Up Creek and Paddling



Chicken bus heaven

A feature of Central America, that initially causes amusement and the swiftly becomes everyday, is the use of decommissioned US school buses as a primary means of transport. The Chicken bus, so called either because you're packed in like battery farmed chickens or because you're more than likely to be accompanied by a few. feature more often in the life of a traveler than rice and beans.

But eventually you do tire of the posters of the Virgin Mary, the written exclamations 'Jesus es el Señor' and the old ladies who cackling hand you a mango as you alight. So Rachel and I, in the last week have entirely swapped buses in favour of boats. It started with a quick one hour hop over to Isla de Ometepe- a twin volcanoed island in the middle of Lago de Nicaragua. After climbing a volcano and relaxing in a hacienda entirely staffed by flirting fifteen year olds we set off in search of the holy grail. A town that could only be reached by boat, El Castillo on the 'mighty' Rio San Juan!

It says something about a place when the easiest way to get there is by a twelve hour boat across an eerie, misty lake followed by a three hour (one and a half express) lancha up the river. However finally, after zig zagging across the river to pick up and drop off all of Nicaragua, you reach a bend and there stands El Castillo. One road lined with wooden stilt houses nestled in verdant rain forest and perched above it all the crumbling fort that gives the town its name.

 So enamored by boats have we become that our tearful goodbye to Nicaragua could only be conducted by boat. Stamping out in San Carlos we glided down the nomansland of the Rio Frio before stamping in at Los Chiles, Costa Rica and much to our consternation... getting on a bus.

Captain Jack Sparrow hell

You realise you've gone a bit off track when the toothless old man who runs your hotel apologises that there's no running water upstairs but if we need to brush our teeth there's plenty downstairs (and gestures to the river), but tiny, sleepy El Castillo does get its fair share of visitors. Principally for acting like and imagined town out of Pirate story.



El Castillo de la Inmaculada Concepciòn de Maria (the fort) was originally built by the Spanish as a river block (it overlooks a set of fairly nasty rapids) to catch pirates as they snuck up and down from the Caribbean to the wealthy city of Granada who would otherwise be carting off the gold they themselves were carting back to Queen Isabel in Spain. At some point we, the British, got in on the act, took the castle and started making it difficult for both the Spanish and the Pirates.



The entire town.



History dispensed with by the morning we chose to sample El Castillo's other delight, kayaking. After tackling the rapids that make El Castillo so strategic (an experience complicated by the drybag of cameras clipped to Rachel's chest) we enjoed a peacful paddle through the Rio San Juan's tributaries and waterways. The air punctuated by unknown birds, unseen monkeys and the ocassional river turtle fleeing from our amateur splashing we seemed a world and an age away from dusty Leon and chi-chi Granada.





Sandinistas and the Pig Witch - an unlikely couple.

I have always had reservations about visiting somewhere like Auschwitz. I worry that the solemnity of the place would fail to impact properly on me and I´d find myself thinking about what I was going to have for lunch. For things like that I´ve always preferred to stick to the history books over real life.

Depictions of torture on the side of La Veinte Uno

Bit, if there´s one thing they know how to do in Central America it´s an atmospheric museum. In San Salvador we visited the house of Archbishop Oscar Romero whose assassination (along with six Jesuit priests, the housekeep and her daughter) is credited with kicking off the El Salvadoran Civil War. The clothes that the nine had been wearing that night, still bloodstained and ruptured by bullets were hung in the museum, invisible man style for the full effect.

If that disturbed our English sensibilities that we were totally unprepared for the Museo de Leyenda y Tradiciones General Joaquin de Arrechada Antigua Carcel de la Veinte Uno. Technically it is the National Guard's 21st garrison which until 1979 held and brutally tortured an assortment of political prisoners, freedom fighters and lunatics. I was expecting akin to Stasi Prison with its chillingly stark rooms that barely suggested what took place within them.I'd forgotten I was in Central America. Interestingly in the few rooms of La Veinte Uno the white walls were covered in simple black drawings depicting the set up of each room and the activities the prisoners might have been engaged in. Outside, the garisson's walls were further drawings of the methods of torture used on the prisoners.

So far, so affecting and quite a moving tribute to the inmates. However the rooms were far from empty. In some bizarre attempt to remind visitor's of Nicaragua's rich cultural history, as well as its violent one, they had set up life sized plastic models of characters from Nicaraguan fairy-tales. And so began our tour round possibly the weirdest museum I have ever visited. We learnt, in the same breath, about the horrors inflicted on prisoners and also about the Pig-witch, a pig with the head of a woman who runs about robbing people.

In fairness to this strange museum the cast of Nicaraguan fairytales are an interesting lot but it does detract slightly when you walk in to a cell and come face to face with Toma tu Teta.

Toma tu Teta (Grab the tit)

Eyeballing her enormous nipples scared me more than any hauntingly bare room ever could. Toma tu Teta is a character who due to her massive breasts and manish arms is unable to get a man. Instead she runs around town, chasing unsuspecting men and ordering them to 'toma tu teta' (grab the tit) whereupon she will force them to suckle until she is satisfied and runs off!

