Sweating & itching in Santa Catalina

The travels continue from Nicaragua and into Panama

   

It has taken some time, but I've now realised why I seem to have lost weight. Things like being active and eating healthily would seem the most likely, but alas no. It's time for the less glamourous aspect of travelling to emerge; sweating and itching. When leaving the Isla de Ometepe in Nicaragua, the weather took a soggy turn and for two and half days of buses from southern Nicaragua to Western Panama (straight through Costa Rica) it's been very wet and humid. That's the que for me to sweat like gun-ho business secretary and for the legions of mosquitoes to descend upon the very tasty blood of yours truely. Girls will hate me for this, but the combination of sweating and itching has left me 10-12 lbs lighter, I´ve even had to send some clothes home, as they simply don't fit anymore. 

 

Finally arriving in Panama I was greeted with some superb rain, that would put most downpours in England to shame, as the rain here is so hard it hurts, and is a great temporary relief from itching too. After almost 3 days on buses I was glad to be in the very quiet village of Santa Catalina, a surfing destination on the south coast of Panama. http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/5268793417/in/set-72157625641318808/

 

I was recommended to come here by Karen and Nicky in the LSC (London Surf Club), so I was fully expecting huge knarli beach breaks, ferocious spitting barrells and a point break only attemptable by jet-ski tow-in. Day one in Santa Catalina was about 1-2 feet and with a howling on-shore wind. Score. Thankfully, things did pick up from there.

I'd made friends with a German guy on the bus and we decided to check out the Surfer's Paradise just on the road to the beach. I can understand that paradise is a matter of opinion, but I'm certain that paradise should at least be finished before accepting guests. The high point of this place was the views of the point break and beach and the 4 labradors/golden retrievers that lived there. Low points were to numerous to count but my favourite had to be that there were no doors to the rooms, which meant that all four dogs would make their way into our room at night and try and sleep on the beds with us. 

The dogs were called Blondie, Bono, Coffee and The Other One. Blondie was a German dog and had lived his first few months trapped in an apartment, so being unleashed in Panama he was permenantly hyperactive, kind of like the dog Marley from the film Marley & Me (...thanks Sarah!). On one evening he led the charge of all the dogs to follow us from the hostel all the way to the pub in the village (this is a 20 minute walk). He also tried to go surfing with us on one occasion and nearly drowned himself. 

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The beach breakdown the road always looked a lot worse than it usually was. I'm reminded of the mantra Lloyd from the Surf Club always quotes,"surfing is always worth it". How right he is. Hitting the low tide in the morning the waves often appeared small, gutless and uninspiring. But on closer inspection and having dropped the crowds for the east end of the beach, it wouldn't be long before shoulder to head high waves would come through providing late drops and fast beach break waves making the sessions super fun and all the more fulfilling given the previous outlook.

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For the first couple of days I was surfing with the German lad but after I beat him twice at chess he left town. I'd like to think it was hurt pride and shame that drove him home, but I think that the fact he ran out of money in a village with no ATM, is more likely. After he left I moved into the village and stayed at place called Rolo's. The man in charge is a local surfing legend and is the man as far as the local spots are concerned. 

One afternoon Rolo took me and an Auzzie called Mick out to the point in his boat. Although a truely lazy way to surf, it was pretty cool zooming out on to the point and jumping off with my board, beats paddling out any day. The waves here only break 2 hours either side of high tide but it really magnifies the swell. It might be 2 foot on the beach break but when the points is working it's usually at least 2-3 feet bigger. After finally bagging a wave from the crowds I made the epic paddle back in with Mick, who proved himself to be the Mick Dundee of surf, going on ahead and sussing out the route back.

I spent most of the remaining time surfing the beachie with another Auzzie Chris and by this point the swell was providing some steep faces making dropping in a bit of lottery but a hell of a lot of fun. My signature move is still the faceslap wipe out but it's slowly becoming less common. For a couple of days I'm in the line up at the beach with my water proof camera, snapping some excellent wipe out shots of some more friends I'd made. 

