Photos:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=200340&id=510568119&l=5984047958
We crossed into Argentina just a few days before my birthday, and what better way to celebrate the last birthday of your 20s than to get in some practice for being a sophisticated 30-something and touring a Mendozan vineyard. We set off bright and early with our tour guide and fellow wine-tasters, calling at Finca Flichman Luigi Bosca and Catena Zapata wineries for an introduction to the art of winemaking, and local specialty Malbec, followed by the all-important tasting sessions. Half way through we stopped for an epic lunch (with more wine, of course), at Cava de Cano. Needless to say, by the end of the tour we were both slightly less ignorant about viticulture and slightly less sober... We also celebrated my cumpleaños with a delicious parrilla, another Argentinian specialty of barbequed steak, morcilla (blood sausage) and chorizo. And some more Malbec, of course.
After spending a leisurely few days in Mendoza we set off for Rosario - a city some 500 miles, or 10 hours away. Carrying on the birthday celebrations for as long as possible we decided to treat ourselves to the luxury version of bus travel - the Royal Suite. For the princely sum of thirty English pounds, we were provided with pre-dinner drinks and snacks, a three course hot meal complete with wine, an after dinner glass of bubbly, a film played on our own personal plasma screen TV and the pièce de résistance: a fully reclining leather armchair and footrest that combined to create a surprisingly comfortable full length bed. We slept for a whole 8 hours before being woken the next morning just in time to be served out hot breakfast before arriving in Rosario. The only downside to the experience is that I may never be able to bring myself to take a non-luxury nightbus again...
Sunday, 29 August 2010
Thursday, 5 August 2010
A New Day, a New Continent
Photos here:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=193845&id=510568119&l=086bc2b927
I had a brilliant time in Central America, but I have to admit arriving in Santiago, Chile, was a breath of fresh air. It was like stepping into a Latin American version of Europe - suddenly we could buy red wine and pesto in the supermarket, tram and bus networks ran through the streets according to timetables and for the first time in months it felt like we were in a vibrant, fully fledged city. This was particularly impressive given that Santiago had suffered a massive earthquake just weeks earlier - the only evidence of it was the occasional dramatic crack in the facade of a building and otherwise everything seemed to be business as usual.
Compounding my happiness was the abundance of amazing empanadas, the ubiquitous South American pastie. The grandfather of all empanadas, the pino, is a steaming pastry pocket of mince, olive and hard boiled egg. Yum. Less successful were my samplings of the local beverages "Bilz" and "Pap." You can gauge my reaction to these appropriately named delicacies in the photo album.
We spent several happy days exploring the city, sipping lattes in sidewalk cafes, mooching around art galleries and funky boutiques and eating candy floss in our local park. A particular highlight was Cerro Santa Lucia - a leafy, landscaped hill adorned with Italian-esque fountains and curving staircases that sits in the heart of Santiago and offers excellent views across the city to the looming Andes mountain range beyond. We also went along to a Copa Libertadores game, which apparently is the South American version of the Champions League. Happily, both the football and the singing from the fans was infinitely more entertaining than in Guatemala.
Next stop was the faded seaside glamour of the port town Valparaiso. Named a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2003, "Valpo" is a unique city, but one that divides opinion. It's been described as down at heel and rough around the edges, but for me that only adds to its roguish Bohemian charm. Away from the naval port and the bustling commercial centre, funicular elevators creak up into the city's hills, where steep labyrinthine streets are lined with brightly coloured houses and even more brightly coloured murals. The original murals, painted by students from the Art Institute of the University of Valparaiso in the late 1960s, are collectively known as the Museo a Cielo Abierto - the "open sky museum." Today there are murals all over the city - so many in fact that after the first hour of excited photo snapping Rich admitted defeat and went for a coffee while I finished my architectural photoshoot. He soon cheered up when we sat down to sample Valparaiso's speciality, Chorillana, a veritable mountain of french fries smothered in fried onions, pork, egg and cheese. You can catch a glimpse of this culinary monster in the photo album, and yes, we did eat it all.
Sadly we were struggling for time in Chile and it wasn''t long before we needed to head for Argentina. We spent our last night admiring the fleet of tall ships with their masts lit up like Christmas trees that were lined up along the docks as part of Chile's bicentennial celebrations. Chile, we'll be back.
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=193845&id=510568119&l=086bc2b927
I had a brilliant time in Central America, but I have to admit arriving in Santiago, Chile, was a breath of fresh air. It was like stepping into a Latin American version of Europe - suddenly we could buy red wine and pesto in the supermarket, tram and bus networks ran through the streets according to timetables and for the first time in months it felt like we were in a vibrant, fully fledged city. This was particularly impressive given that Santiago had suffered a massive earthquake just weeks earlier - the only evidence of it was the occasional dramatic crack in the facade of a building and otherwise everything seemed to be business as usual.
Compounding my happiness was the abundance of amazing empanadas, the ubiquitous South American pastie. The grandfather of all empanadas, the pino, is a steaming pastry pocket of mince, olive and hard boiled egg. Yum. Less successful were my samplings of the local beverages "Bilz" and "Pap." You can gauge my reaction to these appropriately named delicacies in the photo album.
We spent several happy days exploring the city, sipping lattes in sidewalk cafes, mooching around art galleries and funky boutiques and eating candy floss in our local park. A particular highlight was Cerro Santa Lucia - a leafy, landscaped hill adorned with Italian-esque fountains and curving staircases that sits in the heart of Santiago and offers excellent views across the city to the looming Andes mountain range beyond. We also went along to a Copa Libertadores game, which apparently is the South American version of the Champions League. Happily, both the football and the singing from the fans was infinitely more entertaining than in Guatemala.
Next stop was the faded seaside glamour of the port town Valparaiso. Named a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2003, "Valpo" is a unique city, but one that divides opinion. It's been described as down at heel and rough around the edges, but for me that only adds to its roguish Bohemian charm. Away from the naval port and the bustling commercial centre, funicular elevators creak up into the city's hills, where steep labyrinthine streets are lined with brightly coloured houses and even more brightly coloured murals. The original murals, painted by students from the Art Institute of the University of Valparaiso in the late 1960s, are collectively known as the Museo a Cielo Abierto - the "open sky museum." Today there are murals all over the city - so many in fact that after the first hour of excited photo snapping Rich admitted defeat and went for a coffee while I finished my architectural photoshoot. He soon cheered up when we sat down to sample Valparaiso's speciality, Chorillana, a veritable mountain of french fries smothered in fried onions, pork, egg and cheese. You can catch a glimpse of this culinary monster in the photo album, and yes, we did eat it all.
Sadly we were struggling for time in Chile and it wasn''t long before we needed to head for Argentina. We spent our last night admiring the fleet of tall ships with their masts lit up like Christmas trees that were lined up along the docks as part of Chile's bicentennial celebrations. Chile, we'll be back.
