s safe to look out the window once more.

The journey actually not so far, 3 hours or so. Bus station drop off, the streets easy to navigate in grid numerical sequence. Was promised cowboys, expecting a wild west fantasy, but really it´s just a mid-size town. Stop halfway to my destination in a comedor for cheap fills and early heart attacks. There´s only one hostel here, head to it and find I can only stay one night, as can everyone else, due to some redecoration scheme. This suits. I attempt to do a cigar tour but I´m told I can´t until Monday, and today is Friday, my timing absymal, so that´s scratched and smoke a cigar whilst reading the packet instead.

There´s a restaurant that promises cold beer with sizzling meats but turns out the only day of the week it closes is Friday, afraid they might make some money or something, so instead eat at a Mexican place which is pretty much sizzling meat and ice cold beer anyway. Friday night entertainment a school hall concert, a rapper sings over the top of famous songs, the drama club provide an anti-drug theatrical, and all this is obscured by a terrible pop-rock act that can´t even keep time. The crowd disperses half a song in and I join them, and hop bars till closing time which is about 11PM.

Eat the usual breakfast - fried eggs, boiled plantain, rice and beans and burnt coffee. Bus at 9 in confusion, the bus station moved during the night, or maybe my memory failure is terminal. Either way, no longer on the map. Asking gets me somewhere and then it´s an empty bus and another bus station that isn´t on the town plan so walk aimlessly through first crowded markets and then deserted streets. Collect my bearings in a church courtyard. Immediately a guy asks me if I´m lost, ´´no, I just look it´´. And this is true.

Change hotel choice 3 times in as many moments, and end up in a place called Bermuda, which has charm and little else. Hilariously no English is spoken here, and from what I´m told there are no rooms. The proprieter than shows me two empty work. I pick the first one and am given the key to the second.

Plans today are the church, wandering, supermarket essentials, lunch, coffee museum. The supermarket confusion, two trips required to purchase razor blades, supposedly there´s local chocolate here but it´s hiding. The coffee museum is shut until Monday & my plans hit the wall, and then I read about a cocoa making factory out of town, but it shuts at 4 and it´s now 2:30 and by the time I decide not to go it´s 3 so eat a huge lunch and climb a taller hill.

The hill is really a stupid idea, a completely deserted trek through rocks and trees. Spiders roam free, the path has a fleeting relationship with tangibility, and about half way up the realisation dawns that this is the exact kind of place I would attack lonesome tourist if I was in a Nicaraguan machete gang. ¡I have pretty much everything of use on my person. Still, hike on and nothing happens except my breathing requires more regular catching than on level ground.

The top is a great view, which I intend to share with the world but the camera battery dies as I aim to take a passable shot, and it´s a sign to go or something so I spend 10 minutes watching the day darken over the city, then remember the lack of light will be of tragic consequence for me so scamper down the rock trail into the town. Get coffee to celebrate my success and some odd American girl attempts to convert me to Christianity but she soon disappears.

Evening is relaxed, I´m a little bored, my own company of limited entertainment value. Hit a bar, eat overcooked steak whilst swigging from litre bottles of Tona, read endlessly and so on, until bed.

Volcano Surf Action

Sole aim for the day: Climb up an active volcano and then board back down to the bottom. About as ridiculous as it sounds. Last eruption 1999. On average it's every 8 years. So basically it's a huge black rock protruding from the green surrounds.

Ride a rickety path to the entrance, then each grab a board and climb up to the summit on a cloudless day. Nearly snap ankle before the ascent even begins, survive, onwards. Exhilarating steep climb over loose rock as the sun just blisters and steam pours whilst sulphuric gas fills nostril cavities.

Put on a green uniform, more a boiler suit, strap on ill fitting goggles, pull gloves over bruised fingers, point the boards down the cliff face. Count 1-2-3 and push towards oblivion. Dust fills the air and my vision, control of the board a fleeting illusion and actually I'm exaggerating and it's kind of less terrifying than it looks, the pace medium, but I still manage to fall half way down, the board overfilled with rocks that tip and my mouth filled with tiny dust particles.

Town for some terrible cream chicken lunch, near tasteless, and it's not so late so walk a mile to a bus and roast for 40 minutes on a baking tin can, waiting for no reason and then away to the pacific. See the beach and stop the bus, run for the waves, barely pausing to remove clothing, and then into the water but a man's yelling and I can't see what for but I go to him anyway, and he's all ''Danger: currents, waves, rocks, drowning'' So that's todays near death experience.

Head to some rocks where it's supposedly safer but swimming impossible here, the giant waves sending me spiraling into the sand in a repetitive motion, only waist deep and at least twice I feel myself drifting out to the ocean only to be saved by a new wave. Fun but tiring and instead lie in the sand, reading James Elroy for kicks and the breeze chills the air making it temperate. Murder the afternoon in such a fashion and then the bus back, street food tea of fried chicken, fried cheese, fried plaintain, perfect for my fried brain. Drink in a hostel bar, $2 a litre a dangerous price. And then stop.

Roar like a Leon

Rise with the sun. Quickly scoop up belongings from the floor of my shoebox hotel room. Book hotel taxi and feel vaguely safe, stable and secure for the first time in days. Leaving the big city behind and hope no Managua return is necessary.

Attempt Spanish lessons on the bus, but nothing really sticks so sleep to Antlers instead. A French girl, Sandrine, strikes up a bus conversation as we approach so have a wandering partner in town. The bus station is massive and crazed, cartoon busses parked at all angles but right, cars snake through the gaps, the horn as essential as the accelerator, whilst people scream in a hectic market atmosphere and throw boxes onto the bus roofs.

