Releasing my inner Batman

Bats have always kind of creeped me out. They're not exactly cute and cuddly with their sharp teeth and beady black eyes that shine out of their fury little heads, not to mention their sharp claws which are more than capable of an eye gauge. I never liked evening trips to the Sydney Botanical Gardens, the fear of evil swooping bats far outweighed beautiful sunsets. Nope, bats have never been up there with horses and dolphins on my favourite animals list, and they certainly weren't up there on my things-to-see-in-Lanquin list. Still, somehow the little critters managed to wriggle their way onto our two day agenda.

So how did it get to this point? We'd decided that a two day stopover in Lanquin and Semuc Champey - quoted as being Guatemala's most beautiful destination - was in order on our way north to the famous Mayan ruins of Tikal. First, however, we were back on the road in a big way, for a gruelling day of travel which started on the 5am shuttle in Todos Santos. After a long 12 hours and with connections in the tiny town of Buenos Aires (not quite like the one in Argentina), Aguacatan, Sacopulos, Uspantan and Coban we fiiiinally reached Lanquin, well known for its caves. And, equally relieving to having survived the landslide prone road to Coban in one piece, was arriving at 'El Retiro'. Situated about half a kilometre from the centre of Lanquin, this place just had the chilled out vibe we were craving. Dotted with hammocks, it sits on the bank of a fast flowing river in the middle of a green valley, cows lazily grazing nearby. We were lucky enough to get the loft room of a dorm, so we paid the same price for what was essentially a private room, a short climb up a wooden ladder climb. You could definitely lose yourself in a place like this and that's just what we did. The next day consisted of a big sleep in, breakfast at the conveniently located restaurant 20 metres from our door, after which we spent the day lazing in hammocks reading our books, the lodge cat never far away. The only thing we had scheduled for that day was a visit to 'the bat cave' in the evening. Why would I opt to do this you ask, given my position on bats? Quite simply it was a mix of rave reviews from people we'd met the night before over a beer, and a little bit of coaxing from Bec. So I agreed to go, only after I was assured that no, the bats wouldn't touch me.

5pm came around quickly and it was then that we embarked on our journey, lined up like sardines in the back of a ute with Richard and Georgia, an English couple who'd also signed up for the tour, and of course, a tour guide. And within a few minutes of arriving, what was I doing but holding a bat. No the bats wouldn't touch me but there was the opportunity to touch a groggy bat, woken by the guide who retrieved it from a nearby crevice. Not one to shy away from a challenge I somewhat reluctantly held the bat for a few seconds before gladly passing it on. Later I'd find myself holding a scorpion spider which the guide found inside the dark depths of the cave, so it was bats and spiders in the same sitting, quite a big deal for me!

 A sleepy bat and getting acquainted with a Scorpion spider

Anyway, back to the cave. The point of the tour was to venture about a kilometre inside the well-lit cave to see the thousands of inhabiting bats getting their last hour of beauty sleep before undertaking their nightly activities. After this, we would head back the way we came just in time for sunset, at which point, the bats fly out of the cave in their thousands to do their bat thing. Apparently, we were told, this is quite a sight. The cave itself was beautiful and, while awfully slippery, we had the benefit of the guide's visions of certain rock formations - my personal favourite, a sombrero wearing skeleton... . We even had time to take a detour to another bat sleeping hole. This, I discovered as I scaled more than my height up a very narrow crescent (thankfully with a little guide help), was a detour not for the faint hearted, and looked more like a Spiderman manoeuvre to be honest.

At around 6:30pm we emerged from the cave, dusk quickly falling, and sat eagerly at its entrance, awaiting the arrival of the bats. Almost on cue as the first couple of bats flapped their little bat wings toward the diminishing light, we were all 'Wooooow's. With that, the guide quickly informed us: 'this is nothing'. And sure enough, it was nothing. Not more than five minutes later we were inundated with the sound of intense flapping and the sight of thousands of little red eyes flashing in time with our cameras. It was serious rush hour in this bat cave, very fascinating to experience and, to my great relief, I wasn't touched once (except by Richard who thought it amusing to simulate bat landings on my head).

 Bats in flight

The following morning we made our way to Semuc Champey. This time our journey in the back of the same ute would last a tumultuous 40 minutes, the space a tad more crowded with 15 people. We also made a quick pit stop in the local hospital so that poor Bec, whose hand and arm had inflated Michelin Man style after an unidentified insect bite, could get a shot of antihistamine. Once arrived, destination one was another cave, but this time not of the bat variety. On this expedition we were to explore the stalactites and stalagmites by candlelight, at points up to our necks in water! It took quite a bit of getting used to, particularly for me who is not a great fan of confined spaces. I only wish I'd been able to bring my camera with me as the sight of us wading in the dark, candles in hand, was quite unique. The climax of the excursion was definitely the fast-flowing waterfall at the end. After squeezing through an opening between two large rocks and with the aid of a rope, we tread cautiously through the dark (candle-less this time) under the gushing water and jumped into the pool below. It was definitely an adrenalin pumper.

After about 40 minutes inside the cave we eventually saw the light and were soon back on dry land, which wouldn't be for long. Metres from the cave's entrance was a homemade tree swing, the challenge being to swing out over the water, making sure to let go when the guide instructed (the alternative being to land on the rocks on your way back). I managed to let go slightly too late, flying two metres higher than necessary. The next challenge was to getting to shore without being swept away by the very strong current. Reassuring was that we had a holidaying lifeguard on the tour, always a plus in these situations. With this in mind, the activity that followed - 'tubing' down the river in an inflated tyre - was much more enjoyable than expected.