Friday, 30 July 2010
Panamanian Pandemonium
Photos, photos, photos:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=193841&id=510568119&l=fda39bbff5
To be honest, there wasn't much pandemonium in Panama, I just liked the title. There was, however, plenty of r'n'r following our jungle trials. Rich, myself and Christina (a fellow escapee from the farm) headed for the hills and the refreshingly cool mountain town of Boquete. Here we spent several happy days taking in the scenery, patronising the local ice cream parlour and playing table football. We also participated in the local Easter festivities which, being in a Latin American country, were not on a small scale. We followed a nocturnal parade that must have involved every single inhabitant of the town and its nearby villages, saw locals putting together elaborate Stations of the Cross outside various shops and houses along the town-wide route, and I went the extra mile by sitting through a 2 hour Good Friday service given entirely in Spanish. (Had I known about the 2 hour part I may have reconsidered...)
After bidding a fond farewell to Christina as she set off for home and the backwoods of California, Rich and I boarded a bus for the capital - Panama City. Panama is not your typical Central American city. The new part is like a cross between Miami and Dubai - full of shiny new (and not-so-shiny still-being-built) waterfront skyscrapers, funky coffee shops, restaurants offering cuisine from all corners of the globe and even a strip of uber-trendy nightclubs that wouldn't be out of place in LA. A few blocks away, however, is Casco Viejo, the old part of town. Here whole streets of beautiful colonial buildings were left to crumble when the city's elite moved out to other neighbourhoods, and until recently the city's entire historic heart was a rapidly declining slum. A few years ago, the gentrification fairy found Casco Viejo and by the time we visited she had started to work her magic. Dotted amongst the tumbledown houses you can now find a sprinkling of boutique hotels, gourmet restaurants and trendy cafe bars. But to get to them you still need to traverse the menacing slum that surrounds the old city, and even then the regeneration is still in its infancy. It was a fascinating time to visit, and it will be interesting to see just how far, and how well, the transformation goes.
Now it's well known around the world that when visiting Panama there's one thing that everyone has to see. That's right, a Guns n' Roses concert. In fact, Guns n' Roses, despite having a huge following throughout Central America, had never played in Panama before the week that Richard and I happened to be in town, so we decided it would be rude not to go along and lend our support. After getting our hands on a pair of tickets in the usual way (queuing up in the Panamanian equivalent of Boots and buying them at the till) we trooped along thinking we'd catch a bit of the support act before the main event. 4 hours later, still no sign of Axel & co. Still, we had had the pleasure of listening to Sebastian Bach (of "Skid Row" fame) for 2 hours and a nice bit of space on the floor to sit on for the hour or so after that, so I suppose I shouldn't complain.
Just after midnight Guns n' Roses finally deigned to grace us with their presence. Or rather an ageing Mickey Rourke look-a-like, several session musicians and a teenager in a Slash costume appeared and launched into Welcome to the Jungle. The crowd were elated. For about 30 seconds, until Axl took exception to a plastic cup that landed somewhere near him, stopped the song and gave us all a good telling off. The poor man was so distracted by the whole thing he completely forgot to apologise for keeping us waiting so long. S'alright Axl, we forgive you...
Luckily for Mr Rose, Gn'R have some fairly excellent tunes in their arsenal and getting to thrash around to Sweet Child O' Mine, November Rain and Paradise City (possibly the biggest missed lyric change opportunity in history) as performed by almost the band that created them was a definite joy generator. Less enjoyable was hearing Axl screech his way through Gn'R's latest material and watching an obviously talented young guitarist posturing like a trained monkey with a top hat and drooping cigarette in the hopes that noone in Panama had heard Slash had declined to join the tour. Still, it was an early morning to remember and at 2am we headed home happy.
Final port of call was the Panama Canal. I went along with fairly low expectations, and was duly delighted to find that not only can you watch enormous ships go through the equally enormous locks right in front of your strategically positioned multi-level viewing platform, you can also go round a museum and pretend to pilot the boats yourself in a groovy simulator type-thingy. Much fun was had by all. Next day we struck out for the airport and our flight to South America. After almost 3 months in Central America this stage of our trip was drawing to a close, and we both agreed Panama had been an excellent way to round things off. Next stop Chile!
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=193841&id=510568119&l=fda39bbff5
To be honest, there wasn't much pandemonium in Panama, I just liked the title. There was, however, plenty of r'n'r following our jungle trials. Rich, myself and Christina (a fellow escapee from the farm) headed for the hills and the refreshingly cool mountain town of Boquete. Here we spent several happy days taking in the scenery, patronising the local ice cream parlour and playing table football. We also participated in the local Easter festivities which, being in a Latin American country, were not on a small scale. We followed a nocturnal parade that must have involved every single inhabitant of the town and its nearby villages, saw locals putting together elaborate Stations of the Cross outside various shops and houses along the town-wide route, and I went the extra mile by sitting through a 2 hour Good Friday service given entirely in Spanish. (Had I known about the 2 hour part I may have reconsidered...)
After bidding a fond farewell to Christina as she set off for home and the backwoods of California, Rich and I boarded a bus for the capital - Panama City. Panama is not your typical Central American city. The new part is like a cross between Miami and Dubai - full of shiny new (and not-so-shiny still-being-built) waterfront skyscrapers, funky coffee shops, restaurants offering cuisine from all corners of the globe and even a strip of uber-trendy nightclubs that wouldn't be out of place in LA. A few blocks away, however, is Casco Viejo, the old part of town. Here whole streets of beautiful colonial buildings were left to crumble when the city's elite moved out to other neighbourhoods, and until recently the city's entire historic heart was a rapidly declining slum. A few years ago, the gentrification fairy found Casco Viejo and by the time we visited she had started to work her magic. Dotted amongst the tumbledown houses you can now find a sprinkling of boutique hotels, gourmet restaurants and trendy cafe bars. But to get to them you still need to traverse the menacing slum that surrounds the old city, and even then the regeneration is still in its infancy. It was a fascinating time to visit, and it will be interesting to see just how far, and how well, the transformation goes.
Now it's well known around the world that when visiting Panama there's one thing that everyone has to see. That's right, a Guns n' Roses concert. In fact, Guns n' Roses, despite having a huge following throughout Central America, had never played in Panama before the week that Richard and I happened to be in town, so we decided it would be rude not to go along and lend our support. After getting our hands on a pair of tickets in the usual way (queuing up in the Panamanian equivalent of Boots and buying them at the till) we trooped along thinking we'd catch a bit of the support act before the main event. 4 hours later, still no sign of Axel & co. Still, we had had the pleasure of listening to Sebastian Bach (of "Skid Row" fame) for 2 hours and a nice bit of space on the floor to sit on for the hour or so after that, so I suppose I shouldn't complain.