Pick a hostel based on following facts: Free coffee, book exchange, free pancakes, name ''lazy turtle''. Underestimate the walk and nearly abandon twice, having dropped Sandrine off at a more sensible destination. The city is pretty but baking, a dry heat where even the shade provides no respite, perspiration on top of perspiration.

Central America's biggest cathedral dominates the square (a fact I have not checked for accuracy). It is big. Somehow forget there's a rooftop tour and trample to a museum of heroes and legends instead. A bizarre waxwork museum of historical figures, folklore legends, horror stories and arts people. All set in a prison that functioned as some sort of torture dungeon in the past, as demonstrated by colourful murals around the outside.

The true terror is the walk around the walled boundary, about 2 foot wide and 20 foot down. It's only a third of the way around the section with no fence that I realise my fear and become paralysed. My footwear suddenly loose, my satchel heavy, legs like the cliche. Short steps and look straight ahead. Ignore the dog barking below. It takes me about 3 minutes to achieve what Sandrine managed in 10 seconds. I've rarely felt so masculine.

Sit down to recover, drinking the free hostel coffee until I start to shake, then switch to beer until I stop again. My only other memory of the day is thinking of a shaving cream purchase and balking at the $10 price tag. A beard is cheaper.

Terror Trail

28 hours. 4 Countries. 3 borders. Go!

Grab a 10am chicken bus to Guatemala City, the vehicle bright coloured but no balloons. The driver a clowner, aren't they all? Ride pleasant enough once the stone street juddering over. Keep my backpack close, my valuables closer. Control breathing as destination approaches but still arrive in a fluster.

Metaphorically robbed by taxi driver between one bus terminal and another. No gun or gang produced so relief on Tica Bus entrance. The station on a busy dual carriageway so chance a walk for American fast food. Find nothing and settle for petrol station sandwiches. These are microwaved until soggy but I have no language to argue.

Bus is 60 minutes late. Spend the time in a stress mind freeze counting down my remaining c. american days. From plan A to B to Y to D. Stop making sense then return to plan A. By bus arrival my mood is as foul as the weather outside. Get on the bus. It then waits another 60 minutes for some locals slowly eating a 3 course meal in the terminal. My idea of a daylight arrival in San Salvador vanishing with the sun.

Bus pulls into San Salvador at 9PM, 4 hours behind schedule. The guy points at what looks nothing like a bus terminal. A sweet American girl from Duluth saves me from a night on the mean streets by pointing out there's another terminal so back on the bus, singing Low's version of 'Blowing' in the Wind'' in my head as a bizarre tribute.

Arrive properly. Hotel connected to the bus terminal, so no street walking required, and they give me a double room for the price of a single, my first none dorm for a month. I stretch on the bed but then the hunger hits and I'm thrown into the streets, ignoring my guidebook advice. 2 minutes of death avoidance later and a restaurant that could well just be a home kitchen passes me chicken, rice, beans and a cold beer through a metal grate door. A man claiming to be a Nicaraguan minister helps me ever so slightly. Devour contents back at the hotel, the simple food delicious to my starved tastebuds. Bed, then awake at 4AM for the connection, which is just the same bus.

Strong bitter coffee and biscuits to jumpstart my senses. Spend the last $20 on border fees. No more food till Managua following debit card dismay in an El Salvador service station. Listen to Hefner b-sides and rarities to pass the time.

Honduras ''done'' in 6 hours. Another map to shade in. solve cash flow issues at Nicaraguan border, persuade a duty free shop to sell me $100. Shop assistant writes ''only for you'' on a piece of paper, so I wait until the wheels are in motion before telling the entire bus of my bordertricks.

The ordeal near over as we creep towards Managua. Original plan to hop straight on the bus to Leon. The daylight again has other ideas and so barge through the bus station touts and head to the first hotel. Booked up. Second one and success. Reception area crowded with warnings: Do not walk alone, always get a taxi to the ATM, do not exit the hotel after dark.

Decide ignorance is the best policy and wander 20 meters to the nearest eaterie, taking only a $20 and a couple of dollar bills. Pile the plate high, having only eaten the 4am biscuits all day. I do not have enough money to pay with the single bills and they won't accept the 20. A local man puts up the the extra money, a heartwarming moment at the end of a long trip. Decide the night dead after a 2 block walk yields nothing bar shaped.

(nb LP ridiculously states Managua is not dangerous to get around. It then says you should always get a taxi from the Tica Bus Terminal to the normal bus station, and that you should not get in a taxi with your valuables, which begs the question how a new arrival attempting to get from one side of the city to another are meant to survive)

Volcano, I´m Still Excited!!

Saturday I get lost, more lost and then lost again in a labarynthine market, humming the similar Clash song whilst searching frantically for an exit, nearly tripping over a baby sleeping in a fruit basket. The smell of BBQd meats mingling with that of rotting vegetables to nearly induce sickness. When I finally locate my bearings and decide which way is east I only get as far as a huge metal fence and have to retrace and try again. Finally freedom.

Go to a museum of museums set in an ornate old house. Macaws surround, there´s modern art, bones, archeological discoveries, graves, silver. All sloshed together. Somehow end up at a school open day by following loud music, kids play a scatterish football game on concrete, a brass band competes with a techno sound system. Skip the maths class and head for a 20Q lunch of salsa chicken with potatoes and salad then a delightful amble through the streets.

Originally had volcano plans for today, but the price quoted ridiculous and without a guide serious risk of machete death so instead book for a 6AM Pacaya trip. Weigh up Monday travel options and end up in a muddle and abandon till tomorrow. Sad faced at a closed book shop, the guy in the bar next door explains no one´s around to run it anymore, but the bars fun in itself. The highlight a list of banned songs starting with ´´smells like teen spirit´´ and running through Jeff Buckley, Radiohead, R.E.M., Metallica, Knocking On Heavens Door etc. A beautiful idea.