And then there was the big finale, Semuc Champey's main attraction: its natural pools. The bonus? A 25 minute steep uphill hike to a viewpoint, the 'Mirador'. Surprisingly undeterred by our last hiking expedition up the Santa Maria volcano in Xela (probably because this one had a time limit), we sweated our way up, sidestepping moss covered rocks and clambering up vertical stairs. And I wasn't being sarcastic when I said this was a bonus. While I enjoyed cooling off in the fresh water pools afterward, it really was something to get a bird's eye view of the pools' pyramid-like form, the turquoise spilling over in the midst of a lush blanket of jungle which was filled with noisy howler monkeys. Apparently, however, the pools aren't always this way. According to our guide, being the rainy season a down pour not weeks before had turned the dazzling turquoise to a murky brown. We were lucky.

 The view from the Mirador

So Lanquin and Semuc Champey had come back with the goods, Lanquin softening a once cold spot I had towards bats, Semuc Champey living up to its beautiful reputation. On top of that, we'd supported local business by arranging all our tours through 'El Retiro', whose employees span over 20 local families, all of whom delivered a fantastic and memorable experience. This place was definitely a Guatemalan highlight.

Todos Santos makes you smile

We’re still trying to maintain a tight timeline in order to have any time at all in Europe. With this in mind, the thought of sacrificing a day to jumping between chicken buses all the way to Todos Santos, which is up near the Mexican border, was understandably put in the ‘should we or shouldn’t we?’ category. Funnily enough it was the guide books (that we sometimes give the brush) that won us over. One said Todos Santos was ‘as raw as Guatemalan village life gets’, the other said it was not to be missed. We were sold!

It took almost a full day of chicken bus bliss to get there, mainly because the bus drivers wont drive until their bus is bursting at the seams, but we’re now used to and expectant of stopping and starting every kilometre or so. Luckily for us the road between Huehuetenango and Todos Santos is one of the more beautiful, if unpaved, so the usual delays didn’t matter because we were more than spoiled with the scenery, the bumpy road winding you up through the Cuchumatanes mountains.

T

Climbing the Cuchumatanes mountains

By the time we reached Todos Santos we were in definite need of a smile and, to give some insight into how we were feeling, I’ll step back a few days. Before hitting the road to Todos Santos we’d spent a few days in Quetxaltenango (or Xela as it’s widely referred to in Guatemala – pronounced She-lah). Apart from tasting some of the best Indian food we’ve had since we left home, at a place called ‘El Sabor de la India’, and getting excited about a rather average hamburguesa Australiano at ‘Café Babylon’, this place wasn’t very exciting. Exciting, no. Insane, torturous and grueling, yes! For some absurd reason we agreed to accompany a German girl on a hike up the Santa Maria volcano on Xela’s outskirts. According to this girl, who was staying in the same hostel as us and wanted the ‘group’ discount, Santa Maria was the reason people come to Xela. Later we would read that ‘the reason’ is actually a rather difficult hike, to put it lightly, and ‘rough and ruggered’ according to one guide book. A couple of people we spoke to after the event - cause that's what it was - were quite surprised that we’d attempted it in the first place. Well we did, and it was certainly a once in a lifetime experience because I’m sure as hell not doing it again! 4am wakeup, 15 kilometres and six hours of hiking up and down what, at times, seemed like a vertical path. The best part? We made it to the top half an hour after the clouds had covered the volcano’s summit for the day, so instead of viewing for miles the spectacular sight of Guatemala’s volcano range, all we saw was a blanket of white. I hope I’ve successfully conveyed the sarcasm in that ‘best part’ comment because, as we sat in the freezing cold at the top, it became one of those ‘why on earth did I put myself through that’ moments. For us it was six hours of serious leg pain and gasping for gradually disappearing oxygen and, having rushed to get to the top only to miss the whole point of the trek, it certainly wasn’t one our greatest achievements. It will nonetheless be forever memorable for the physical pain factor, which lasted for nearly a week after.

The clouds that beat us to the top of Santa Maria

So yes, by the time we reached Todos Santos, after a full day of lugging our 30 kilogram lives on our very sore legs, we weren’t in the best of moods. The first item on our agenda was definitely finding a place to stay for the night. We’d read about the ‘Hotal Familiar’ and, being less than 100 metres from the bus stop, we decided this would be a good option. And it was until we were told it would cost 200 Quetzals (about AU$30) for the night, quite expensive for our usual standards. Our backpacking instinct told us we should seek out a plan B and, when the owner saw the look on our faces, she gave us the choice of staying in a ‘house’ a ‘ten minute walk’ away for 90 Quetzals. This was definitely more up our alley.