Just after midnight Guns n' Roses finally deigned to grace us with their presence. Or rather an ageing Mickey Rourke look-a-like, several session musicians and a teenager in a Slash costume appeared and launched into Welcome to the Jungle. The crowd were elated. For about 30 seconds, until Axl took exception to a plastic cup that landed somewhere near him, stopped the song and gave us all a good telling off. The poor man was so distracted by the whole thing he completely forgot to apologise for keeping us waiting so long. S'alright Axl, we forgive you...
Luckily for Mr Rose, Gn'R have some fairly excellent tunes in their arsenal and getting to thrash around to Sweet Child O' Mine, November Rain and Paradise City (possibly the biggest missed lyric change opportunity in history) as performed by almost the band that created them was a definite joy generator. Less enjoyable was hearing Axl screech his way through Gn'R's latest material and watching an obviously talented young guitarist posturing like a trained monkey with a top hat and drooping cigarette in the hopes that noone in Panama had heard Slash had declined to join the tour. Still, it was an early morning to remember and at 2am we headed home happy.
Final port of call was the Panama Canal. I went along with fairly low expectations, and was duly delighted to find that not only can you watch enormous ships go through the equally enormous locks right in front of your strategically positioned multi-level viewing platform, you can also go round a museum and pretend to pilot the boats yourself in a groovy simulator type-thingy. Much fun was had by all. Next day we struck out for the airport and our flight to South America. After almost 3 months in Central America this stage of our trip was drawing to a close, and we both agreed Panama had been an excellent way to round things off. Next stop Chile!
Wednesday, 21 July 2010
Giant Spiders and a Costa Reekin' Toilet
Whilst in Costa Rica we decided to spend a few weeks wwoofing at a farm in the Valle de El General - the country's lush tropical coffee and sugar cane heartland. We found a place run by two aging hippies called Mario and Rosie - or Glowingfeather and Honihawke to give them their "Rainbow Names." Always up for something a little different we overlooked the slightly kooky job description (featuring such reassuring nuggets as "the land will be your teacher," and invitations to participate in "heart song life dance playshops"), hopped on a bus from San Jose and sallied forth into the middle of nowhere.
Earth Rose Farm, our new home and workplace, is very beautiful (see pictures here) - 45 acres of green fields sloping down towards the river El General. Previously a coffee farm, mangoes, starfruit, pineapples, bananas, oranges, coconuts, avocados, guanabana and cacao all grow in abundance on the property and a few cattle graze in the upper pastures. Early in the morning mist rolls down the valley as the sun rises - a view best appreciated from the rancho some previous wwoofers had built at the highest point on the farm.
The farm is also extremely isolated. It sits at the top of several impossibly steep hills, and is accessible by vehicle only when it isn't raining. Costa Rican road planning does not adhere to the generally accepted methodology of winding around hills, preferring to go up and over them in as straight a line as possible. In addition, the roads around Earth Rose Farm are not roads in the traditional sense, consisting simply of tracks etched out of the earth by diggers and left to turn into steep, slippery mud slides at the slightest hint of precipitation. Add to this the fact that a small river has to be forded just to get onto the main access road to the farm, and you're in a pretty transport-unfriendly environment.
Sadly for us, getting on and off the farm was by far the smallest challenge we faced over the next few weeks. Peruse, if you will, these pictures of our rustic accommodation. On our introductory tour of the farm we were proudly introduced to the outdoor solar shower. This was actually pretty good (if you got there before the hot water ran out or before it got dark and the frogs came in to join you) and it was quite a zen experience showering under a blue sky in the shade of a palm tree and some bougainvillea. The toilet, however, was not so pleasant. I say toilet - it was in fact a small wooden platform screened by palm branches, inside which was a rudimentary wooden frame suspending a toilet seat over a plastic bucket, and a second bucket full of sawdust. When the first bucket was full, one of us would need to lift it gingerly out of the hut and carry it to the nearby pile of hay half-heartedly contained by a square structure made out of sticks. The bucket was then hoisted up over the stick enclosure and emptied out, before its not-even-slightly-composted-yet former contents were covered over with more hay. Given that 5 or 6 wwoofers were sharing this toilet, it needed emptying pretty frequently and the sights and smells and splashes which accompanied this process can only be described as nauseating.
Our sleeping quarters were another wwoofer construction - a 6 bed dorm room with a concrete base topped by a wooden frame and tin roof. The whole thing was encased in a fine metal mesh which we were assured did a great job of keeping all the creepy crawlies out. It soon transpired that the creepy crawlies were not in fact kept out by the mesh or indeed by anything else, and we received nightly visits from colossal spiders, giant scorpions, huge barb-tailed grasshoppers and all manner of creatures inbetween. Those who are not faint of heart can see a small selection of our non-human roommates here. You can also admire one of them in this little video:
At least, we thought, we could look forward to getting stuck into all the farm work that was going on (pictures here). Unfortunately, by the end of our first day it had become clear that our hosts at Earth Rose Farm were far from farmers, and in fact to call it Earth Rose "Farm" at all was something of a misnomer. For starters, Rosie and Maji (first names and surnames being far too parochial for ole' Glowingfeather he hopped over to Hawaii and changed his name to plain old "Maji") were a couple of retired Americans from Florida who, having no experience of farming or animal husbandry whatsoever, decided to buy a farm in Costa Rica on the basis of a vision Maji had when he "died" during heart surgery. Unfortunately, according to Maji said heart surgery had rendered him totally incapable of anything more strenous than lifting a cup of tea, and Rosie's only ventures outside of the farm house were to pick the odd carrot from the vegetable garden or get into the car and drive into town. Undeterred by lack of experience and physical ability they took over their land from an aging farmer who, in keeping with the best use of the land, had previously grown coffee and raised cattle. Maji and Rosie didn't like the sound of raising cattle to be killed and coffee cultivation was far too much effort, so they decided to, well, to be honest, after 5 years it still wasn't entirely clear what they were doing. Rosie, very sweet in her own way, had no interest in the farm whatsoever beyond her occasional jaunts to plant a few seeds, feed the chickens that lived behind the house or admire her small crop of cabbages.
Maji was slightly more interested, ostensibly in turning the farm into some kind of collective where other couples and families moved in, built themselves houses and presumably did some actual work around the place. After 4 years his dream had failed to become reality, something that could possibly be attributed to his laziness and inability to plan or manage anything on the farm. We were asked to start work on numerous ill-conceived projects during our stay, but perhaps the best example was the grand kitchen project. One day Maji announced that he wanted to build a new kitchen at the wwoofer dorm. The next morning, the perfectly serviceable shelter we had been using was torn down, leaving piles of jagged, rusty corrugated tin roofing sheets, wooden posts and 6ft deep holes strewn around outside our bedroom and making any attempt to enter or leave after it got dark around 6pm something of a risky undertaking. Only once half our accommodation block had been replaced by the obstacle course of death did it occur to our esteemed leader that he didn't know how to build a kitchen. Nor did he have any materials or access to diggers, cement mixers, anyone with construction experience of in fact any of the things you might want to get your hands on before you start demolishing things. In an effort to redeem himself, he instructed the wwoofers to chop down a few trees with a chainsaw and drag them up the hill to the kitchen site using the two knackered old horses he had and a bit of old rope. After nearly killing both horses and several wwoofers with our efforts, we presented the decimated tree trunks to Maji for inspection, only for him to decide they were probably too heavy for us to lift into place and calling a halt to the entire project.