Eat chorizo in an Argentinian restaurant, not entirely sure what country I´m in momentarily. Fireworks buzz throughout the main square. Rhyme or reason lost in the moment. Then early bed early rise, 5AM. My Flores alarm clock shoddy to the point of waking me up at 1AM. I click, 4 hours more sleep.

Pacaya is a steep 90 minute walk through forest as horses bound by yelling taxi. Struggle at this time on a Sunday. The summit surrounded in a Silent Hill mist, whilst a merchant yells the Spanish equivalent of ´´´What´re ya buyin?´´, displaying lava ornaments from a wooden hut, a horse hooving the volcanic rock.

The atmosphere otherworldly, alien & it´s freezing as the wind near howls. Find warm sulphur holes for photo ops. Momentarily the mist clears & Antigua below crystallises, the black lava volcano top contrasts with the green below. Downwards meander in a rainwater sprinkling, a simpler affair than the ascent.

Lunch in the backroom of a newsagent, strange chicken soup served with a side of fresh avocado, comfort food. Camera fail in an internet cafe, the owner screaming ´´no´´ at the sight of my USB cable, as if I was in the throws of murder. The internet so slow as to make the exercise pointless anyway. Nap, more exploration, chaindrinking coffee to while away the afternoon. Cheese stuffed tortilla topped with guacamole, sausage, onions and jalapenos whilst my arteries thicken. A rice pudding soup for desert.

End the day in a cinema where the entrance is free but the drinks are not. End of New Moon, two-thirds of some Clint Eastwood snoozeflick. Pretty uninspiring fare that not even beer can liven up. Rain pounds the roof drowning out the sound.

Exit Lanquin Enter Antigua

A resurrection. My Ipod, a week after death by waterfall springs back to life. A miracle. A birthday present to beat them all (all the others being, erm, a solitary lighter).

This optimism is balanced by my outrageous bar tab on checkout, a sneer to decency. My cash reserves sapped in one hammer blow. I have to shuttle to Antigua and have no money to pay the driver. He looks incredibly pissed off and takes my passport for insurance. Anyway, this at least gets me on the minibus. Stop at a service station, stock up on biscuits for the trek no sign of an ATM. Get back in the bus and drive a while in cramped conditions. Stop for lunch at another service station. Bland chicken, decent fries, pickled vegetables. Mediocrity on a plate that my growling stomach demands I finish every bite of.

Return to the bus. The taxi driver asks for the money I ask where the ATM. He practically explodes, his face red with anger, and he almost looks like he might cry. ´´Amigo, amigo´´ he repeats. He does not mean friend. I try my best not to laugh. I understand that the ATM was at the previous service station, not this one. Oh. Still, they´ll be an ATM in Antigua. His attitude baffles me.

And we spiral on through narrow hillside paths and unsuccesful sleep attemps, and enter Guatemala city, fascinating from the safety of our tourist bus window, a terrifying mangle at street level. Pass red busses, of which the guidebook suggests the price of entry is assault and death. My eyes looking through the glass, half expecting a bullet to crack the window and shatter the calm. But this doesn´t happen, and it takes forever to pass the american chain stores, the smoke filled streets, the huge car showrooms but eventually we pass, the rows of fastfood turn into rows of trees.

And Antigua is cobbled streets, churches, greens, reds and other colours struggle against each other for oxygen, and the city ringed by cloud topped volcanos. Think San Cristobel with more Americans. Pull up at Parque central. The taxi driver again asks for money. Erm, ATM? He responds with something I´m glad I don´t understand, ushers us back into the van, and drives another 100 meters around the block.

We get out, ATM in front, me praying agnostically that my card works. And it does. The ride is 130. I give him a 100, two 10s, a 5, five ones. He shakes his head at this, offended at the correct money offer. ´´No bien, no bien´´, utter contempt in his small, rodent eyes. I am at a complete loss. He counts once, twice, a third time, then a fourth. And then he seems a version of satisfied, and I am free.

Wander the town for hostels, one in the guidebook no longer exists, another full of Zephyrites. The Black Cat inn saves us. Amazing indian food, stuffed chicken tikka pitta, huge and satisfying and then drink in an Irish Bar until exhaustion extinguishes the light.

Turn off your mind, relax and float down stream. It is not dying

Birthday breakfast of eggs, beans, tortilla, plaintain and dark bitter coffee to wipe the hangover and save the day. Temporary relief.

A new form of transportation, rubber rings down an ice cold river, drift on top of the water loosely following the current, beer can in hand. I´m useless at this, truly pathetic when it comes to paddling my raft into prime position and watch most of the group disappear round the corner, more interest in drinking the lager before it warms than controlling the craft. Hit the bank, scratched by branches, smack into rocks, hit
rapids hard, circle around a whirlpool, going nowhere slowly.

But it´s relaxing, and the day is lovely, the sun bright, Sega blue skies, cotton wool clouds whilst tree covered mountains slope all around. Tilt back my head, close my eyes to shut, feel the riverwater brush against my limbs and at peace. Then the next set of rapids nearly dumps me into the water and I lose a can as part of this battle.

Back at the hostel and drink lots of water, eat the most amazing chips with tomato sauce and my RDA of salt, so drink even more water and then almost sick from the attempt at internal drowning. Happy hour swings around and with it comes darkness, rain and wind, as if the climate knows it´s my birthday and is bringing the English summer especially. I celebrate this with a cocktail called ´´dark and stormy´´, which is rum and ginger beer. (although, almost all the cocktails here have different ingredients each time they are ordered). And ´´a cocktail´´ is selling the amount of alcohol short.