As it would turn out, the ‘house’ turned out to be the family home, inhabited for the most part by Swiss-German Roman, whose Mayan wife and kids prefer to stay in the hotel with its flat screen TV. The ‘ten minute’ walk was also a bit of a misconception for our decrepit conditions, as it turned out to be almost completely uphill, steep uphill. So, with our 30kg and legs burning with Santa Maria fuelled lactic acid, it took us about 25 minutes to reach the family home, all the while trying to conceal our pain to conduct polite conversation with the very friendly Roman. And we were more than relieved to reach our final destination and collapse on our beds and, after catching our breaths, it wasn’t long before we saw that the hike to our accommodation was totally worth it. Not only were we staying in a gorgeous little Swiss influenced cottage with a beautifully blooming garden, but each night we had the company of Roman who has lived in the village for 15 years and who had many an interesting story to tell about Guatemalan living. Roman’s generosity didn’t end at opening his home to us. On our first night when our plans of pumpkin soup fell through at the hands of a rotten pumpkin, Roman saved the evening by inviting us to share a fresh vegetable stirfry which he made with homegrown veggies. Happily we were able to repay his kindness with a pumkinless curry the following evening. It was nice to receive some good old country hospitality.

 Roman's cottage, well worth the hike

We soon found that Todos Santos doesn’t have a whole lot of activities to offer outside hiking around its beautiful surrounds. For us, almost immediately it was the people that caught our attention, particularly the men of the village who wear identical traditional dress. Roman even wore parts of the ensemble, I guess after 15 years having scored a gold card in terms of village acceptance. Prominent red and white striped pants teamed with a blue, purple and white striped dress shirt with intricately wool woven collar and cuffs. Most top the outfit off with a straw-like hat, again sporting the stripe theme with a leather studded band intertwined with a cobalt blue material. Although most of the women also dress traditionally, it’s the men who are the most striking, commonly depicted on national postcards. What also struck us were the number of dressmakers in the village who stock only these few materials, and it’s these people who clearly get a lot of business from the adolescent population of Todos Santos. The male teens obviously get their pants specially tailored to mimic the latest international street trends. The look at the moment? Seems to be low rise and very baggy pants with obligatory un-tucked striped shirt hanging loosely over a modern t-shirt, baseball cap occasionally in tow. It would appear that teen rebellion lives, even in this remote place!

The men of Todos Santos

Todos Santos is said to offer a taste of the real Guatemala, and it really does make you smile. The people are so friendly and always wanting to chat, the children happy and healthy with rarely any seen to be begging or working. And this is not to mention the village surrounds. Todos Santos sits untouched in a deep green valley surrounded by the Cuchumatanes mountain range, some of which we explored on a morning walk high around the village outskirts. It may not be luring of the action hungry backpacker but it certainly lives up to its ‘true taste’ name, and the day we spent there was certainly well the gauntlet of chicken buses we endured to get there.

Recharging on the restaurant circuit

Forty-eight hours on the road will do it to you. Well I lie. There was a window of six hours in a cheap hotel in San Salvador, but the other 42 were spent on the bus, five tedious border crossings to keep us occupied. This is the cheapest way you'll get from Panama to Guatemala and, as seasoned bus travellers now, we thought we'd brave it. But after a two-day supply of Burger King, fried chicken and little sleep, we needed food, we needed rest, and we needed them pronto! And I must say we certainly went out of our way to address these needs and amply did so, this post almost entirely dedicated to our week of culinary outings in Antigua and Lake Atitlan. As I maintain, sometimes you need a little splurge, a holiday from the holiday.

Once in Guatemala City we immediately sought out one of the infamous 'chicken buses' in order to get to the once capital, Antigua, another colonial city. These things are absolutely priceless, enough to earn themselves their own post (in progress). After a good hour of stopping and starting, in between some major seat clinging, we reached what at the time was heaven on earth for a worn out traveller. It came to us in the form of the 'Casa Amarilla', a hostel complete with private room, cable TV, wifi and, best of all, a daily breakfast spread of eggs, porridge, pancakes, fruit, beans, potatoes and bread. In the hostel world, anything more than bread and jam is unprecedented so this we welcomed with open arms. And thus begun our week of recharge and restaurants. In between indulging in some telemovies (something we rarely do), we examined the guidebook and planned our time around the local eateries.

Antigua

First up was the 'Rainbow Cafe'. My review? Well the chicken fajitas and the Israeli falafel out did the adjoining bookshop where, among the ancient book collection we surprisingly managed to find a handy and very comprehensive Spanish verb book. It was nice to eat some hummus that sort of resembled the real thing and we ended up going for a second time that night, I having been lured by the Greek chicken fillet. The stuffing was good - bacon, raisons, spinach and feta cheese - but the chicken was dry and its breaded exterior extra soggy, presumably because it was covered in the rich cream sauce I'd asked to have on the side. Guess they didn't hear me. Further to our disappointment was at about 10:35pm when our sweet toothes kicked in and we asked the waitress if we could have the signature Banoffee pie to go. Apparently this was completely out of the question as the kitchen had closed...five minutes before. Talk about flexibility!

We soon discovered Rainbow has some stiff competition on the cafe circuit. There's 'Cafe 2000', which was the unfortunate location where we bore witness to Australia being slaughtered 4-0 by Germany in the World Cup. We didn't let this impact on our lunch orders however, my simple Greek salad and Bec's tastey hamburger, but at goal number four we did sneak out anonymously. 'Cafe Sky' was next on our list, its main draw card being proximity to and view of one of Antigua's surrounding volcanoes. We enjoyed our hearty vegetable soup and garlic bread much more than the volcano itself, which was for the most part completely covered by clouds. Next stop was 'Cafe Rocio', our tastebuds were craving something oriental and one guide book had described this place as 'a palace of Asian food delight' - honestly, I sometimes wonder who writes these things. This cafe is more a humble family kitchen than an Asian palace, but the meals were healthy and hearty and although the tandoori chicken was instead cooked in sweet chilli sauce (?), the rice paper spring rolls were so big and scrumptious that we had no room for the famed 'mora crisp' (hot blackberry sauce sandwiched in vanilla icecream). Now there's an excuse to return to Antigua.