My other favourite character was el Duende. Anyone who's her studied the Andalucian poet Garcia-Lorca will understand el Duende to be the dark, momento-mori of inspiration that is necessary in the creation of great art.

El Duende - inspiration or gnome?


To the Nicaraguan's he is a gnome. A gnome who steals away unbaptised babies at that. I could only smile as I remembered my Spanish professors warning that understanding Lorca could only be achieved through an understanding of el Duende. A gnome.

So after our confusing experience at the museum we fled from lefty, Sandinista Leon. Leaving behind its political murals and chaotic streets we exchanged it for conservative Granada where our liberal souls have been ashamedly soothed by its pastel painted order, where the museums focus on the pre-Columbian and gloss over all that nasty business with Sandino and the company, in Leon at least, he keeps.

Sad times in 'Sleepy' Suchitoto.

This post was going to be about the sleepy El Salvadorian village of Suchitoto. It was going to extol the place's colonial charm, it's white washed building and their red tiled roofs. It was going to wax lyrical about pupusas, the latest in a long line of food stuffs that involve tortilla, and it was going to say that Suchitoto is the perfect place to chill out for a few days.

Then we decided to walk to the waterfall.

Yes that's right, after surviving a night in San Pedro Sula (Central America's murder capital) it was in tiny Suchitoto that Rachel and I had a gun pointed at our heads and our bags emptied.

In the role play section of my GCSE Spanish oral I had to pretend to have been robbed so I am blaming the entire incident on my Spanish teacher Senora Costello, it was her who taught me the word 'testigo', clearly equipping me for this event in my future.

This picture come courtesy of Rachel who didn't get her camera stolen

I actually didn't have to use my muddled Spanish. Rachel whose fluency makes her the best travel buddy ever hastily described what happened whilst I attempted to chip in and just generally make a nuisance of my self. As amazing as her Spanish is Rachel is not clued up on her gun lingo. After repeatedly describing the weapon as a pistola the policeman asked us to draw it and then glancing at our attempts (Ms Lewis, my art teacher never prepared me for this) sighed and corrected us. 'Un revólver'. This was followed by a surreal moment in the police station where everyone was getting their guns out for our comparison and drawing their own version of what we attempting to describe.

The report finished and our contact details left (they even asked us for our facebook, not the most official of channels) we were done. Our entire foray in to violent crime lasted about two hours and left us both with a deep sense of annoyance. It is just one of those things and Suchitoto is genuinely a great place to visit. It was only after our mishap that we learnt you could get the tourist police to walk you down to the falls and avoid such unfortunate incidents.

But, as my father said when I called him to break the news 'you live and learn' and I guess we will.

Getting Muddy in the Mangroves





The great thing about volunteering at the Iguana Station is that you get to see a side of the island your average visitor doesn't venture to.



Mr Osgood and his well behaved dog Popali.



Every Monday, at our weekly meeting, there's usually a great clamour to sign up for a trip and more specifically to go out with one person, Mr Osgood.



Osgood (the Mr is a Caribbean sign of respect) is a reformed Iguana hunter and former chief of police for the island (presumably at the same time). A living legend, he lives next door to the station with his mad German wife Elke. Occasionally when we're chilling on the balcony across the darkness will float Mr Osgood's cry of 'Sammy I hear you' or 'Sammy, what you do?'.



So Once a week Osgood leads a few excitable volunteers through the mangrove swamps of Rock Harbour and over the petrified coal of Iron Bound on an iguana hunt. Except only Osgood, with his hunter's eyes, is any good at spotting them so the rest of us pretend to be looking for knees and elbows (supposedly how you find them) whilst he gets out his fishing rod, bootlace attached, and wrestles a vicious pregnant female from her tree.

Washing our boots at Rock Harbour





Rock Harbour on the northern side is Mr Osgood's favourite hunting spot, and ours too since he will usually leave us to swim on the rarely visited beach whilst he runs off to catch a few more iguanas. Getting there also involves a 100m wade across the lagoon, made more difficult by the station's un-official dog, Beauty, who gets tired halfway across, tries to turn around and ends up getting carried the last 50m.



Guess which foot I lost to the mud?





I reckon the reason why we love going out with Osgood, apart from his hilarious stories and dire warnings that I will die on the mainland, is that he lets you feel like you're ten years old again. Squelching though muddy bogs, jumping from precarious mangrove root to precarious mangrove root, losing a foot or two in the stinking mud, it's like everything your Mother told you not to do.

We return with pillowcases of iguanas, caked in mud and after all that adventure, in need of a nap!





Yo no quiero agua, Yo quiero bebida

How an Iguana celebrates Easter.

If you're a backpacker and you happen to be on the isthmus during Semana Santa (Easter) you'll probably make a beeline for the solemn, purple robed processions of Antigua, at the very least you'll probably head to the nearest village with a pretty catholic church and join in with their festivities.