Play ´´ring of fire´´, a drinking game for mentalists and the proposed death of soberiety, but then it´s hard to kill a thing that´s already dead so I just try really hard. Around half the hostel circus has left town, the clowns sleeping soundly and so it´s slightly more peaceful than the night previous and this pleases me.

Had vague intentions of getting a bus at 7 in the morning, but happy hour provided recklless abandon and thus it´s the next day and I have very little to do. Adventure travel to an internet cafe. When I go to pay the guy has disappeared. Wander next door for tacos and then return and pay him the cash, and he seems relieved, like I might have ran without paying, but the machete he keeps in his office makes me think that unlikely.

Spend the next 10 hours in more or less the same position, watching clouds drag the day across the sky. Play card games half-remembered from sixth form, eat more chips, the day stumbling by at a snails pace. Eat freshly made pizza, Johnny, a slightly odd bartender regales us with music facts that he is not provoked for. 35 people left at dawn and their replacements are of a smaller number and less rowdy demeaner.

Another bartender provides something he calls Gaza Strip, half-half mix of dark and light beer. Not entirely sure what the point of this is, but it´s tasty enough. Night arrives without me even really noticing, and attempt to kick myself when it clicks that I can´t visit the bat cave anymore, but my legs can´t even be bothered moving on command and I have no energy to force them. A day of contented nothingness.

Let us lay in the sun and count every beautiful thing we can see

Monday is spent on a bus with other tourists. A 9 hour shuttle, cramped and bored. Lose water, lose lighter, lose my wits, lose leg use, lose about 3 kilos in sweat. The final stretch 2 hours down a not even road and lose the will to live too.

Dropped a 15 minute walk from the hostel. Civil war between hostelliers apparantly the cause. The hostel surrounds gorgeous green mountains as a river thrusts through the valley below. The day´s remainder in 3 words: Beer, cocktails, sleep.

And today is now Semul Champay and herded like cattle to the slaughter onto a metal cage trailer, cling the poles and don´t let go, dodge overhanging branches, keep stomach contents down, pray the brakes don´t fail.

Attempt to trapeze into the water. A mini-heart attack later and my nerves shreds and all I can visualise is a slip backwards, a tumble, hard skull shatter against harder rock, and I do not want to die like this on the last day of my 20s and so abstain, and instead delve into cave tunnels.

Candle lit terror trails, freezing water starts as a trickle, then over feet and shins, knees, waist, upper torso, neck vanish into the deep and it´s paddling with one hand, the other keeping light above water. Up ladders that pull against their moorings, rattling in an attempt to break free, the nails screaming against the rock for independence.

Climb through waterfalls, jump from sheer small cliffs and then the candle fails and a pitch black stumble/scramble/slip/fall/graze/bleed back to daylight safety. Eyes struggle to adjust, retinas ready to scar but it´s okay and it´s fine and people jump from a 10m river bridge but my strange mood and death avoidance trip render me incapable. The hangover is not helping with quelling fear sensations.

Lunch is a scandal, the hostel lied and made us take soggy tuna sandwiches and tiny brown bananas. The guide feasts on steak with rice and tortilla and I plan on return to smash the bar, tear down the walls, set the place on fire and throw the ashes into the river bed below. A man with a shotgun hovers nearby, posing a question I can´t answer.

A hike up a hill, something I hadn´t been informed about, torture in flipflops and deathray heat. The steps, steep, muddy and stupid, and quite why I´ve only brough a jumper for body coverage is not a thought I should be thinking and lose it. The view at the top pretty much worth it, torquiouse rock pools gather below, and like a painted fantasy world. Slip down the mountain into the coolclear freshwater, perfect swimming around the lagoons, a water slide for entertainment. Weary wander back around the mountain, but the hill avoided and back on the transport, back to Lanquin.

The hostel tonight is a madhouse. Drinking games turn to kamikaze hard spirit downing. The crowds sway on table tops, swing from rafters, the music turned up to 11, lights flash in and out of the scene, screaming and death rattling. Monkeys for the circus. Sit in a corner with a Laura swapping cynicisms, watching the horror unfold. The clock chimes midnight, 1, 2, 3. My 20´s end with star gazing on a hilltop, bedlam the backdrop.

Tikal, a mocking bird

Apologies for the last two entries. Dreadful, dreary dross, despairing drivel. This will not be any better, but it will be an attempt at sumarising 10 days in one entry. If it gets too long skip to the end and think a bus moving southwards.

wake to Ipod fail disaster. An arguement with a waterfall. Only one winner. Bury in rice in the hope of a miracle. A hostel power cut. Black coffee then slip through a narrow alleyway onto a boat for a Rio Dulce cruise. Jungle reeds, giant lillys, natural warm springs, dank dark caving. Done, dusted. A long slender bridge announces arrival. Rip-off fried chicken. Wait for a bus Flores bound that turns up half full. ´´No´´ shouts an angry man. We wait. And wait. Then the right bus turns up. 100 people on a 52 capacity. Stand the whole way. 4 hours of bendy rought terrain. The locals throw litter from the windows on every turn. A Danish honeymoon pair get robbed, their bag, their camera, their money, their cards.

The sunset entering flores amazing, blood orange leaking into the sky, vicious red and orange grafitti. The hostel is near empty, occupants only spanish speaking. A friday night of nothingness, of emptiness, of cold water and still air.

And the next day, 3 tasks. 1. Buy camera 2. Move Hostel. 3. Book Tikal. Get distracted by guns, and signs about guns, and security guards outside departments stores with huge guns, and guns guns guns. Achieve 1 in St. Elena, 45 minute walk as the heat tears through my clothing, a tuk-tuk back. 2 is a stupid idea. I have to be up at 4 in the morning and thus a self-styled party hostel should have been last night. Move anyway. Boredom will do strange things to logic. 3. is an exercise in indecisiveness. Guide or no guide? Through Hostel or randomers. Coffee break then pick no guide and transport from the hostel.