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/5269447638/in/set-72157625641318808/

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Through out my travels I keep thinking to myself, "I´d love to come back here" and Santa Catalina definitely fits the bill, but not for the surf, but for the milkshakes. Two German girls moved here last year and have set up a surf shop Surf n Shake, and serve up the most delicious smoothies and milkshakes. I end up selling my board to them in Santa Catalina and I have to see sense that trading it in for an endless supply of banana and chocolate milkshakes is not a good idea. I'm very sad to see the board go, having carried it from California, even if I´m now carrying a lot less. A banana and chocolate milkshake soon makes me feel a lot better.

Santa Catalina is a wonderful place and for surfing it's definitely got my vote, but the village is not just about surfing. It's also the launch point for the one of the world's best kept secret diving locations. Offshore there are islands in a national park, that diving instructors from renouned diving destinations (Bay Islands, Honduras and Belize) absolutely rave about. If I come back here, I wouldn't be worried about a flat spell, as there's plenty of fun to be had below the surface. 

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/5269429824/in/set-72157625641318808/

I stayed here for about a week and now that my surfing batteries had been recharged, I was prepared to head on to Panama City and see about a boat to Colombia. Most people who surf or know me, can understand that you can't go too long without waves, I'm hoping by the time I´ve sweated out a few more pounds and got my itch to get back in the water, the next place will be just as good. 

More photos in the usual place:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/sets/72157625641318808/ 

Going back in time in Nicaragua

Finally on a boat bound for Isla de Ometepe I was glad to be gone from Granada. The large volume of ex-pat owned bars and restaurants didn´t justify the praise that´s been heaped on the City. I think some of the best experiences I´ve had so far, have been when up close with the local way of life. Sure I´m far too comfortable in some of the back-packer haunts and sometimes it´s hard to imagine I´m not in a European city, but the inevitable process of ex-pats moving in for business or retirement seems only to dilute the charm of a place. Granada is a case and point.

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I can accept this change as inevitable but one night I saw how quickly things were changing. One evening in the Imagine bar (yes a perfect starting point to criticize ex-pat business, a Beatles tribute bar...) there was a book launch evening for new travel guides to Nicaragua. OK, so nothing new, travel guides are essential and I´d feel fairly lost without mine, but I draw the line at releasing A guide to living and working abroad in Nicaragua. I thought the point of travelling was to experience the traditional, that travel writers would want to preserve the soul and culture of a country, not exploit it. If Granada is the case study for how Nicaragua might change as more people retire and set up business here, then I´m glad I´m here now, as I can´t imagine things will stay this way for long. Anyway, rant over...

If Granada is heaven for the retirees of the western world, then the island on Lake Nicaragua, Ometepe is like rewinding progress 50 years or so and is taste of what Nicaragua really is. The island is the formation of two volcanoes giving the place an hour-glass outline, and most people come here to climb them or simply relax like a sloth. I was definitely more of the latter. Getting to the island late at night, I was pounced on by the island´s only irritating tout and didn´t manage to shake him off until the next day. Even the other locals didn´t like him.

Idiot free I hit the south side of the island to get some serious hammock time in and swim in the lake. Keen to reach one of the lagoons and mini islands I struck off on foot (literally bare foot) along the headland to get across and to this special island. Having severely underestimated the a) distance b) the amount the lake had risen c) how important foot ware is and d) just how hot it was, I managed to get out to the headland about a 1km away and completely lost. Nice one. Thankfully a quick detour through the jungle via some rather surprised vultures and some sunbathing monkeys I found the lake and elected to swim back to the hotel. This time a far better decision, although the swim was over 1000 metres back and I couldn´t help but remember that this was one of the only fresh water lakes in the world to be home to the Bull Shark...

 
Back on dry land and thankfully told that whilst Bull Sharks are reputedly quite aggressive (one of the highest levels of testosterone in the animal kingdom), they were over-fished from the Lake years ago and are now quite rare and are very rarely seen. I made friends with some Americans that evening and was treated to some delightful lake fish and some traditional Nica grub. Food here is basic, but delicious, and you can all count on me trying to cook up some Nica food when I get back. Mum, you may want to put on a lock on the kitchen door.  

Bored of relaxing and in need of something a bit more interesting, I travelled to the other side of the lake. A distance that should only take about 15 minutes. That´s 15 minutes if there were regular buses and the roads didn´t look like the playground of King Kong. On these roads, mountain bikes overtake buses and horses overtake them both so unsurprisingly it took about 3 hours to cross the island to the eco-lodge retreat of El Zopilote.