Of course, another reason Maji was finding it difficult to recruit people for his Costa Rican eco-paradise could be the fact he is an irritating egomaniac with a penchant for spouting horrendous freeform poetry or new agey pseudo-science at anyone within earshot. These character defects could possibly be forgiven if he genuinely believed he was nurturing the spirit of the earth and helping to save the planet, but in reality his hippiness takes 6 months off each year when he and Rosie pack up their tie-dyed t-shirts, fly home to their bungalow in Venice Beach and go back to steak dinners, driving an SUV and watching the Boston Red Sox on their wide-screen telly. But worse than this, during the time they were in Costa Rica they made no allowances for the fact they were in another country and a completely different culture. They employed a local worker named Carlos, a brilliant guy who we all loved working with, but they couldn't communicate with him because they had decided they were incapable of learning Spanish. Instead, they relied on the wwoofers' translation skills and the age old tactic of saying everything slowly, loudly and adding an "o" to the end of their words. Instead of making friends with their neighbours and fellow farmers (who we met anyway and who would have been happy to help Rosie and Maji given their years of experience) they patronised them, made fun of their "Costa Rican ways" and spent all their time either on the internet, watching DVDs or lording it up in town with other US ex-pats.
Thankfully, it wasn't all bad news down at the farm. Every day we picked, squeezed and drank the juice of the most incredible oranges I have ever tasted, and there was no shortage of equally amazing tropical fruit for the taking. Because it rarely got below 30 degrees in the middle of the day, work started at day break when the farm was at its most magical, and every afternoon afforded plenty of time for lazing in hammocks drinking smoothies in the shade of the banana trees. We also met some fantastic people who you can see here: Christina the intrepid back-country ranger, Brian the sculptor and chainsaw-master, Sarah, all round ray of sunshine and up-and-coming farmer, Darien, horse-rider extraordinaire, Juaqin the brave escapee and Kimberly, the creator of the best banana and chocolate smoothie I have ever tasted. Somehow we managed to have a pretty excellent time in spite of everything and Rich and I left Earth Rose Farm happy to be going but glad we came.
Earth Rose Farm, our new home and workplace, is very beautiful (see pictures here) - 45 acres of green fields sloping down towards the river El General. Previously a coffee farm, mangoes, starfruit, pineapples, bananas, oranges, coconuts, avocados, guanabana and cacao all grow in abundance on the property and a few cattle graze in the upper pastures. Early in the morning mist rolls down the valley as the sun rises - a view best appreciated from the rancho some previous wwoofers had built at the highest point on the farm.
The farm is also extremely isolated. It sits at the top of several impossibly steep hills, and is accessible by vehicle only when it isn't raining. Costa Rican road planning does not adhere to the generally accepted methodology of winding around hills, preferring to go up and over them in as straight a line as possible. In addition, the roads around Earth Rose Farm are not roads in the traditional sense, consisting simply of tracks etched out of the earth by diggers and left to turn into steep, slippery mud slides at the slightest hint of precipitation. Add to this the fact that a small river has to be forded just to get onto the main access road to the farm, and you're in a pretty transport-unfriendly environment.
Sadly for us, getting on and off the farm was by far the smallest challenge we faced over the next few weeks. Peruse, if you will, these pictures of our rustic accommodation. On our introductory tour of the farm we were proudly introduced to the outdoor solar shower. This was actually pretty good (if you got there before the hot water ran out or before it got dark and the frogs came in to join you) and it was quite a zen experience showering under a blue sky in the shade of a palm tree and some bougainvillea. The toilet, however, was not so pleasant. I say toilet - it was in fact a small wooden platform screened by palm branches, inside which was a rudimentary wooden frame suspending a toilet seat over a plastic bucket, and a second bucket full of sawdust. When the first bucket was full, one of us would need to lift it gingerly out of the hut and carry it to the nearby pile of hay half-heartedly contained by a square structure made out of sticks. The bucket was then hoisted up over the stick enclosure and emptied out, before its not-even-slightly-composted-yet former contents were covered over with more hay. Given that 5 or 6 wwoofers were sharing this toilet, it needed emptying pretty frequently and the sights and smells and splashes which accompanied this process can only be described as nauseating.
Our sleeping quarters were another wwoofer construction - a 6 bed dorm room with a concrete base topped by a wooden frame and tin roof. The whole thing was encased in a fine metal mesh which we were assured did a great job of keeping all the creepy crawlies out. It soon transpired that the creepy crawlies were not in fact kept out by the mesh or indeed by anything else, and we received nightly visits from colossal spiders, giant scorpions, huge barb-tailed grasshoppers and all manner of creatures inbetween. Those who are not faint of heart can see a small selection of our non-human roommates here. You can also admire one of them in this little video:
At least, we thought, we could look forward to getting stuck into all the farm work that was going on (pictures here). Unfortunately, by the end of our first day it had become clear that our hosts at Earth Rose Farm were far from farmers, and in fact to call it Earth Rose "Farm" at all was something of a misnomer. For starters, Rosie and Maji (first names and surnames being far too parochial for ole' Glowingfeather he hopped over to Hawaii and changed his name to plain old "Maji") were a couple of retired Americans from Florida who, having no experience of farming or animal husbandry whatsoever, decided to buy a farm in Costa Rica on the basis of a vision Maji had when he "died" during heart surgery. Unfortunately, according to Maji said heart surgery had rendered him totally incapable of anything more strenous than lifting a cup of tea, and Rosie's only ventures outside of the farm house were to pick the odd carrot from the vegetable garden or get into the car and drive into town. Undeterred by lack of experience and physical ability they took over their land from an aging farmer who, in keeping with the best use of the land, had previously grown coffee and raised cattle. Maji and Rosie didn't like the sound of raising cattle to be killed and coffee cultivation was far too much effort, so they decided to, well, to be honest, after 5 years it still wasn't entirely clear what they were doing. Rosie, very sweet in her own way, had no interest in the farm whatsoever beyond her occasional jaunts to plant a few seeds, feed the chickens that lived behind the house or admire her small crop of cabbages.