Ipod disaster = new alarm clock pick up. 4AM would be a terrible time to wake unassisted. Have an idea of lake swimming as the sun goes down, hoping for sunset repetition but distracted by English couple in a bar, down 2 for 1 beers as the night draws in, the cloud shielding everything, alcohol overshadowing disappointment. Talk till the witching hour. 4 hours blank. Alarm works, thankgod. Click, off, gone. Continue sleep on the dawn bus. Tikal by 6, the day already bright.

Everyone else is with guide. He has no list so tempting to hop a free ride, but he´s irritating, something about his eyes and comedy smile, to eager to crack a joke. Plus tarantula terror tales running through my thoughts. Smash into the jungle alone. Wander round monkeys, a white fox blocks the path, fresh bird meat dangling bloodily from the jaws. Camera drives him away. And Tikal is huge, and magical, and fuck I hate words like magical.

The jungle is drenched in morning sounds. Birds squawk, frogs croak, a buzzsaw noise nearby. I did not bring insect repellent. Strange flies attach and suck and leech and bite and stopping is self harm so run through the main plaza and a glimpse of temple iv through the mist makes me ´´woah´´ and onwards and climb the wooden staircase and look over the canopy and temples on the horizon as kestrals swoon and all by myself and awestruck. Then the rest. 5 hours of trails, an LP map my guide. Skip past spider holes, swing through temples and pyramids, hear creatures brush against bushes out of vision and what the hell is that thing following me and concentrate and walk shoulders upright and jaguars don´t attack tourists on Sunday mornings, I saw it on the discovery channel.

Back to the plaza. A middle-aged american woman gives me deet and warns of dengue fever and I´m on the edge of sanity with exhaustion and finally a Nathan Drake clamber through plazas and rope ladders. A rush back for the bus. I´ve been up 8 hours and it´s just midday and already entertaining thoughts of sleep.

And okay, 10 days isn´t going to happen right now. Snap, crackle, pop till the page runs out and Sunday dies.

Waterfalls

Wake with no idea of time. Meaningful breakfast of eggs with tomatoes and onion. Feel a sickness that caffeine doesn't cure. A beach tour exists but I avoid, assuming a glorified estuary to not hit the heights of the caribbean coast. Instead follow the waterfall rumours, 90 minutes walk down a littered beach. Dodge jellyfish, needles, dead fish, garbage. The water here brown, forced to walk through deep streams and quicksand.

I'm with an American guy called Christian, who's just a little LA, a girl from the midwest called Emily, who occasionally makes comments that could be taken as rascist and an Australian girl who works at the hostel. The latter fact appears true of half the people who hang out the the Iguana House. None of these people descriptions are pertinent.

90 minutes feels like 4 hours in the sticky heat, dehydration concerns trouble my brain, my mouth turns dry as the west of my body breathes water. Persist, then a mud path up a hill, slippy and needles still underfoot. Pay an entrance fee of negligible amount and boom!

Swim in shallow rock pools, walk scross mini-waterfalls on slippery moss, swing on vines and clamber over tree trunks. A miniana jones adventure, helped by the place being utterly deserted. The highlight a 20 foot jump from the top of a waterfall into a deep lagoon below. Fear the height, the water, the crocodiles, slipping headcrackdeathdisaster but the rock climb-leap-thrill outweighs the terror. Laze around the pools for a while, feeling reptilian, the jungle corridor providing curtain shade whilst watching the water weave through the stones to the sea below.

Too lazy to walk back. Grab a taxi, but even that's a 40 minute walk to a rickety ropebridge, and then in Livingstone search fruitlessly for street food, offered guns for novelty, eat ice-cream as snack food, view the alligator pit, Christian says he witnessed a shooting here last night. Some new food, an ice drink, hard to place, and a refried bean & Cheese combination on doughy deep fried bread. Good. More jungle juice. Rusty finally puts in an appearance but he's too busy playing strip poker with girls half his age for me to make judgements on anything other than his overt twattishness. A disappointment.

Then a small restaurant in town and amazing fresh shrimp with rice and salad. A prostitute enters the otherwise deserted restaurant and offers to braid my hair. I decline and hotfoot back to the hostel. (My notes at this point say ''more weird drugs''. I do not know what this means), and then back to the drumming club but it's last night's disaster with shade less enthusiasm. A drunk guy gives a drug dealer some money, as long as the dealer promises to come back with the money. He passes the time by paying the aforementioned prostitute to braid his hear. I disappear to bed before the dealer returns. I.e. sometimes between 11PM and never.

Livingstoned

6:30 rise. Didn´t even unpack my stuff the night before so it´s a smooth transition from bed to the bus stop, a 10 meter walk in total. 6k on the bus, then a wait at a cross roads, hailing passing vehicles. PG bound.

One bus. Another. And another. 4th time lucky. Squeeze into seat space. The adults here must be the size of children. Dead leg, cramp, bruised knees. The rocking of the bus against the road strangely sleep inducing.

Arrive. Blunder through customs checks then wander the town. Wrong way round. Down to my last 10 dollars. Water, lunch. Completely out. A perfect budget. Then the boat. Italian/English guy who works for Opta gives me Livingstone advice that amounts to: ´´Go to Casa La Iguana, the owner´s a complete cunt´´. This is repetition of previous advice. Intrigued.

Hit the port. Offered drugs 3 times within a minute in Guatemala. The Spanish for ´´I don´t do drugs, and if I did I wouldn´t be buying them from you´´ is not forthcoming. ´no no no´ suffices. A boy of about 16 guides me to the hostel.