This place was great to chill out at after a days mountain biking and take in some amazing views from their own purpose built look-out (mirador) tower. After screwing up my toe for the millionth time I bailed on climbing the volcanoes, the view is supposed to be amazing, but as they´re both covered by cloud most of the time I figured I could see better from my hammock than from at the top.

The only thing that resembled me not being a lazy toe-rag was when I teamed up with a Swedish girl and two French girls to go mountain biking to the infamous Oyo de Agua. It´s supposedly a volcanic spring pool. It´s actually a natural spring that´s been diverted to some man made pools, but it is still brilliant. Having realigned my spine on the ride there, I´m quick to regress back to being a 7 year old child in a swimming pool as the Oyo de Agua is brilliant. Cool, clear and deep water is  the perfect place to crack out the underwater camera and as ever it seems my camera does the business.

Videos
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 A gargantuan effort to get around the lake on bike is thwarted by the consistently terrible roads and possibly my lack of patients. I did happen to have the one bike that had brilliant suspension yet terrible gears. After one particularly tricky ascent, when the gears locked and the chain came off for the hundredth time, I decided what was right in the mind of a 7 year old child with the strength of an adult and hurled my bike into the bushes. Very mature. French girls not impressed... and I thought I had Joie de vivre...

Back in the hostel I decided it was time to move on and get to the coast. A surf was needed, further mountain biking definitely was not.

Onward to the Nicaraguan border, through Costa Rica to Panama...

 

Photos other than the above are

 
http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/sets/72157625499618303/

Masaya: Spiders & Torture

I've not been travelling long but already I´m worried about how long it's been since I've been in a hammock. I hear there is a huge market in Masaya, and I'm off on a mission to find the means to relaxation and to haggle my arse off.

Masaya is about 45 minutes from the capital Managua and its another 30 to the regions biggest tourist city, Granada. As a result it's often missed by those on the trail, but like many places, its for the reasons you don't expect that you enjoy a place. Masaya was to be a perfect example. 

I went to the market, which yes was huge, and yes was full of some nice stuff (as well as a load of tat as usual) but the market appeals more to the "I've-just-retired tourist market" as it's so close to the route most regular holiday makers make from the airport to Granada.  Everything is expensive and being such a successful market, few stall owners actually work there, they just employ locals, making negotiations a non-starter as the money ultimately comes out of their pay. Being less of the afore mentioned type of tourist and more of the thrifty variety, I've also got my social standing to think of. If fellow financially minded travellers heard I'd paid $20 for a hammock, I'd be well... laughed at... which is terrible.

Despite being hammockless, the next morning I made my way to the Fort Coyotepe on the edge of town, which turns into the best reason for a short visit to Masaya. Coyotepe, meaning hill of the Coyotes is a fort built over a 100 years ago and with a prison built beneath it, it's famous as the place the Samoza (conservative government for the majority of the century) regime used to accomodate political prisoners.

The views from the top are spectacular but its the tour from one of the local Scouts that reveals the history of the place. Descending one level into pitch blackness, we walk around the former prison cells and squalid conditions enemies of the state had to endure. Many people per cell, little light and a very basic toilet, the conditions are not great, but the thing that freaks me out completely is the thing with 8 legs, is about 4-5 inches across and is sitting on the wall opposite one cell. The two front legs look more like scorpion claws and my very nice guide Rene tells me it's a Scorpion Spider. I get a photo, incredibly thankful I have a great zoom feature on my camera, but the thing looks more like its from the film Alien than anything from this planet. Hands now folded and daring not to touch a thing, I'm told we're now going down a level further, where its even darker. I don't like spiders.

My fear is temporarily allayed as we go outside but my fear quickly returns to rabbit-in-the-headlights look when Rene tells me that when they clear out the levels in the morning, they sometimes clear out Coral Snakes and Boas. The Rabbit in the headlights wishes he'd bought more clean underwear.

The level below thankfully devoid of further creepy crawlies is however home to the torture cells, ranging from those with chains, to those that are pitch black, where the Sandinistas would be left there, some times for months to persuade them to share their secrets. If you were given a choice of which cell to stay in on this level, nothing seems like an easy option as you're either chained to the wall, in complete darkness, defecated on by the guards from above or all three. No one knows how many people died here under the Somoza regime and just walking around the echoes really give this an eerie feeling. The history of the place as if not already bleak enough is epitomised by one piece of graffiti from 1970 written on a wall on the lowest level, it simply says ME QUIERO MORIR, (I want to die).