The view from Cafe Sky got a little better as we left

Although our Antigua days were relatively lazy and really did centre around what our next meal would be, we did a fair bit of wandering and enjoyed our colonial surrounds. We wandered around and took in the many ruin sites that line the streets. We looked at the main plaza and stumbled across a communal outdoor laundry. We had two Canadian guys ask us to star in their travel video, where one dressed up as a heckling Guatemalan in a horse and cart while the other filmed. Later they paid to race two chicken buses with one of them behind the wheel - just shows you can do almost anything in this country. One big but unavoidable disappointment was that we couldn't climb the Pacaya volcano, which erupted, killing people a couple of weeks before we arrived. In safer times tourists are able to hike up and wander amongst the flowing lava, toasting marshmallows over the heat. Understandably, it's one of the most popular tourist attractions in Guatemala and I'm sure the tourist industry is feeling the loss. While a few tourist agencies were offering trips to surrounding farmlands that had been destroyed by the still present lava, most weren't offering tours at all and when we heard that the government had issued it a no-go-zone, it was sadly scraped from our itinerary.

 Communal washing in the Plaza and Old Church ruins in the middle of town

While our four days of rejuvenation were wonderful, our time was limited and we had to keep moving. So after three chicken bus changeovers in three hours, we reached Lake Atitlan where our activity levels rose somewhat, along with our frequenting of restaurants. Perhaps it was beginner frustration at chicken bus travel, or maybe we were just plain tired, but once in Panajachel, a 'gringo magnet' and also the central point for transport to the lake's villages, we decided to make it our base for a few days. In that time, we successfully exhausted the town's popular restaurants and cafes: the 'Deli Ilama', simple but with good food; 'El Patio', flavoursome steaks and complimentary bread which we saved for the stray dog population linging the streets outside; and ‘Bombay Café’, which served up some great Asian cuisine but where we were cornered by an American woman on an ‘I hate Mexico’ rant (our next destination). We were eventually set free when the proprietor told her that she was the worst customer he’d ever had, at which she stormed out and we were finally able to stroll the 100 metres back to our hostel which we’d been longing to stroll for the past hour.

At this stage, it was time to take our exploring beyond the shores of Panajachel. Our first outing, a trip to the large Thursday markets at Chichicastenango (known to all as ChiChi) which, to be honest, we were a little under whelmed by. For starters, I think we’re a little marketed out after six months in South America and, secondly, all the products were the same! Bags, scarves, t-shirts, muumuus – same stuff, different place. But if you’re one for pure people watching, this is a good place to do it. We enjoyed a spot of it while lunching on the balcony of a café, overlooking the plaza before heading back to Panajachel and bringing the chicken bus changeover tally to six that day.

The usual, at ChiChi markets

The following day would see our next expedition, exploring the Lake district. Over the next few days we’d also get more of an insight into how badly Lake Atitlan was affected by Tropical Storm Agatha a few weeks before. On a couple of morning runs we’d seen the path of destruction Agatha left in Panajachel - collapsed bridges, landslides, sunken buildings. This time, we saw what it’d done to the actual lake, as our shuttle boat weaved in and out of floating debris to get to the village of San Pedro where we stayed the night.

 Agatha's path

And we couldn’t help ourselves in San Pedro, the temptation was too great: two more fabulous eateries, both recommended by a fellow traveller. The first was ‘Café Puerta’, hidden away down by a peaceful lakeside inlet, framed by multicoloured curtains, the garden sporting funky teacup sculptures and mosaics which we later discovered were a creation of the café’s ex-pat owner/talented artist, Blake. Sometimes when Bec and I come across a really good restaurant we opt to share our food so that neither of us misses out on a good dish. This was one of those places. Here we shared a juicy spice-filled hamburger with all the timings, perfected by the café’s homemade seeded bread. Our other dish was an amazing Greek salad whose fresh farmers cheese teamed the taste of feta with a goat’s cheese consistency. It was to die for! After being in South America, I’ve come to seriously appreciate good cheese.

Enjoying the fruits of 'Cafe Puerta'

After an Italian cappuccino at ‘Fata Morgana’ – yet another coup in the middle of Guatemala - dinnertime was upon us so we negotiated the maze of San Pedro's cobblestone lane ways to arrive at ‘Ventana Azul’, the nighttime venture of Café Puerta’s Blake and his partner, Santos. And let me say, they’ve really hit the spot with this cosy little place which was full when we arrived. Its vibrant red exterior couples nicely with an electric blue interior and is only made more romantic with candle light and also that coming from Blake’s trendy Guatemalan themed mosaic lamps, one of which Bec bought at the end of the night. The food? Well we had a big choice ahead of us, with plenty of Latin/Asian themed dishes on the menu. In the end I opted for the Pad Thai and Bec for an Indian curry – both good choices. Team this with a few Caipirinhas and a bottle of white and we were set. Blake even convinced us into ordering the dessert special of the day (it didn’t take much), a piece of chocolate cake topped with fresh cream to bring to an end our week of indulgences. How appropriate!