I have often complained about heat and sweat in C. America, like what did I expect? but this is a whole new level. Literal ((c) j. redknapp) buckets.

Shower but all that does is increase humidity. Lie down under a cool fan until the most irritating girls I´ve ever met invade the dorm, singing fuckawful songs, coked to the eyeballs, god knows what else, it´s 3 in the afternoon. Escape into the town. Laundry etc.

6 pm brings happy hour. Jungle Juice for a pound. Dinner of fish, rice and peas, the fish large and fleshy, the JJ going down too well. The wind sweeps through the darkness, lightning flashes, thunder cracks, a storm brewing. Flee shelter, talk of a drumming centre, but on arrival at a multi-coloured building on a deserted street it is clearly empty.

5 minutes of debate and then a man on a push bike pulls up. Do we want music? Erm, yeah. My house. Erm, no. And then he opens the building anyway, pulls chairs and tables into the middle of the street, produces a large drum and some alcohol. 7 of us around. He asks us where we´re from. Gets to me. ´´Inglaterra´´, ´´Inglaterra, Nada´´ comes the response. This is getting weird.

And anyway, the beer is now gone and spirits too expensive, so some of us depart into the night. Halfway back and the flashflood arrives. Drenched to the bone in 5 seconds flat. Swimming back an option. Attempt shelted and somehow it just gets harder and harder, and so we run anyway. More beer. Bedtime. One of the English girls is dancing alone on her bed in a trancelike state to Arcade Fire songs. Too surreal for my half-drunk mind to contemplate. Lock out two thirds of the hellwhores for my own entertainment and thus sleep soundly.

Search for The Funky Dodo

I hear the name Funky Dodo twice. The first time I mention to an Australian girl in my dorm I´m heading to Hopkins. She says I should stay at the Funky Dodo. The girl is nice enough, but she seems to spend all her time in Caye Caulker hanging around with local drug dealers or passed out in her bed at hours unsuitable for sleeping. Still, I note it down.

The second time an Australian guy so drunk I assume him to be a Scandanavian who speaks little English mutters the words ´Funky Dodo´ to me shortly after my Hopkins repetition. The Funky Dodo does not exist according to my guidebook.

(note to reader: this entry will not get any more interesting following this point which is hardly setting pulses racing as it is, so now would be a good time to do something productive)

I awake on my last morning in Caye Caulker uncertain. I kinda want to stay another day, but kinda realise this is a well worn trap and that Guatemala can wait little longer. Decide to head down the coast.

10AM water taxi to Belize City. 2 hours later than hoped, but things run like mangled clockwork here so expected. Belize City is to be ran through. Do not turn East outside the boat terminal, but I get my bearings confused and think I´m heading East anyway, when actually I´m heading west, so my hearts already beating too fast.

´´Do not walk down deserted streets´´, I read in my guidebook halfway down a deserted streets on way to the bus station. No turning back. Quicken pace. The weight of my backpack on my shoulders combining with the near midday sun doing little to prevent the gathering of moisture on my skin.

´´Do your best to blend in, walking around looking lost, guidebook in hand is a good idea only if you want to attract the wrong kind of attention´´. Too late! I can see the bus station in the distance, I am now running and panting and red and wet.

Arrive. No ticket booth. Attempt to speak Spanish to the ´staff´ before remembering this is an English speaking country. They tell me to jump on a bus, that´s an old, decrepid and bright yellow American School bus. In my head ´´´Funky Dodo, Funky Dodo, Funky Dodo´´

The bus stops at every nook on the way to Belopan (probably not the name of the Belizian capital but how it appears in my notepad). I am the only traveller on the bus. The locals speak in singsong, Belizian radio bursts from rusty speakers, an experience in itself. The news being read in a rasta accent is somehow difficult to take seriously. The crimes appear exclusively to be statutory rape.

Fly down the hummingbird hwy. By fly I mean bumble slowly down a concrete wave track, road an inappropriate word here. Wait two hours in Dangria. Attempt to walk into town but the main connecting bridge is out, a bulldozer sits idle in the sun, threatening passive destruction. Back to the bus station, finally hit my connection. 1 hour down a dirt track.

Hopkins upon us. My nose against trembling glass. ´´Funky Dodo Funky Dodo Funky Dodo´´. The bus drives one way, all along the seafront, a snails pace. People exit the bus every 20 meters. Stops, turns, back the other way. For some reason more people exit the bus at places we stopped not 3 minutes ago. And now the other end of town, and I think I pass something Dodo related but I´m not sure so I stick on for around half a mile, before the strip of housing and restaurants disintegrates into fields and sand.

A slow walk back into town in semi-darkness, nod at a european person, kick a football, focus on the lights ahead. And I can see it, ´´Funky Dodo´´ painted in large brown letters on a cream wall. The name 50% accurate, the place dead as. Come to think of it, renaming Hopkins ´´Dodo´´ would not be a terrible idea based on my experiences for the next 3 hours. Go to sleep at 9:30. It´s either a 7:30 AM or 4PM bus out of here, and tomorrow has to end up in Guatemala.

A tall travelling tale

The story told to me in Tulum by a slightly mental Australian guy, described by a fellow Englishman as the strangest person he had met travelling. It was told to me and a girl who´s nationality I can´t remember, maybe Buglarian, This is my recollection, I´m not really sure why it gets swearier as it goes along. But it entertained me at least:

´´So, I´m in this Caye Caulker nightclub, dressed as my alter ego, Joe Sparrow. Jack´s brother, sailing the carribean for treasure. We had an altercation a long time ago. Don´t like to discuss it. Anyway, this local chick starts trying to dance with me, grinding up to me and all that shit, and I´m pretty battered but I´m having none of it, push her away and so on. Goes on for a while and then she gives up. So I´m like, fine, and keep on dancing, waving my sword around. that kind of shit. Then it gets late so I head out the club.