As morbid as this is, Nicaragua is a country that has been torn apart for various reasons in the last 100 years, and most of the adults in Nicaragua have felt the effects of the civil wars and violence. Its a country defined upon where it has been trying to get to, for so many of the recent generations; a place of peace and prosperity especially for the poor. This makes it so important for the younger generations to preserve what happened, and in the case of Coyotepe, the local Scouts have taken over the place, cleared out most of the animals and are trying to create a museum so when future generations go to the polls they remember what the price of democracy is.

This post was supposed to be about Granada as well, but Granada was crap, so I couldn't be bothered. It'll be more of a rant than anything profound, but I'll save it for another time!

photos, including a scary photo of a spider are in the usual place.

Leon: Cock Fighting Liberals

The bus to Nicaragua was longer than planned. But finally, off the bus in Leon with my latest U.S. travelling buddy Luke. We found a hostel thankfully still accepting people at 10pm at night. This was a dodgy hostel, not very clean, and ran by a small family, but home for the night. Keen to grab some beers after a long day we then returned to the Hostel at around 1am, only to have to wake up Granny, who finally came to the door and let us in, complete with zimmer frame and everything!

Feeling quite guilty, we headed for a different, cleaner and zimmer free hostel the next morning before finding somewhere for breakfast.

Breakfast in Nicaragua is one of it's best features. It consists of Gallo Pinto (beans & rice with a variation of spices, onions and often cooked in coconut milk), scrambled eggs (with red peppers and ham), tajadas (fried unripened plantains), chopped onion & tomatoes and some tortillas and is the only way to start the day anywhere in Nica, but in Leon, it was by bar far the best. 

This one bar/restaurant Via Via, was the epicentre for the backpacker scene in Leon, but I didn't care, their breakfasts were first rate and also I soon learnt they organised educational booze-ups as well. The tour Luke and I signed ourselves up for was for $12 all you can drink cock fighting. It didn't sound like an educational trip but Luke (from Wyoming and a redneck) was very keen, so at 3pm that Sunday we headed off, to lose all our money, to be robbed was a certainty and to not remember a thing seemed even more likely. It was however, completely fascinating. Not the cock fighting itself which whilst not as barbaric as you'd expect, but for the sheer importance this past time has for local men.

They all bet big, the owners, when they've finally agreed on size, weight, blades and the purse will sometimes bet as much as $150 in the small impoverished towns such as here in Leon. Most men don't earn more than $300 a month and in a city which although famous for it's political heritage is outshone in wealth by most other regions of Nicaragua. Most things in Central America are treated with that Manaña attitude, but cock-fighting is a definite exception. It takes an hour for two men to finally agree they don't want to fight so we're not ring side until 5 in the evening when the first fight kicks off.

It's a brutal sport and quite inhumane. It is not however like many other blood sports. You put two roosters in a hen house and one either ends up dead or escapes bleeding. In Nicaragua the equality of the matches is paramount, the spurs are covered up and very small blades are attached to the feet (seriously small - 2-3mm). The matches last 15 minutes and thankfully on my debut, no chicken dies. The afternoon does take on the feel of Saturday afternoon at the local football in England a number of years ago, as you can see that hordes of men have finally been let of their homes by their frustrated wives crying, "Go, on, go and play with your chickens with your friends". They take to the sport with the same level of enthusiasm too, as mid way through a fight if one chicken's blade comes off, the fight is halted and everyman is in the ring shouting, giving advice and doing everything possible to give their tired or injured chicken a bit of a breather.

A local man called Bennito is insistent on betting with me (and having my sunglasses) and so the money (only $2) is held with his friend, and despite me thinking I'm not seeing that again, Bennito's chicken turns out to be exactly that and refuses to fight. Two more bets with fellow backpackers and I'm $10 to the good and 3 sheets to the wind. It might be an immoral sport, but its fascinating to get a proper look into what makes the local men tick and what they're willing to gamble a large proportion of their families income on, when at the end of the day after all the fussing over the details, it's just a chicken.