How about a San Blas island to yourself?

When you're travelling for a number of months, or a year in my case, it's difficult to make concrete plans. Initially we'd planned to take six months travelling South America, up through Central America to Mexico, the remainder in Europe and India. Now that plan's gone out the window we've had to re-think some things and this time, Europe's come out on top, mainly because we've got a lot of friends living over that way. But Central America hasn't entirely got the boot. Lured by its rave reviews we're breezing through to Guatemala for a few weeks before a month in Mexico. One other place that made the Central America short list, a result of our penchant for beaches, was the beautiful San Blas islands that lie off the coast of Panama. It only took one google image for us to book a flight from Cartagena to Panama City for a few days of bliss before 42 hours on a Guatemala-bound bus.

As soon as we hit Panama City we were in a different world. We could have been in Miami for all I knew, and it only took a failed hostel reservation and a cab driver intent on ripping us off before we were itching to get out of the city and onto the beach. And that's pretty much exactly what we did. After a day relaxing in the hostel lounge researching the islands, we had a return booking on a jeep which was to leave our hostel at 5.30 the following morning to take us to the point for island departures.

As like a number of my anecdotes our day didn't get off to the best start. To begin with, I awoke to the less-than-impressed jeep driver shaking my leg while I lay asleep in my dorm bed, hissing: 'Chicas, you're late!'. It was already 5.30 and the two alarms we set hadn't gone off (or perhaps were rolled on when they went off). It was the first sure sign that we weren't in South America anymore, Panamanians actually run to time. Or maybe not. Free of peak hour, the trip that could have taken three hours took five. First was a stop at a supermarket for anyone who needed supplies. The supposedly quick pit stop turned into an hour of waiting for people who appeared to be rationing for a month on the islands. Following this was a stretch in the carpark watching one of the drivers change a jeep tyre. Maybe that was something that could have been checked the night before? Once in the car we drove for about a kilometre before pulling into a petrol station to top up, yet again an obvious essential that could have been dealt with pre-passenger pick up. It was fortunate my ipod was in the back of the jeep because I had nothing to throw at the driver when he announced after 20 more minutes on the road that he needed a coffee break and we pulled over yet again. The little voice inside my head was yelling: 'JUST GET ON WITH IT!!', but I restrained myself. That wasn't the end of it though. You know those times in life when you just have to suck it up, put frustrations aside and laugh? Well this particular morning turned out to be one of them. Finally we reached the pick up and were immediately met by Carlo who was to take us in a motorised canoe-like contraption to ‘Isla Diablo’ (‘Devil Island’), our chosen island. At last, things were looking up. It seemed our beach time was in sight! But alas, it was just not meant to be. As it would turn out it wasn't until 1pm that we actually reached our island, that is after we'd stopped on one island to buy food, another to get petrol...a trend was emerging here.

But it was also around 1pm when our morning issues seemed to evaporate, when we stepped out of the boat and into the clearest water imaginable, surrounded by those same shades of blue we'd been wowed by at Playa Blanca (without the hoard of beach vendors), onto an island strewn with palm trees. We'd arrived! Two days of blissful nothing! And what's more, after our lunch of fresh fish we watched as three tourists left. This left us the little island completely to ourselves, well us and its full-time inhabitants, a small Kuna community, an indigenous group who occupy about 36 of the 365 islands that sprawl the coastline. The community living on our island consisted of about three or four families. The women donned traditional dress, their arms and legs covered in lines of bead bracelets that ran up the most part of their limbs. The men preferred modern t-shirts, shorts and American baseball caps. Apart from cooking our three daily meals, they largely kept to themselves and it was interesting to observe their lives from a distance. We soon found out that just because you live on an island paradise that doesn’t mean you’re free of chores, chores such as weeding (with a machete), and my personal favourite, sweeping away seaweed swept up on the shoreline. I guess they can’t let nature’s equivalent to dust build up in any sandy crevices. It is their home after all and it’s important to keep up appearances, there’s a lot of competition out there – 364 other islands!

Over the next day and a half our activities were pretty consistent: reading, sunbaking, swimming, eating. We did take time to explore the island but, being the tiny size it was, our exploration only lasted ten minutes. Being the rainy season the clouds remained ominous but the rain never came until the evenings when we were curled up in our cabanas on our lilo mattresses where we were able to enjoy the lightening show. On our second day we visited ‘Isla Perro’ (‘Dog Island’), about 150 metres from our island and with an alluring shipwreck off its shores. It was late afternoon when we visited and after a good half hour exploring the wreck, we were shuttled back by a local in a hollowed out tree trunk and just beat the evening thunderstorm.

Refreshed and rejuvenated, the following day it was time for us to return to reality (well maybe not quite reality, we are travelling free as birds for a year). In any case, it was time to again contemplate long haul buses and return to playing waiting games. Yes, we were definitely back to reality and it came to me in the literal form at 3am the next morning when it bit me on the bum…BED BUGS!! Damn Panama City hostel. Oh well, San Blas, so worth it.

Farewelling South America, last stop Cartagena

We've prolonged and prolonged, spent months in countries we'd only planned weeks for but after over six months on the road, our worldwide itinerary ultimately dictating, the time finally came to say goodbye to the beautiful South America, the charming colonial city of Cartagena our last stop. Like so many other places we've visited, this place has a long and interesting history, its colonization dating back to the 1500s!