The girl´s oustide with a group of 4 local guys, sees me, tries the same stuff and so I push her away again, tell her I´m not interested and she gets the message and starts walking away with the 4 guys, and I´m relieved. And then I realise my wallets missing, and I´m like fuck, it can only be her right? So I catch up with her and I´m all ´give me my wallet back´ and she´s pretending she doesn´t know what I´m talking about, and then the guy´s get involved and there´s a bit of pushing, nothing serious.

But still, 4 on 1 and the odds aren´t good so I say ´´look, I couldn´t care less about the money, but could I have the cards back´´, and the girls like 2 minutes, and then, hey presto, comes back with the wallet and cards, cash missing, and the wallets almost ripped to shreds and I´m like, yeah, thanks very much and all that.

So, it´s now like 3 in the morning, and I´m pretty drunk but fuck I´m annoyed, so I go to the police station to report it, insurance purposes and the cop at the station asks me to describe them, and he´s like ´´yeah, I know the guys, lets pay them a visit´´ and i´m all ´´yeah, okay´ and so he takes me to their house, it´s on the south side of the island and we plough through swamps and reeds and fucking jungle and shit, and I´m still wearing my pirate costume, and feeling pretty fucking cool now I think about it, and finally we get there, this rough old wood shack in the middle of fucking nowhere.

And so he knocks, and the open up and I´m ´´yes, it´s them´´ and the policeman asks them if they stole my money, and of course they deny it, and this carries on for a short while, and then one of them pipes up ´´I saw that guy buying coke earlier´´. And the cop´s ´´is that true?´´ and I´m all ´´´course it isn´t mate´´ and they tell him to look in my wallet and so I hand it over and there´s a gram of coke in a sealed plastic bag.

(NB At this point we interject ´´So they planted the coke´´, and he says ´´no, on closer inspection of the faces present it became apparant that I did indeed buy a gram of coke from one of the guys earlier´´)

So I´m ´´It´s a setup´´ but the guy has stopped smiling and having none of it, and so we go back to the station the cops like ´´you´re going to have to spend the night in here´´ and then pretty much throws me into this cell. And you´d think it´d have bars or a window, but it´s just this room, 4 stone walls and no light source, like solitary fucking confinement and my eyes can´t even adjust, all I see is blackness.

And then I hear this scratching sound through the darkness, so I know someone else is in there, but I don´t want to find out who, or why. I´m terrified, really fucking frightened, and so I stretch out my hands and reach for the wall and find it and travel in the direction furthest away from the sound, until I another wall, which means a corner, which means somewhere to slouch. There´s wetness on the floor, a puddle of who knows what, and there´s no way I´m fucking sleeping in this room so I just crouch in this wet patch till morning, which I have no fucking idea when it arrives due to the complete absence of a light source.

Finally, the cop opens the door, lets me out, and says the following ´´Here´s what happens next. You stay on the island for 7 days and then next Saturday you will have a hearing in Belize City. Given your evident guilt you will then spend 6-9 months in a Belize City jail´´. And I´m like ´´shit, I´ve got to go home. Is there any, y´know, way of sorting this out?´´ ´´How much money do you have?´´ ´´100 $, US´´, ´´200 $ and we can talk´´. And fuck, $200 vs 6 months in a Belizian Jail cell isn´t even an option, we shake.

He takes me to the cashpoint, I withdraw the alloted amount. Anyway, the real kicker, is he took all my belt and pirate stuff off me before throwing me in jail, presumably to prevent suicide or something. And he hands it back. Strange looks, laughter, everything friendly. Finally he produces the coke, looks at it, and then passes it back. Belizian fucking justice in action´´.

Taking it Belize-y

Monday is for snorkelling where sharks prowl and the sea screams outwards in each direction, land a distant memory. 8 hours on a small sailboat. Child/adulthood open water terrors tremour through the morning, as the boat starts its 90 minute trip to the reef.

Splash into the deep water. Left to fend for myself. Instructions: Do not touch the reef as it will die and you will poison. This would be easier if I could control my breathing, not steam up my mask, not twist my snorkel,not take in copious amounts of sea water, not panic that every splash is a great white thrashing just below the surface. I spend 45 minutes attempting not to sink, kick the coral on at least 2 seperate occasions and scan the horizon constantly for shark fins. An ordeal.

Still, onwards and downwards, the next stop, shark alley (seriously), is where the sharks and rays congrugate in a spiral of dread. This isn´t helped by the feeding frenzy instigated by the guide throwing dead sardines over the side. Still, my snorkelling skills have now improved and can last underwater for whole minutes at a time. Spend the next 40 minutes reaching out for the nurse sharks and dodging rays, and it´s strangely peaceful and not nerve shredding at all, even when some of the sharks look like they could swallow me whole and have room left over.

Finally it´s an underwater pleasure park, where colourful fish swim in patterns across the seabed, giant turtles plough into the depths (resist Mario urge to ride one), giant bloated dead eyed fish meander and barracuda swim close and eye us up as food. Like an aquarium without the glass.

And then sail back at a slow pace in the steady breeze, the boat heavily weighted to one side and my feet brushing the water, rum punch drank steadily and cervice eaten greedily, and a dolphin hits the surface of the water in the distance while the sun sets on the brilliant blue day. Beats Monday afternoon in the audit room.

Mexi-go-go-going-going-gone

So, the 7AM start that was going to result in a relaxing pack-breakfast combo before an 8:15 bus ends with a 7:55 awakening and multiple swearwords. Worldly possessions scattered around a dimly lit dorm floor. Gather, scoop, jam into the pack, punching wildly to make more top-room. Dirty, clean mixed. Organisation for another time.