Maji was slightly more interested, ostensibly in turning the farm into some kind of collective where other couples and families moved in, built themselves houses and presumably did some actual work around the place. After 4 years his dream had failed to become reality, something that could possibly be attributed to his laziness and inability to plan or manage anything on the farm. We were asked to start work on numerous ill-conceived projects during our stay, but perhaps the best example was the grand kitchen project. One day Maji announced that he wanted to build a new kitchen at the wwoofer dorm. The next morning, the perfectly serviceable shelter we had been using was torn down, leaving piles of jagged, rusty corrugated tin roofing sheets, wooden posts and 6ft deep holes strewn around outside our bedroom and making any attempt to enter or leave after it got dark around 6pm something of a risky undertaking. Only once half our accommodation block had been replaced by the obstacle course of death did it occur to our esteemed leader that he didn't know how to build a kitchen. Nor did he have any materials or access to diggers, cement mixers, anyone with construction experience of in fact any of the things you might want to get your hands on before you start demolishing things. In an effort to redeem himself, he instructed the wwoofers to chop down a few trees with a chainsaw and drag them up the hill to the kitchen site using the two knackered old horses he had and a bit of old rope. After nearly killing both horses and several wwoofers with our efforts, we presented the decimated tree trunks to Maji for inspection, only for him to decide they were probably too heavy for us to lift into place and calling a halt to the entire project.
Of course, another reason Maji was finding it difficult to recruit people for his Costa Rican eco-paradise could be the fact he is an irritating egomaniac with a penchant for spouting horrendous freeform poetry or new agey pseudo-science at anyone within earshot. These character defects could possibly be forgiven if he genuinely believed he was nurturing the spirit of the earth and helping to save the planet, but in reality his hippiness takes 6 months off each year when he and Rosie pack up their tie-dyed t-shirts, fly home to their bungalow in Venice Beach and go back to steak dinners, driving an SUV and watching the Boston Red Sox on their wide-screen telly. But worse than this, during the time they were in Costa Rica they made no allowances for the fact they were in another country and a completely different culture. They employed a local worker named Carlos, a brilliant guy who we all loved working with, but they couldn't communicate with him because they had decided they were incapable of learning Spanish. Instead, they relied on the wwoofers' translation skills and the age old tactic of saying everything slowly, loudly and adding an "o" to the end of their words. Instead of making friends with their neighbours and fellow farmers (who we met anyway and who would have been happy to help Rosie and Maji given their years of experience) they patronised them, made fun of their "Costa Rican ways" and spent all their time either on the internet, watching DVDs or lording it up in town with other US ex-pats.
Thankfully, it wasn't all bad news down at the farm. Every day we picked, squeezed and drank the juice of the most incredible oranges I have ever tasted, and there was no shortage of equally amazing tropical fruit for the taking. Because it rarely got below 30 degrees in the middle of the day, work started at day break when the farm was at its most magical, and every afternoon afforded plenty of time for lazing in hammocks drinking smoothies in the shade of the banana trees. We also met some fantastic people who you can see here: Christina the intrepid back-country ranger, Brian the sculptor and chainsaw-master, Sarah, all round ray of sunshine and up-and-coming farmer, Darien, horse-rider extraordinaire, Juaqin the brave escapee and Kimberly, the creator of the best banana and chocolate smoothie I have ever tasted. Somehow we managed to have a pretty excellent time in spite of everything and Rich and I left Earth Rose Farm happy to be going but glad we came.
Tuesday, 6 July 2010
Grumbles in the Jungle
Tree frogs and tropical rainforests:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=184541&id=510568119&l=b8d0291bb8
Every now and again when we told someone about our trip we'd be greeted with a scornful "so you're going on a 2 year holiday then?" I think the time has come to set the record straight. Travelling is amazing, fun, exciting, sometimes relaxing, but it is definitely not a holiday. For one thing, we're spending quite a bit of time working pretty hard on various farms, but that aside there are still many aspects of our trip that would have most people, myself included, thinking fondly of their office desk and place in suburbia from time to time. Imagine you're several thousand miles away from home, in a country where noone around you except your travel companion speaks English. You're going to be that far away from home for the best part of 2 years, and for 99% of that time the only person you'll see who isn't a complete stranger will be said companion. Now imagine you have to carry everything you need for 12 months in a large bag on your back and that you no longer have a bedroom of your own, let alone a house. As a result, deciding where to sleep every night becomes a more difficult decision than what to wear each day. If you want to get through the trip without going bankrupt you'll need to do a fair bit of cooking, but to use a kitchen you'll need to squeeze in between a dozen other backpackers and their assorted pans and chopping boards. (Assuming, that is, your hostel has a kitchen and also assuming you can find anything recognisable to eat - I never thought I'd see the day I was pining for mushrooms...) A quiet night in front of the TV, once an entertainment option taken for granted, becomes an impossibility unless you want to share a sofa with 6 other people and watch reruns of Friends or the Simpsons all night. In Spanish. Of course, there are all the amazing places you've come travelling to see but let's not forget that to get to them you need to spend, on average, 5-10 hours every 3-4 days crammed onto various coaches, minivans and boats navigating mile after mile of the worst roads you can imagine or cowering in a speedboat piloted by a 12 year old praying his failure to crash headlong into other boats and riverbanks is due to his incredible skill and not an excessive dose of good luck. I could continue, but you get the picture.
The reason for this little tirade is that by the time we arrived in Costa Rica we were both starting to feel a little sorry for ourselves. Not that we weren't having a great time, but after a solid 3 months on the road in Mexico and Central America without any of the home comforts of the USA, Canada or in fact home, nerves were a little frayed. Things hit an all time low when we arrived in the frankly horrible town of Puntarenas after a long and sweaty bus journey and sat down to plan where we wanted to go next. We consulted the Lonely Planet and realised our options were (a) going to the beach, (b) going to the rainforest or (c) going to look at more volcanoes. Having just come from a rainforest covered volcanic island we were beginning to get a bit of a sense of deja vu and were definitely thinking of the old adage "too much of a good thing" with a new-found appreciation. The beach option was another day and 3 modes of transport away, so we hedged our bets between the rainforest and the volcano and set off for Monteverde.
After the distinctly developing world ambience of the past several weeks, arriving in Monteverde was something of a culture shock. The bus ride we took to get there was predictable enough - long, hot, dusty and involving our coach negotiating mountain passes that would be difficult for an alpine goat and stopping in the middle of nowhere at regular intervals to drop off aged passengers and their sacks of assorted vegetables. When we pulled into the village, however, it was as though we had taken a wrong turn and ended up in Switzerland. Suddenly there were streets with pavements lined with shops that had glass windows and automatic doors. There were Western outdoor stores selling hiking gear where previously there had been only Central American hardware stores and greengrocers'. Most bizarrely of all, there were other Westerners - and lots of them. Apart from the strange Twilight-Zone-esque contingent of Americans on one street in Granada and the Spanish School student population of Antigua, we had scarcely seen another person of non-Latin origin for several months. We spent our first evening bemoaning the commercialisaition of Costa Rica while secretly delighting in the availability of pizza and the English language.