First up for us was the obligatory explore of the old town, which sits majestically on a peninsula, encircled by a large stone wall built by the Spanish to ward off pirates and the like. The first of a number of visits, this one was probably the best. The shops and restaurants were almost all closed and even some of the street vendors had taken the day off, a by-product of the election weekend. The only place that was buzzing with life was the main plaza, which had been transformed into a voting area, lined with the ever-present Colombian army and their heavy-duty firearms. But it was the empty streets where, for us, the real Cartagena emerged. Splashes of vibrant colour around every corner, large colonial homes with heavy wooden doors adorned with intricate wrought knockers. We spent hours wandering along the cobblestones, taking respite from the fierce Caribbean humidity under blooming bougainvillea or in green leafy plazas. I felt like a character from Love in the Time of Cholera, which I'd finished reading not long before. With no people around it was like taking a step back in time. In saying that, the election brought us luck. The next couple of times we visited it was hard to avoid the barrage of street vendors, or the countless restaurant menus that were shoved in our faces. While this somewhat compromises the magic o f the place, the way history has been preserved is a marvel.

Colombia’s stunning coastline had whet our appetites for the beach. After taking in the old town, however, we soon discovered that although conveniently positioned Cartagena doesn’t boast anything special on the beach front. Thankfully for us, a short boat ride away was Playa Blanca (‘White Beach’). We decided that instead of just going for an afternoon visit we’d trade the hostel for a night on the beach in a hammock. As it would turn out, the following 24 hours weren’t exactly as we’d hoped. We organised a tour through our hostel, which was to take us for a cruise via the Rosario Islands to Playa Blanca. Instructed to arrive sharply at 8am, we ended up sitting on the boat for over an hour before the engine finally started. It was at this point we had the pleasure of meeting the cruise steward, Santiago, who spent the first 20 minutes awkwardly singling out passengers, asking where they were from with the strict requirement that the whole boat cheer for each represented country. The cringe factor only got worse when Santiago donned his DJ hat, our boat transforming into something like one of those tacky party buses that crawl the city streets on Saturday nights. Santiago would frequently interrupt the beats with deep-voiced Richard Mercer-esque commentary, naming the islands we passed. I definitely needed the scheduled intermission at an aquarium on one of the islands. There we enjoyed a dolphin show and another consisting of nurse sharks that had been trained to heave themselves completely out of the water and onto a platform for a feeding frenzy.

The slightly bizarre nurse shark show

By the time we got to Playa Blanca it was lunchtime and we were told the boat would return to the mainland at 3pm. Just as we were piling onto the barge that was to transfer us from our moored boat to the beach, the heavens opened in a big way. With the thought of having endured Santiago’s disco boat for only a couple of hours of beach time in torrential rain, we were somewhat happy we’d decided to stay the night. And it was just beautiful. The sand lived up to the beach’s name – white as white could be – and the water was a clear twinkling sheet of different shades of blue, its beauty only accentuated by yet another amazing Caribbean sunset.

Playa Blanca

Apart from being absolutely ravaged by mosquitoes that evening, Playa Blanca had one major downside: the beach vendors. These people are out of control, and that’s saying a lot in South America. Massages, necklaces, fruit, seafood – you name it, they’d try it on you. I’ve never been so hassled and hounded in the space of 24 hours in my life, it was exhausting! ‘Lady, lady, you want massage? Necklace?’, followed by a comment about needing the money to feed children. The worst was trying to eat my lunch while suffering at the hands of ‘Mary’ who insisted I sample her skills in the art of massage, the whole while pummeling at my shoulders. Not wanting her to think I'd succumbed to her barraging, regretably I said: ‘maybe later’, which, on this continent is the widely understood euphemism for: ‘I’m not interested, please leave me alone’. To Mary, however, I was a sure sale. She followed me along the beach and sat, waiting on the shoreline for a good half an hour for me to get out of the water and return to my towel, harassing me until I finally caved. Accepting her offer was my second mistake because, following the massage came ten minutes of her insisting I pay her more than what was agreed. Multiply this one experience by ten similar instances and you have Playa Blanca! I was first on board the boat back to Cartagena when it arrived the following day and I’ll admit, I was even a little relieved to see Santiago again.

A scrum of beach vendors surrounding an incoming boat

With one full day left in South America there was a final activity on the agenda: the Volcán El Totumo, a mud volcano about 60 kilometres outside of Cartagena. About 20 metres high and over two kilometres deep underground (or so we were told), this place is just a sludgy pit of fun, every child's dream! So thick you can hardly move, your only choice is to bob like a floating apple while being maneuvered around the four-or-so square metres by the same guys who treat you to a full body mud massage on entry. We looked supernatural by the end of it all. And they say that mud has therapeutic qualities, well I must have been glowing for a week after this treatment. But how were we to get all that mud off, surely we weren’t expected to sit on the bus all the way back to our hostels, caked from head to toe? Of course not! Most conveniently there was a wash down service set up in the nearby lagoon. There was, however, a little surprise attached. The wash down ladies were rather forward in ripping off your swimmers, leaving you to float with fellow tourists in the nud while they rinsed them of mud. You’d think this would be slightly awkward, surrounded by naked strangers you were about to share a bus ride back with, but luckily that particular nudist lagoon was a nice shade of murky brown, covering all the important bits. I wont say it didn’t catch me a little off guard though.