If you're Honduran however you'll probably head to Utila, and if you're a backpacker who just so happens to be stuck on the island for a month you're probably going to have to join in.
So this week past my fellow iguana people and I experienced Semana Santa the young, middle class, Honduran way. Overnight it seemed the island's population had trebled in size and the usually peaceful dynamic between the Utilians and the divers was swamped by young Hondurans in tiny skirts and dresses and even tinier bikinis. Whoever said Honduras was a conservative country obviously never met any Hondurans.

Suddenly our usually tranquil Tranquilla Bar was full, the standard soundtrack of last year's hits were thrown out in favour of the Honduran Top 40 and instead of my mad Belgian Diving Instructor dancing like a lunatic to Rihanna we had cool, self possessed Honduran couples dancing the Salsa to anything with the right beat or wildly chanting their battle cry 'Yo no quiero agua, yo quiero bebida'.

In the queue for the loo, instead of chatting to Aussies and Canadians I was having discussions with boys from Tela about Honduras's best beaches. For one week Utila didn't feel like a solitary outpost in the Caribbean but the very heart of Honduras.

And then over the weekend they all went home, back to their processions and six hour church services, leaving Utila shell shocked and eerily silent.


Idyllic Water Caye



After all these people the residents of the Iguana station decided we all needed some peace and quiet and luckily Utila was willing to provide. Early Sunday morning we jumped in to the good ship 'Lady Fanny' with our captain Bobby and set sail for Water Caye.

Off the Southwest coast of Utila, still in sight of the mainland, are a collection of tiny islands known as The Cayes. Only one is properly inhabited, boasting on its tiny strip of land a dive school, cafe's, plenty of houses and even a school. However we motored past Pigeon Caye to our own private island, Water Caye.

Shut your eyes, imagine a desert island and you've pictured Water Caye. Ridiculously pretty we spent the day snorkeling in the shallows, watching the Caye's resident pelicans fish, swimming in crystal clear waters and flopping down, shaded by palm trees, exhausted by the sheer cliché of it all.

An Easter barbecue was all we need to round off a not very Holy but uniquely Utilian Holy Week.

Darling it's better, down where it's wetter, take it from me...

Shortly after anyone arrives at the Iguana station, once the where are you froms and where have you beens are out of the way, the next question is inevitably, 'Are you going to dive?' Followed by 'When?' and 'Who with?'.

You see whilst we all pretend to make the nauseous boat ride over (they actually hand out sick bags when you get on) for the sake of the iguanas, the islands biggest draw is its diving.
Slap bang in the Mesoamerican Barrier Reef Utila is supposedly the cheapest place in the world to do your PADI courses and you get to see some pretty awesome fish at the same time.

So it was on Friday that myself and three other 'iguana people' donned out wetsuits and prepared for the Open Water.

Except they don't let you dive in just like that.

First we had to sit through three and a half hours of possibly the world's cheesiest instruction video, followed by a cold afternoon in the pool, followed by a second cold afternoon in the shallows off the dock.

But finally on Sunday we suited up, jumped in the boat and then jumped off it again. I'll spare you rhapsodical descriptions of the underwater world but suffice to say it's pretty cool. Even when you're not seeing much in terms of fish (barracudas, angel fish, spotted drum fish etc.) the coral formations are enough to keep you open jawed. My favourite site was one nicknamed 'The Labyrinth' which looks somewhat like an underwater canyon with several swimthroughs and tight valleys which required our newly acquired and excellent buoyancy control. When all you can see for 360 degrees is fish and coral it's hard to think anything other than the hackneyed 'awesome'.

If anyone's heading out to Utila at anytime I can't recommend my dive schhool Bay Islands College of Diving, not only the cheapest place on the island but one of the most professional and bang next door to the hyperbaric chamber. My instructor Nick was everything you need when you're descending 18m in to the deep blue sea, meticulous, reassuring and Belgian.

The advanced course is next so stay tuned for tales of night dives, wreck dives and being 'drunk' underwater.

Rice and Peas - The Island of Utila

Apologies for not having written since I arrived but two planes, an intolerable five hour layover, a bus and a boat later I arrived on the Honduran island of Utila.

Utila is a bizarre place. Years of being a stop off for pirates and smugglers has left the island with a culture quite unlike the Honduran mainlanders. The ethic mix of the island is diverse. There are the white utilans decended from Pirates who have strong Caribbean (rice and peas) accents. Then there are the black and hispanic utilans with the same strong accents. Then there are the most recent arrivals, honduran mainlanders who get accused of everything from stealing schools' computers to eating all the fish and all the iguanas.

It's the iguanas I am here to protect. Despite not knowing anything about the reptiles before I left I have become quite knowledgeable about the 'Swamper' Utila's endemic species of Iguana. For instance did you know iguanas have two penises? Or that, like a shark, once they bite in to something (a nice squishy finger) their jaws won't release until they want them to!

Current estimates have it that there are 10,000 swampers on the island but the people I'm working with would put it closer to 3,000 which is why this last week has been a haze of iguana feeding, catching and cage building with the odd sunbathe on the beach and the occasional beach party.

Life on a Caribbean island is good.

Apologies that are no photos, they will follow shortly