Next morning, bright and early, we set out to explore the Monteverde cloud forest - home (we were reliably informed) to colourful tree frogs, howler monkeys, tarantulas and toucans. We were also reliably informed that the chances of actually seeing any of these creatures was slim to none unless you camped out for several days so we weren't too disappointed when the closest we got was hearing howler monkeys from across the jungle. It was still a pretty amazing place though, faithfully recreating the green, dripping vine covered landscape everyone had to draw at some point in their primary school education. We did see some funky giant beetles and a cute little coati and the soundtrack to the day was an excellently eerie mix of crazy birdcalls and howling monkeys. My biggest disappointment was not seeing any of the eponymous tree frogs, so to rectify this we paid a visit to the ranarium (frog zoo) next to our hostel. It turned out to be quite impressive. We went at dusk as many of the most exciting frogs were nocturnal, and spent a couple of happy hours spotting tiny multicoloured amphibians by torchlight.
Next stop was the town of La Fortuna and its imposing sentry Volcan Arenal. Still very much an active volcano, Arenal looms in the background everywhere you go in La Fortuna, ominously belching smoke and occasionally rumbling. Emboldened by our survival of the Pacaya ascent, we decided to take a night tour to see the famous volcanic eruptions. Unfortunately, the postcards that littered the windows of every shop in town depicting dramatic natural pyrotechnics proved to be either digitally altered, out of date or both. We did see a couple of showers of sparks spitting forth from the crater, as well as some narrow ribbons of orange light where the molten rocks bounced down the volcano's side, but it wasn't quite the awe-inspiring spectacle my camera and I had hoped for. The fact that I was disappointed that the volcano I was standing underneath wasn't violently erupting made me realise that perhaps my recent over-exposure to all things volcanic had tricked me into forgetting that they are, after all, fairly dangerous.
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=184541&id=510568119&l=b8d0291bb8
Every now and again when we told someone about our trip we'd be greeted with a scornful "so you're going on a 2 year holiday then?" I think the time has come to set the record straight. Travelling is amazing, fun, exciting, sometimes relaxing, but it is definitely not a holiday. For one thing, we're spending quite a bit of time working pretty hard on various farms, but that aside there are still many aspects of our trip that would have most people, myself included, thinking fondly of their office desk and place in suburbia from time to time. Imagine you're several thousand miles away from home, in a country where noone around you except your travel companion speaks English. You're going to be that far away from home for the best part of 2 years, and for 99% of that time the only person you'll see who isn't a complete stranger will be said companion. Now imagine you have to carry everything you need for 12 months in a large bag on your back and that you no longer have a bedroom of your own, let alone a house. As a result, deciding where to sleep every night becomes a more difficult decision than what to wear each day. If you want to get through the trip without going bankrupt you'll need to do a fair bit of cooking, but to use a kitchen you'll need to squeeze in between a dozen other backpackers and their assorted pans and chopping boards. (Assuming, that is, your hostel has a kitchen and also assuming you can find anything recognisable to eat - I never thought I'd see the day I was pining for mushrooms...) A quiet night in front of the TV, once an entertainment option taken for granted, becomes an impossibility unless you want to share a sofa with 6 other people and watch reruns of Friends or the Simpsons all night. In Spanish. Of course, there are all the amazing places you've come travelling to see but let's not forget that to get to them you need to spend, on average, 5-10 hours every 3-4 days crammed onto various coaches, minivans and boats navigating mile after mile of the worst roads you can imagine or cowering in a speedboat piloted by a 12 year old praying his failure to crash headlong into other boats and riverbanks is due to his incredible skill and not an excessive dose of good luck. I could continue, but you get the picture.
The reason for this little tirade is that by the time we arrived in Costa Rica we were both starting to feel a little sorry for ourselves. Not that we weren't having a great time, but after a solid 3 months on the road in Mexico and Central America without any of the home comforts of the USA, Canada or in fact home, nerves were a little frayed. Things hit an all time low when we arrived in the frankly horrible town of Puntarenas after a long and sweaty bus journey and sat down to plan where we wanted to go next. We consulted the Lonely Planet and realised our options were (a) going to the beach, (b) going to the rainforest or (c) going to look at more volcanoes. Having just come from a rainforest covered volcanic island we were beginning to get a bit of a sense of deja vu and were definitely thinking of the old adage "too much of a good thing" with a new-found appreciation. The beach option was another day and 3 modes of transport away, so we hedged our bets between the rainforest and the volcano and set off for Monteverde.
After the distinctly developing world ambience of the past several weeks, arriving in Monteverde was something of a culture shock. The bus ride we took to get there was predictable enough - long, hot, dusty and involving our coach negotiating mountain passes that would be difficult for an alpine goat and stopping in the middle of nowhere at regular intervals to drop off aged passengers and their sacks of assorted vegetables. When we pulled into the village, however, it was as though we had taken a wrong turn and ended up in Switzerland. Suddenly there were streets with pavements lined with shops that had glass windows and automatic doors. There were Western outdoor stores selling hiking gear where previously there had been only Central American hardware stores and greengrocers'. Most bizarrely of all, there were other Westerners - and lots of them. Apart from the strange Twilight-Zone-esque contingent of Americans on one street in Granada and the Spanish School student population of Antigua, we had scarcely seen another person of non-Latin origin for several months. We spent our first evening bemoaning the commercialisaition of Costa Rica while secretly delighting in the availability of pizza and the English language.
Next morning, bright and early, we set out to explore the Monteverde cloud forest - home (we were reliably informed) to colourful tree frogs, howler monkeys, tarantulas and toucans. We were also reliably informed that the chances of actually seeing any of these creatures was slim to none unless you camped out for several days so we weren't too disappointed when the closest we got was hearing howler monkeys from across the jungle. It was still a pretty amazing place though, faithfully recreating the green, dripping vine covered landscape everyone had to draw at some point in their primary school education. We did see some funky giant beetles and a cute little coati and the soundtrack to the day was an excellently eerie mix of crazy birdcalls and howling monkeys. My biggest disappointment was not seeing any of the eponymous tree frogs, so to rectify this we paid a visit to the ranarium (frog zoo) next to our hostel. It turned out to be quite impressive. We went at dusk as many of the most exciting frogs were nocturnal, and spent a couple of happy hours spotting tiny multicoloured amphibians by torchlight.
Next stop was the town of La Fortuna and its imposing sentry Volcan Arenal. Still very much an active volcano, Arenal looms in the background everywhere you go in La Fortuna, ominously belching smoke and occasionally rumbling. Emboldened by our survival of the Pacaya ascent, we decided to take a night tour to see the famous volcanic eruptions. Unfortunately, the postcards that littered the windows of every shop in town depicting dramatic natural pyrotechnics proved to be either digitally altered, out of date or both. We did see a couple of showers of sparks spitting forth from the crater, as well as some narrow ribbons of orange light where the molten rocks bounced down the volcano's side, but it wasn't quite the awe-inspiring spectacle my camera and I had hoped for. The fact that I was disappointed that the volcano I was standing underneath wasn't violently erupting made me realise that perhaps my recent over-exposure to all things volcanic had tricked me into forgetting that they are, after all, fairly dangerous.