So our time in South America had come to an end and although we didn’t know it yet, we only had a few hours before we’d endure the security gauntlet at the Cartagena airport: finger printing, full body x-ray and, for me, a bag search – apparently they were certain I was carrying ethanol and even I was disappointed when they didn’t find anything remotely resembling it, considering they’d cleared my backpack of every item. So what does one do with their last hour in South America? Well we thought it appropriate to say goodbye in style. For us it was a final Caipirinha cocktail at sunset at the trendy ‘Café del Mar’, reminiscing about the past amazing six months.

Hasta luego sudamerica!

The view of the old town from Cafe del Mar

One last drink with our friends at Cafe del Mar

Sweating it up to the Lost City

We'd asked a few people, "do you need to be fit?" The usual answer: "Yeah, it helps. And you'll sweat more than you've ever sweat in your life." So this was what was to be expected of the trek in to and out of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta's 'Ciudad Perdida', or 'Lost City'. Nice. We wondered how our bodies would survive having enjoyed six months with no routine exercise. But I'll have you know that there's a little Indiana Jones in all of us, and ours was jumping up and down, pining for an adventure. So, braced for trekking in intense humidity, we traded the Havianas for walking shoes and set off with Miguel and his brother Diego, two local guys working for Sierra Tours.

The appeal of this place is understated. Dating back to the 9th Century, it's an impressive four hectare site of an ancient city, supposedly older than Machu Picchu, abandoned during the Spanish invasion. Apart from a few select indigenous elders who have, unbeknownst to the rest of the world, held annual meetings at the site for many years, the city remained "undiscovered" until 1972. It was then that the slippery 1300 steps that lead to it - which we endured, one by one - were stumbled upon by a hunter (who, rumour has it, now works in Tayrona National Park as a tour guide!). It wasn't until 1975 that the government was informed of the discovery. Stories on this point vary, but the general gist of it is that the hunter also stumbled across a rather large collection of gold that was buried below the city, and subsequently spent the next three years ransacking the site, along with a few others, selling the goods on the black market. Jackpot!

The fact that this place has lain untouched for centuries isn't its only fascinating element. Unlike Machu Picchu, you can't reach it by train, there isn't a fancy on-site hotel, and there aren't maintenance guys trimming its outskirts. The only way to get a glimpse of this place is to endure five days of steep uphill climbs with some sometimes very steep, slippery descents - I spent a rainy afternoon on what felt like a muddy ice-rink, all I could do was literally go with the flow! It takes three days and about six somewhat challenging river crossings to get to the site, and then you turn around and do it all again, this time in two days. For me, this was the hardest part as the days were longer and I knew exactly where it was going to hurt. When you reach the city, you aren't hit with hoards of snap-happy tourists, but with the silence of the jungle. Surrounded by endless valleys that infuse into one another, you feel like a tiny spot in an ocean of green. The only signs of civilisation are a few indigenous-used huts, and a group of machine gun clad soldiers, stationed there for two months to protect the site against looters (and for the protection of tourists - there was a group of tourists kidnapped in 2003!)

The main ruins

Sitting in the 'chief seat'

Taking in the view

The highlights? Apart from the ruins themselves, the Colombian scenery was again at its best. Each time we huffed and puffed our way to the top of a hill we were rewarded with stunning views of the lush jungle below, or with a dip in a natural waterfall. What was also quite remarkable was how intact the indigenous lifestyle is. We saw plenty of seemingly thriving communities, large families, most in the traditional white dress, living off the land. Interestingly, it appears the government has given the indigenous communities some say as to the monitoring of tourists on the trail. At one point our guide was required to provide a list of names and nationalities at a community check point.

Like some other experiences, this one had a down side for me: in the middle of all the beauty, a real-life cocaine factory where tourists can "learn" about the nasties that go into cocaine production. This was not an official part of the tour and was definitely not advocated by Sierra tours, but it's something that we'd been told about before starting the tour, and that many tourists ask about when they sign up. On the morning of the second day a Colombian guy emerged from the jungle, hand outstretched for the 30,000 Colombian peso fee (about US$15). The deal is, you can take all the photos you want inside the factory, as long as you don't take any which reveal his face. What you see is the production of a paste that is the base for cocaine. But what happens to the paste after that? Where does all that money you hand over go? Traditionally, profits from the cocaine industry have gone directly to armed forces. For me, it was sad to see this sort of thing in a country that is trying so desperately to move on from its past, particularly when you hear first-hand stories of people who have been traumatised by guerrilla groups and the like. But I guess people will always be curious, and who am I to judge? While it's clearly a tourist rort, I'm sure it was interesting to see.

Some ancient kitchen utensils

Bec enjoying a mango fresh from the branch

Miguel contemplating a river crossing with a number of our bags

"Thankyou for visiting Colombia!"

A pattern has emerged while we've been in Colombia and I like it. It seems everywhere we go we meet a particularly friendly or memorable person who makes the trip that little bit more enjoyable. It's nice to connect the places we visit to the people we meet.