After 5 days up in Jiquilillo I'm back in Leon, and I find it a city very hard to leave. It's famous for it's stance in the civil war as being a Sandinista (FSLN) stronghold, and the city reminds me of Belfast with murals everywhere, depicting all the different heroes of the revolutions and martyrs who died for the cause. The turbulent past always seems to be never far from the surface, especially in Leon where the Sandinista colours are everywhere (red and black) and many walls are stamped with the pledge for Daniel for president in 2011. There are scars of the conflict everywhere, I don't see too many in the walls, but the people who were in the midst of it are everywhere. Men in wheelchairs are not a rare sight, and there are monuments to those that died all over town, even a centre ran by women who lost sons in the war is dedicated to educating tourists and the younger generations alike.

Leon is comfortable but not a beautiful place. Its a place with a rowdy nightlife, its people are unphased by tourists and its a place that imbibes the Sandinista outlook and is incredibly proud of itself.

None of the photos are gory and they're in the usual place:

Jiquilillo: Books Beach & Pink Bodyboards

With a name most gringos can't pronounce, a location off the main tourist trail and the chance of bagging some empty surf, Jiquilillo was definitely high on my list of places to visit.

After some fun and games with taxi's and buses from Leon, I finally arrived mid afternoon at the remote fishing village of Jiquilillo (pronounced Hick-ill-e-yo) in the far north of Nicaragua. I strolled into Rancho Esperanza and realised my previous thought, "I'll be here just a couple of days", was not going to work.

The rancho is run by a US ex-pat from Maine but it's far from being the typical Gringo-owned operation, with Nate the owner employing the local villagers, promoting (without the typical cut) all the local tours and restaurants. Beyond this the ranch even plays a pivotal part in the local community helping to educate the communities in many things including health and hygiene and even running a highly successful kids club. There a lot of local people of who depend on the rancho, but it's not hard to persuade tourists that they need to go there either.

For most people like me, its the books. You step into the main hut and see Nate's collection of books and immediately realise you need to stay at least a few days longer than you'd planned. Central America has book shops in the big towns to cater for the tourist trade, but it seems the early travellers who passed through years before me populating these bookshops, were not quite the pioneers or revolutionary thinkers I had them made out to be, as all the book shops are simply full of bad romance novels or fantasy adventure books (for the latter think of a book, you usually need a dice to play with). Nate's place is bursting with classics, and his library makes the flow of the place absolutely perfect.

The typical routine I slipped into consisted of waking up around 5-6am (an evil combo of a noisy rooster and parrot competing for superiority) for a surf check. This would be followed by breakfast or a surf depending on the tide, but either way by 12pm, I'd be relaxing in a hammock out the back on the edge of the Pacific with one of the books from Nate's library. This started well with Ernest Hemmingway's The Old Man and The Sea, but went quickly down hill with a re read of the last installment of Harry Potter (well the film is out and I had to revise!). A quick dip back in the sea at sunset, before coming in for dinner, the recipes for which, I'm determined to dog Nate for and a few beers later the day would be complete, to merely begin in a similar fashion 8 hours later...

The village is by no means quiet all the time. The beach seems to be the main through-fare, with returning fisherman unloading and selling their catch at 6-7 in the morning, the local herd of cows walk through a few hours later (seriously, cows on the beach, very bizarre), and then tourists sporadically fill the rest of the time but in a very slow fashion.

The surf is not quite what I'd hoped, but it's more the timing of the tide that is the problem. From low to mid and it's too shallow and it's best from mid to high and back. Low tide was typically between 8-9 when I was, there making the window for surf short as the on-shore winds would kick in around 11.30. that said some of the banks were really firing, but it's not a place you go for consistency of high class waves. Lots of waves, mostly breaking quickly and in sections in the waist to head high range were the typical order of the morning and with strong currents, it was not a place that's easy to stay in one place. Occasionally we'd see a left hander simply flying down the line, like a freight train, possibly barrelling, but I never got in the right spot for it!

The surf at Jiquilillo isn't what makes it worth the visit. The combination of the ok-surf, great books, friendly people and relaxed environment devoid of hassling touts makes it a place I'd definitely consider returning to. Although I think a return trip will be a must as I don't think Nate will hand over his recipes over email quite so easily.

Photos in the usual place.