Saturday, 26 June 2010
Notes from a Fairytale Island
Paradise found:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=184310&id=510568119&l=f43c29ad19
There are times when you go travelling when you really have to, well, travel. The day we left Guatemala was one of those days. It began at 6am with an unscheduled backpack-laden sprint to Livingstone harbour thanks to an insufficiently insistent alarm clock. Catching the commuter motorboat just in time we squeezed in between our fellow passengers and were whisked across the bay in a cloud of freezing sea spray. We were greeted at the dock by Raoul, whom we were reliably informed could get us to the Honduran border cheaper than any taxi. Joining forces with fellow backpacker Nathan we jumped into a minivan and were soon speeding towards the frontier. Following some scepticism at Raoul's suggestion that we pay a friend of his to drive us on to our final destination, some complicated Spanish negotiations, hasty exchange rate calculations and a heated misunderstanding at the point of payment we found ourselves sharing the back seat of an American Honduran man's SUV en route to the nearest major bus station. Unable to find said bus station, our American Honduran friend dropped us in the town square where we found a taxi to take us the rest of the way and he tootled off to finish his shopping. Moments later we were reclining comfortably on a surprisingly luxurious luxury coach bound for Tegulcigalpa, the Honduran capital, and I was happily munching on complimentary chocolate biscuits and sniffling at "A Walk to Remember" as we sped across Honduras. One more taxi ride and a total of 12 hours later we found a hotel room and collapsed for a while.
Tegucigalpa is a typical Central American capital city - scruffy, dirty and a bit on the sketchy side so the plan was to spend a night recovering from our epic voyage and psyching ourselves up for the 9 hour bus trip into Nicaragua the next morning. Part of this recovery was a trip to the city centre to reassure ourselves the Lonely Planet wasn't duping us into missing anything. We weren't - it took us an hour in a taxi to travel the 2km from our hotel to the main square and most of that time was spent sitting in streets crammed with fume-belching cars and lorries, piles of rubbish and kamikaze motorcyclists with our boy racer driver's Honduran Christian rock cd as an unexpected soundtrack. After a cursory inspection of the city centre we spied a Burger King and, in need of a quick fix tea before it got too late, we headed over. As we got to the front of the queue we noticed that something called a "family feast" meal was slightly cheaper than the 2 regular combo meals we were about to order. Following the backpacker instinct to save money at every opportunity we automatically ordered that instead and were duly presented with 4 burgers, 4 portions of fries and 4 drinks. Realising with embarrassment that our impromptu thriftiness was taking the stereotype of greedy Westerners to dizzying new heights we spent the rest of the meal skulking in a corner pretending the rest of our family had just nipped to the loo and avoiding the sidelong glances of everyone who passed our table...
After a frantic early morning sprint around all of Tegucigalpa's banks in search of an ATM that accepted our cards we made it onto the bus and settled in for the trip to Nicaragua's capital, Managua. From there we buddied up with an elderly Israeli gent to charter a taxi to Granada, saving ourselves a couple of cordobas and a tortuous journey in a dangerously overcrowded, dangerously overspeeding minibus. Granada was a pretty place - a bit like Antigua at first glance with old colonial buildings, a very yellow catherdral and a peaceful leafy main square. Unfortunately it was also overrun with gangs of American teenagers on some sort of synchronised field trip and the main street looked inexplicably like it had been teleported in from the Canary Islands, complete with hordes of middle aged Westerners and tour groups. However, Granada did introduce me to the joys of vigorón - a local specialty consisting of pickled cabbage, boiled yucca root and pork scratchings all served up on a banana leaf. Surprisingly tasty.
The much anticipated highlight of our Nicaraguan adventure was the island of Ometepe. Formed over several hundred years, the island grew from the gradual accumulation of solidified lava and ash from two active volcanoes that rise out of Lake Nicaragua. Still mercifully untouched by developers and package tours, Ometepe is a backpacker's paradise and as our early morning ferry chugged across the lake it emerged from the mist like something out of a fairytale. We checked into a hostel room surrounded by banana trees and hammocks in the shadow of the imposing Volcan Concepción and just metres from the lake shore. Here we spent a blissful 4 days swimming in the lake, dining al fresco at the hostel's restaurant, watching spider monkeys lazing around in the tree tops and admiring the sunsets. If we had more time we could easily have stayed for weeks, but Costa Rica and our next Wwoofing assignment beckoned and soon we were on the road again.
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=184310&id=510568119&l=f43c29ad19
There are times when you go travelling when you really have to, well, travel. The day we left Guatemala was one of those days. It began at 6am with an unscheduled backpack-laden sprint to Livingstone harbour thanks to an insufficiently insistent alarm clock. Catching the commuter motorboat just in time we squeezed in between our fellow passengers and were whisked across the bay in a cloud of freezing sea spray. We were greeted at the dock by Raoul, whom we were reliably informed could get us to the Honduran border cheaper than any taxi. Joining forces with fellow backpacker Nathan we jumped into a minivan and were soon speeding towards the frontier. Following some scepticism at Raoul's suggestion that we pay a friend of his to drive us on to our final destination, some complicated Spanish negotiations, hasty exchange rate calculations and a heated misunderstanding at the point of payment we found ourselves sharing the back seat of an American Honduran man's SUV en route to the nearest major bus station. Unable to find said bus station, our American Honduran friend dropped us in the town square where we found a taxi to take us the rest of the way and he tootled off to finish his shopping. Moments later we were reclining comfortably on a surprisingly luxurious luxury coach bound for Tegulcigalpa, the Honduran capital, and I was happily munching on complimentary chocolate biscuits and sniffling at "A Walk to Remember" as we sped across Honduras. One more taxi ride and a total of 12 hours later we found a hotel room and collapsed for a while.
Tegucigalpa is a typical Central American capital city - scruffy, dirty and a bit on the sketchy side so the plan was to spend a night recovering from our epic voyage and psyching ourselves up for the 9 hour bus trip into Nicaragua the next morning. Part of this recovery was a trip to the city centre to reassure ourselves the Lonely Planet wasn't duping us into missing anything. We weren't - it took us an hour in a taxi to travel the 2km from our hotel to the main square and most of that time was spent sitting in streets crammed with fume-belching cars and lorries, piles of rubbish and kamikaze motorcyclists with our boy racer driver's Honduran Christian rock cd as an unexpected soundtrack. After a cursory inspection of the city centre we spied a Burger King and, in need of a quick fix tea before it got too late, we headed over. As we got to the front of the queue we noticed that something called a "family feast" meal was slightly cheaper than the 2 regular combo meals we were about to order. Following the backpacker instinct to save money at every opportunity we automatically ordered that instead and were duly presented with 4 burgers, 4 portions of fries and 4 drinks. Realising with embarrassment that our impromptu thriftiness was taking the stereotype of greedy Westerners to dizzying new heights we spent the rest of the meal skulking in a corner pretending the rest of our family had just nipped to the loo and avoiding the sidelong glances of everyone who passed our table...