LP nowhere. Panic to the power 10. Frantically think back to hammock time and just how relaxed was I? And it´s not there but on the breakfast table. Gulp. Run to the bus stop following check-out impatience, a minute to spare, and attempt to sleep away the morning, bump up the 4 hours of the night previous, but a terrible movie is playing in Spanish at a 1000 decibels or more so I just sit with my eyes closed for the duration.

Chechumel a dump, and I´ve 3 hours to kill. Water taxi terminal discovered in 5 minutes (okay, so I cheat and get a taxi), my last pesos spent on taxi fare and boat backage costs and so there´ll be no food till Belize. Read in a quiet square and then stare at the water, think humber estuary brown.

The boat ridiculous, bright pink seats, Fast & Furious 5 on HD tvs that no one can hear because the smack of the hull against the waves is deafening at this speed. Our host repeatedly running on top and around the side of the craft for no particular reason. Then switch at San Pedro to a small sea boat, where we have to sit in certain positions lest the boat topple, and the water now like something in a desert island dream, slowly swallowing the fading sun.

Arrive with no booking. Walk aimlessly round the island as hagglers haggle and hustlers hustel, the usual scene, and Tinas is full so hit Bellas which is also full but offered a sponge mattress on a floor for $5 a night and take it in an instant.

Finally eat. Fresh lobster straight from the grill, with rice and garlic bread, doesn´t get much better, and chat to some middle-age americans who prove more entertaining than the stereotype and convince me of a travel plan change whilst sipping rum.

Head back, a stop for rum and mixer on the way, the ´done thing´ round here, and sit on a wooden stool in porch light whilst the sea breeze clenses the day of heat, and chat without purpose to a revolving cast and get too drunk too quickly, which I only realise by the time I´ve entered a terrible night club and ordered a drink I no longer need.

Talk to an Israli girl who looks like me, but prefers the coke to the rum if you catch my drift, but anyway, she persuades me to go to Jellos which is all kinds of crazy, the only non-local faces, the music mental, a fusion of trance & reggae & dubstep & rap, traditional mixing replaced my 80´s computer game sounds. Seamless. That´s the day.

Wake up the next morning, vague recollections of the girl putting some money for drinks in my shirt pocket. Check. $50. Hmmm. I´ve made money since arrival.

The morning wind is strong but the sun stronger still, and it´s definitely a version of paradise, the local drug dealers given the place an enticing edge. Walk the entire island with Marco, a German guy from the hostel, and discover the grave yard next to the ´Paradise hotel´, not sure what the intention.

A guy with dreadlocks starts following us, muttering ´´Marijuana´´ and we explain we don´t do drugs, and so he takes the logical next step and offers cocaine instead, but we remain unswayed and then he offers us girls which at least is a step in the right direction, but right now I really need a cash machine so I decline further. He promises to catch us later.

Swim at the split, the point where a hurricane broke the island in two and the current so strong it´s hard to swim against it, and a depth that goes from standing height to 2 meters on a ledge. I drift around, not wanting to move my limbs enough to call it a swim.

The midday sun is so intense even the mad dogs retire and so do I and lunch on Jerk chicken, deliciously spicy, eaten in a hurry with lukewarm potatoes, and a few hours in a deck chair chatting lazily with Ami & I could sit in the shade all day like this, but instead I summon the energy to swim and sip beer, whilst kite surfers tumble through the air in the distance, life so very hard.

Watch a mid 40s englishman attempt to entertain the crowds with a tai chi exhibition as sunset approaches and a drunk local immitates, and when sitting on a picnic table in the sea drinking Belkins gets too much I retire for more lobster and rum and the day has smothered me and all that remains is rest.

Tulum under a full moon

7:30 start for early beach action. Hit before the suns harsh heat fills the day. And so it´s basking in soft white sand and in the shade of palm trees, watching wave after wave crash gently to the shore, kicking off sandles and reclining until horizontal.

But inaction can only take me so far and so it´s back to town and bike hire, and a trip to a cran cenote and a botched attempt at snorkelling, as breathing through just my mouth as ice cold water quickens my heart proves beyond me and instead the water´s filling my mask and lungs and I´m coughing uncontrollably, and finding a dark cave to hide my shame. Finally work it out, and look down into the depths and divers go deeper still and this cenote is an entrance into a network of miles and miles of elaborate underground freashwater cave tunnels, which is incredible in its way. But not really too much to see on amateur snorkelling hour, so a bike back into town, swerving through the traffic.

I´m so hungry I stop at the first roadside stop. Flies buzz, the place empty as salad roasts exposed in the direct sunlight. One type of Taco on offer. Saves me having to think. Order a coke and get something claiming to be Sangria but actually fizzy grape juice. The mark on the bottle says Pesico and doesn´t seem hand drawn. Anyway, tastes okay and supercheap and then i´m back and lazing in a hostel garden hammock under tree shade and book a ticket out of this country, or to the border at least.

And then it´s turning to nighttime and it´s Friday so drink ferociously and an Australian tells a story that deserves it´s own subsequent entry (a cliffhanger of sorts), and then some Americans show up, sweet in a college way, and get a taxi to a beach party, 5 of us squeeze in space for 4, a few extra pesos for the driver, and driving on a beachside with the breeze smashing against my face, like something out a coastal American teen drama.

And the moon is full and the party fun, more fun when the bartender apologises for running out of beer by giving me a free mojito, and there´s more fireshows and a Danish girl who supports Liverpool, which cheers me, and 3 in the morning and I am swimming in the caribbean over razor sharp rocks, the moon beaming down onto the shallow sea. It´s probably dangerous to be in the sea this drunk but who cares, this is Mexico. And then hostel, bed, sleep, alarm clock fail, Saturday morning too soon. Uck.