P.S. Those sharp-eyed surfers will have noticed that I surfed in the morning when it was possible but also went in for the low tide before dusk when it was too shallow. I confess, my afternoon jaunts were not with surfboard but typically with a pink boogy board. I hope those in the LSC can forgive me.... I mean pink for Christ´s sake.

El Salvador... yanks and expectations

"So Brit, where you going next? Honduras? Copán? Bay Islands?"

"Er..."

"Cos you so gotta get your (diving) paddy in the Bay Islands... so cheap bra".

"Er...surfing, in El Salvador... bra?"

"That place is sooo nasty, you not heard of MS-13? Dude, I´d go to Costa Rica if I were you"

"Er...?"

"Trust me man, I know".

Yeah right. El Salvador, the most populous country of Central America, yet another country heavily directed (or miss-directed) by US-influence and unsurprisingly as a result of said influence, its another Latin American country with a history of civil war and gang violence. Enough to put many people off. Clearly they need to visit Newport, Wales for a bit of perspective, El Salvador is busy, but safe as anywhere else.

My reasons for going to El Salvador are the same as many; point breaks, lots and lots of point breaks. As a country that is by no means new on the surfing map, it is slowly becoming the alternative to Costa Rica for the masses of Americans needing to get their warm water surf. Many small hamlets have exploded into surfer-villages and the words paradise lost are not with out relevance. 

It´s pointless me not naming the location as it´s in every guide book and on every map. But none the less El Tunco, whilst a peaceful surfer village with plenty of bars, hammocks and hostels is a place I would think twice about surfing at, if I returned. 

Due to it´s mellow vibe and access to waves, it´s a busy place even if the town seems half asleep every day except Saturday. The point break and the river mouth are all in walking distance but make for a hostile environment if you´re determined to catch a lot of waves. If however, you´re able to take up the manaña attitude and take it easy, take a handful of waves and lose the pushy attitude and make friends out in the line-up you can have a great trip and who knows even come back one day.

I guess the answer to all this is, is expectations. Out in the water I see more gringos than locals, I catch fewer waves than at Croyde on busy day and at 6am, thinking I´m on the early shift, I paddle out, only to see the dawn patrol already on their way in for breakfast. 

But what did I expect? El Salvador is famous for point breaks that´s no secret. It´s famous for a laid back lifestyle that suits surfers down to the ground. Maybe I didn´t expect quite so many people though, I definitely didn´t expect quite so many Americans, but El Tunco for me is the perfect place to slow things down, catch some waves, get some hammock time and ease the pace of my 100mph travels.

Sure I didn´t catch a million waves, but the few I got were spectacular. Surfing resets the clock, erases the stress and tops up the wanderlust. 

Whilst spending time between surfing, eating, reading and sleeping (a hard life), I do manage to awaken my upset stomach and so I do a little more of the reading and sleeping for a few days. Finally realising that Imodium is not my friend I make a trip to the local free clinic. Not the carnage and blood splattered walls I was expecting, but after negotiating my registration and taking a seat, I´m quickly weighed and checked for fever before waiting 6 hours for the doc. Thankfully having not forgotten all my Spanish lessons I´m able to go home with enough drugs to fill even the largest piñata. Two days later and I´m tip top.

Despite the crowds, the upset stomach and food which isn´t the greatest, I´d say this was a great place to visit and one I´m not going to regret over all those other places in Honduras, that I "apparently" should have visited. Good waves, good people and good fun. Couldn´t ask for much else.

Oh and one more thing. El Salvador like most places, has a lot of coastline. Hopefully it shouldn´t turn into Costa Rica just yet.

photos: http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/sets/72157625426347966/

Luke, Han, Leia, C-3PO, R2D2, Chewy oh and someone else, someone important...

oh yeah me...

knew I´d missed someone out

Right before the a fore mentioned rebels succeeded in destroying the first Death Star in Star Wars Episode IV, they needed to make a pit stop at their base. A location that Darth Vadar was clearly familiar with as was I, once I climbed to the top of Temple IV in the Tikal National Park in Northern Guatemala that is.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z690zwlaMao

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My last stop in Guatemala was to see the most famous site in the Mayan kingdom, Tikal, a day trip from the local town of Flores. I had managed to get to Flores from Lanquin despite having finally succumbed to the evil travellers bug that thankfully kept quiet for the 8 hour journey to Flores.