In Salento, there was obviously Omar and his generous hospitality. But there was also Alex. Alex was Cali born but had worked as a tour guide for many years in the Cocora Valley. We met him when he hitched a ride in our jeep on the way to the Valley. He was another typical Colombian: extraordinarily friendly. The whole way he talked passionately about Salento and Colombia and introduced us to unique words in Colombian Spanish. At the end of the ride he insisted on meeting us that evening so he could show us around town, so we made loose plans to meet him outside a restaurant, thinking he'd probably have better things to do than give a couple of tourists a free tour on a Saturday night. I'd clearly misjudged Alex, who arrived ten minutes early, eager to take us all to a local haunt for a game of Tejo. This is a serious and competitive sport in Colombia, rarely played without beer in hand. The 'field' is a clay-filled box, probably a little less than a meter squared. In the centre is a small metal ring inside of which are carefully placed triangular paper packets which are filled with gun powder. The object of the game? To create an explosion by throwing a weight (usually 2kg or more) at the ring. It's a very blokey game, and the distances they throw from are very impressive, sometimes over 20m. I teamed up with Julian, Bec with Alex, and we played a few rounds. Not surprisingly, Julian and I had the disadvantage on the Tejo experience front and we failed dismally at winning one round. Not to worry, Alex later took us dancing at a tiny hole-in-the-wall bar, again filled with locals, and taught us some salsa and merengue moves. This was more my style.

A googled pic of the Tejo 'field'

After Salento we spent a night in Villa de Leyva, a small colonial town that we'd heard was a not-to-be-missed. Unfortunately it rained, or threatened rain, for most of the time we were there, so we didn't get a lot of exploring in. We did, however, enjoy a delicious meal at a place called 'Antique', a charming little restaurant with antique furnishings (surprise, surprise) and an in-house Spanish-guitar player. Apart from the meal - a scrumptious pork steak with a fresh mango chutney which I'm going to insist that my wonderful cook of a father recreate for me on my return home - the memorable person on this occasion was the intoxicated Colombian who kept insisting on taking to the microphone. My personal favourite was his slurred rendition of 'Girl from Ipanema'. Eventually the waiter discreetly switched the mic off, not that our friend had the slightest idea.

A moment of clear skies in Villa de Leyva

Next was San Gil and our appointed 'admin day', and then it was time to head for the coast, Taganga the next port of call. The reviews on Taganga are varying. Some describe it as a sleepy little fishing village boasting an unspoiled coastline. Others say it's an overcrowded tourist hub. Bec and I were part of the latter group. While the town is somewhat pretty, the beach is packed with sun burnt westerners, the water littered with rubbish. Even a walk along to the next beach, the apparently less-crowded 'Playa Grande', saw the same thing. For us, it wasn't anything to write home about. We did however enjoy a few stunning sunsets while staying at the 'Casablanca' hostel, which was right on the beach.

The view from our hostel room in Taganga

Taganga at sunset - at least there's something good about this place!

And who was the notable personality in Taganga? There were a couple, but one particularly stuck out. It was while we were wandering the streets, backpack laden and sweltering in the intense Caribbean Sea heat that we first encountered 'the t-shirt guy'. He was sitting at a cafe eating breakfast when he waved his arms, yelling at us: "Thank you for visiting Colombia!" It wasn't the only time he'd say this to us during our stay. You can't miss this guy around Tagana with his long locks, round glasses and bright Colombia t-shirt, Colombia wrist bands and Colombia belts - Colombia everything! Just before we left Taganga for our Lost City trek he joined our table as we waited for our breakfast at a cafe. He enthusiastically described the meaning behind the Colombian flag: yellow for the country's richness, its gold and land; blue for its abundant water supply; and red for the passion of its people. He then proceeded to explain the significance of frogs in the Lost City...

Finally, there was the Tayrona National Park. Most guide books will give you the tip off about its pristine beaches and, of course, we had to see its three main ones for ourselves: Arrecifes, La Piscina and El Cabo. And it was that day we discovered that chivalry is still alive and well in Colombia. It appeared first with our misfortune on the public bus we boarded from Santa Marta to Tayrona. The bus driver had decided to ventilate the bus by leaving the door wide open. Unfortunately for us in the seat adjoining the door, when we hit one of the many bumps in the road our food supply that was sitting at our feet went flying...out the door and onto the road! Back home, our precious supply of marshmallows and raisins would have been long gone, but not here. We watched amazed as the bus conductor ordered the driver to pull to the side of the road, jumped in front of the oncoming traffic and retrieved our goods. Crisis averted! Then there were the the two 16-ish year old guys we disembarked the bus with. Not only did they offer to escort us on the shuttle to the park's entrance, but they waited for us to tie our shoes before trailing us the whole 40 minute walk to Arrecifes, jumping ahead at one point to lend a hand at a tricky bit in the path. The funny part was, they didn't say a word the whole time! So, although terribly shy, their manners earned them a big tick. I'm sure their Mums would be proud.

As for the Park itself, the photos below do the talking. This place makes Taganga's beach look like a murky, urine-filled children's swimming pool! Once at Arrecifes (where you can't swim because the currents are too strong), we walked through dense forest all the way to El Cabo, where we elected to hire a tent for the night. I've mentioned before that camping and I don't mix, and the flooding of our tent (and my mattress) during the thunder storm that night only confirmed this. If I ever went again I'd take the hammock option. But it only took a swim in those crystal clear waters to erase it from my mind. I'll probably never be a camper, but I'm sure appreciating the outdoors.

El Cabo beach

One of the stunning beaches in Tayrona National Park