After a frantic early morning sprint around all of Tegucigalpa's banks in search of an ATM that accepted our cards we made it onto the bus and settled in for the trip to Nicaragua's capital, Managua. From there we buddied up with an elderly Israeli gent to charter a taxi to Granada, saving ourselves a couple of cordobas and a tortuous journey in a dangerously overcrowded, dangerously overspeeding minibus. Granada was a pretty place - a bit like Antigua at first glance with old colonial buildings, a very yellow catherdral and a peaceful leafy main square. Unfortunately it was also overrun with gangs of American teenagers on some sort of synchronised field trip and the main street looked inexplicably like it had been teleported in from the Canary Islands, complete with hordes of middle aged Westerners and tour groups. However, Granada did introduce me to the joys of vigorón - a local specialty consisting of pickled cabbage, boiled yucca root and pork scratchings all served up on a banana leaf. Surprisingly tasty.
The much anticipated highlight of our Nicaraguan adventure was the island of Ometepe. Formed over several hundred years, the island grew from the gradual accumulation of solidified lava and ash from two active volcanoes that rise out of Lake Nicaragua. Still mercifully untouched by developers and package tours, Ometepe is a backpacker's paradise and as our early morning ferry chugged across the lake it emerged from the mist like something out of a fairytale. We checked into a hostel room surrounded by banana trees and hammocks in the shadow of the imposing Volcan Concepción and just metres from the lake shore. Here we spent a blissful 4 days swimming in the lake, dining al fresco at the hostel's restaurant, watching spider monkeys lazing around in the tree tops and admiring the sunsets. If we had more time we could easily have stayed for weeks, but Costa Rica and our next Wwoofing assignment beckoned and soon we were on the road again.
Sunday, 20 June 2010
Earthquakes and Banana Cakes
Photos:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=171871&id=510568119&l=855c25dc3c
After enjoying 3 weeks of Guatemalan home cooking from our host family (lots of previously undiscovered vegetables, refried beans and unexpectedly, hot dogs) we were on the road again, shoehorned into a minibus for the 5 hour journey to the town of Coban. Except that due to a teachers' strike which inexplicably involved a series of road blocks around Guatemala City, a flat tyre and some road works we didn't arrive for a delightful 11 hours, by which time we were ready for a long and rejuvenating sleep. Unfortunately Mother Earth had other ideas and we were rudely awakened at 5am by a 5.6 magnitude earthquake rattling our hotel room. Not the most relaxing day of the trip...
We spent the next few days getting back to nature - squinting at the world's tiniest orchids (and plenty of beautiful regular sized ones), touring a coffee plantation and soaking in the amazing turquoise pools of the paradisical Semuc Champey. This enchanting jungle gem is well worth the bone rattling drive up and down twisting mountain roads it takes to get there. At Semuc Champey the Cahabon River runs underneath a 300m limestone bridge topped with terraces of startlingly blue and green pools where intrepid backpackers such as ourselves can spend happy hours swimming and generally lounging. Prolonging the outdoorsy vibe, we spent that night in what can only be described as a shack in the jungle - otherwise known as the Jam Bamboo hostel. Luckily they did pretty good pizza, and the only insect life we encountered (despite the lorry sized gaps between the planks of our bedroom walls) was a humongous mantis-type creature next to the bathroom sink. It's amazing what you can get used to.
Next stop and one of Rich's trip-makers was the jungle-clad Mayan ruins of Tikal. We arrived at sunrise, when the birds and howler monkeys are at their most active and the tour buses have yet to descend en masse. Getting up at 4am paid off - we were among the first in the park and had a whole pyramid top to ourselves for long enough to eat breakfast.
Final calling point was the unusual town of Livingston. Hyped by the Lonely Planet as a fascinating example of a Garifuna town (the Garifuna people, a mixture of native Indians and shipwrecked African slaves, originated on the island of St Vincent and later migrated to the Caribbean coast of Central America), we were impressed by its laid back vibe, abundance of choco-bananas and banana cake and the excellent boat journey along the Rio Dulce river to get there. We were less enthused about the general seediness, disappointing local speciality "tapado" (less coconutty seafood stew, more watery bowl of fishmonger's leftovers) and distinct lack of things to do. Still, worth the trip for the choco-bananas :)
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=171871&id=510568119&l=855c25dc3c
After enjoying 3 weeks of Guatemalan home cooking from our host family (lots of previously undiscovered vegetables, refried beans and unexpectedly, hot dogs) we were on the road again, shoehorned into a minibus for the 5 hour journey to the town of Coban. Except that due to a teachers' strike which inexplicably involved a series of road blocks around Guatemala City, a flat tyre and some road works we didn't arrive for a delightful 11 hours, by which time we were ready for a long and rejuvenating sleep. Unfortunately Mother Earth had other ideas and we were rudely awakened at 5am by a 5.6 magnitude earthquake rattling our hotel room. Not the most relaxing day of the trip...
We spent the next few days getting back to nature - squinting at the world's tiniest orchids (and plenty of beautiful regular sized ones), touring a coffee plantation and soaking in the amazing turquoise pools of the paradisical Semuc Champey. This enchanting jungle gem is well worth the bone rattling drive up and down twisting mountain roads it takes to get there. At Semuc Champey the Cahabon River runs underneath a 300m limestone bridge topped with terraces of startlingly blue and green pools where intrepid backpackers such as ourselves can spend happy hours swimming and generally lounging. Prolonging the outdoorsy vibe, we spent that night in what can only be described as a shack in the jungle - otherwise known as the Jam Bamboo hostel. Luckily they did pretty good pizza, and the only insect life we encountered (despite the lorry sized gaps between the planks of our bedroom walls) was a humongous mantis-type creature next to the bathroom sink. It's amazing what you can get used to.
Next stop and one of Rich's trip-makers was the jungle-clad Mayan ruins of Tikal. We arrived at sunrise, when the birds and howler monkeys are at their most active and the tour buses have yet to descend en masse. Getting up at 4am paid off - we were among the first in the park and had a whole pyramid top to ourselves for long enough to eat breakfast.
Final calling point was the unusual town of Livingston. Hyped by the Lonely Planet as a fascinating example of a Garifuna town (the Garifuna people, a mixture of native Indians and shipwrecked African slaves, originated on the island of St Vincent and later migrated to the Caribbean coast of Central America), we were impressed by its laid back vibe, abundance of choco-bananas and banana cake and the excellent boat journey along the Rio Dulce river to get there. We were less enthused about the general seediness, disappointing local speciality "tapado" (less coconutty seafood stew, more watery bowl of fishmonger's leftovers) and distinct lack of things to do. Still, worth the trip for the choco-bananas :)
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