Flores was not a bad place to be unwell and stuck in for a few days. The town is on a island on a beautiful lake and whilst it was baking hot the colonial-style town is rather mellow as most travellers seem to pass through en route to the ruins leaving it perfectly quiet to get a bit of R&R.

In a few days of doing sweet nothing, the highlights amounted to catching the final of the World Series of Baseball, with some San Francisco Giants fans (they thankfully won what is an incredibly dull sport), watching far too much premiership football and eating plate after plate of delicious plain rice. Yum.

After getting to Tikal bright and early, I struck out for the rebel base, and despite not bumping into any of the rebel alliance, it was clear to see why Tikal is the number tourist attraction in Guatemala and why the ruins are the most dramatic in all the Mayan Kingdom.

Simply put, the temples are huge. The photos do this more justice than I can, but what they can´t show is that this whole area is deep in the heart of the jungle. Half of the appeal about Tikal, is that you´ll be wandering through the jungle checking out out some gnarled trees, noisy bird or possibly a howler monkey (who looks suspiciously like a sibling) when suddenly you´ll see a temple almost by accident at eye level only to see it erupting out of the canopy to over 60 meters high.

The jungle of Tikal is a tiny part of the region of Petan that from the top of the temples, spreads out to what seems like an infinity and knowing that there are ruins vastly less inaccessible many miles to the North, it´s easy to see that the area is an explorers paradise.

The temples are spectacular, and I´m not surprised they filmed a tiny segment of Star Wars here, from the top of Temple IV, the area looks like it belongs somewhere else, from a world long ago abandoned and long ago forgotten. Early in the morning when few tourists have arrived, the park is very easy to get lost in and with more temples and ruins than I thought possible. Tikal is a definite highlight so far and for the brief time I was there, I could begin to see where the inspiration for line, "A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away" may have come from.

photos in the usual place:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/sets/72157625357738638/

Amazonian Women, bumpy roads and Samuc Champey

About to depart Guatemala for the point-break filled country of El Salvador. I´m sure the country has more to offer than surf and point breaks, but that is all I care about at the moment. 

But before I´m even on the bus tomorrow I thought I´d share with you the most awesome part of my travels so far.

Samuc Champey.

The jury is out on whether you actually pronounce the C of Samuc, but of the opinion that I don´t give a monkeys. The pictures do this justice a blog cannot. Check out the photos.

First off a bit of background on how I got there.

Before I left Lake Atitlan, I was in Panachel and in desperate need of a hair cut. I managed to find the oldest looking Guatemalan with the fewest teeth but with the most dental bling to give my hair a much needed hacking. 

I´ve never known one person give my head so much attention with so many tools for what was simply a buzz cut all over. Hats off the Guatemalan hair dressers (sorry, Barbers) they give you more attention and still keep up the small talk!

Got the bus the next day to Coban, which involved 2 bus changes and about 7-8 hours of travelling. the second change was the most entertaining. Got on a new bus for the last 2 hours which turned about to be more like 3, as this shuttle bus turned into a glorified chicken bus as normally you can only get about 16 passengers on these buses. At one point I counted 25, and that´s what I could see from the back snuggled between a fatty (a rarity in Guatemala) and an Israeli (not a rarity in Guatemala). Eventually reaching Coban, delightful street food ensued and beginning to feel a lot better I went to Lanquin the next day.

The road to Lanquin is interesting, in to suffice to say that it´s not really a road and is more of a bunch of stones that got together by accident. Said accident is more what I was expecting as our driver pulled on to this road and full speed, going down hill and in what I thought was rather heavy rain (the kind where you get soaked just by looking at it) but having realigned my spine in several places I finally got to a hostel complete with wooden shacks and a sauna-shed on the edge of the jungle.

In my dorm I was introduced to the other house mates, a Dane, an Albanian, an Auzzie, the resident lizard and his pen friend the cock-roach. Alas I never met the last two, but I think this was yet another place I managed to collect some bed bugs from!

Next day we hit the road for the caves and pools of Samuc Champey. At this point I may have been unfair on the last road as for this seemingly short ride (9km can´t take long surely) I had to stand in the back of a Kia Pride Pick-up and this road was more what a rally car driver might take a look at and decide to pass. It was awesome fun as myself and the giantesses from Holland and Switzerland kept on the look out for stray branches, pot holes whilst daring each other to let go of the pick up for a second. 

Arriving at Samuc Champey with all our teeth, we commenced a trip through the caves complete with light (a candle!)

Photos do this more justice, but I was basically on a caving tour with a troupe of Amazonian women, or as anyone familiar with Futurama will know them as "Snu-Snu". I´m not that short especially in Guatemala, my 5´9" tends to tower over everyone. I was the shortest by quite a margin, but as I was surrounded by a group of lovely women, I realised I was back home and was in fact "Richie with his bitches". 

The tour was great fun but became vastly more fun when we got outside for some rubber tube riding. The fun stepped up a gear when the Swiss girl discovered the rope swing that left you falling about 10 feet into the middle of the river. A very basic approach, you swing, you let go, you fall feet first, you scream, job done. I managed to fall about 15 feet and landed on my face slash side which proved just too funny for everyone else unable to see how I managed to get it wrong. Thankfully I didn´t give a girly scream this time.

That afternoon we hiked up to the Mirrador (look-out) where you see the caves. We finally made it up despite it being insanely slippery and the resident and very territorial Howler Monkey, who gave his best efforts at putting us off. The view was amazing, the photos don´t really do it justice. The pools sit above the actual river, making it both safe and calm to swim in.

On getting to the bottom our insane guide took us swimming, jumping and sliding amongst the pools which are a freaky blue colour, I can only imagine is because of the cobalt mineral in the rocks. This was by far the best experience, swimming in the pouring rain in pools over 4 metres deep. I won´t write much more, the pools were awesome, my underwater camera was brilliant, job done.

photos in the usual place: http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/sets/72157625314546724/

Lake Atitlan... hippies, dirty water and volcanoes

Having said farewells to the family and entrusted Tom, the guy who claims to be from York but sounds more like he´s a confused Canadian with my prize possession; my board. It was time to begin exploring Guatemala armed with the two notebooks full of Spanish I´d learnt in the last 2 weeks.

Yes... I basically forgot everything on the 3 hour ride to San Pedro on Lake Atitlan.

Having arrived en mass in a van of Israelis, Germans, Brits and a Frenchman, we all tramped around until we eventually found a hostel, "Yo Mama", and after a string of terrible your mum´s so fat jokes we got ourselves fed and hit a local bar, called The Buddha.

It took a short time to suss out that this was possibly Guatemala´s (a nation none to keen on homosexuals) only gay bar. Unperturbed and very keen to have several beers, we persisted, fended off the several gay kiwis and tried to own the pool table.

Getting back to the hostel I bumped into Christina, a friend from Spanish School in Antigua. A short game of sibling like play fighting later and I got belted around the chops by a very drunk Christina who I´m ashamed to say packs a vicious punch for someone who pretends to be Canadian and is quite clearly American. Annoyed at the no-hitting-girls (even faux-Canadian girls) rule, I proceeded to have a headache for the next 3 days, not cool.

The next day with hangovers in tow, we hired out kayaks and made for the town across the lake called San Marcos, a hippie hangout that runs a whole host of yoga classes, reki courses and moon courses (the latter not being what I thought and not what I thought I´d already achieved a BSc in).

After a total of 3 hours kayaking we were all spent and after nearly get nobbled by a tourist boat on the return leg, we all took it relatively easy that evening in an Israeli bar/restaurant called Zoolas. It seems Israelis´are everywhere. They finish national service (supposedly) and then infect the world´s travelling destinations like bed bugs. I may be a tad harsh but they do seem to get absolutely everywhere.

The next day it was official, I was not hungover, I was ill. I think a combo of getting an evil smack to the head and paddling the return leg of the aforementioned kayaking session in a kayak that was short and thin and meant I was sitting in a puddle of water, equalled a nasty cold! I decided to relocate to the previously mentioned hippie retreat of San Marcos for a few days to relax, sleep, relax and sleep some more.

After a few days of mainly sleeping I´m keen to get on the move again and leave lake Atitlan, I´ve done very little since being here which has been quite pleasant, but I find the lake to make me feel even more lethargic. Maybe its because you can´t really swim in the lake (too polluted and in places it looks it) and that the areas towns are either good for massive booze-ups, doing yoga or not a lot else. Think I´m missing the sea, and decide to maintain full speed ahead for the rest of my time in Guatemala, so I can get back in the sea as soon as possible.

Last stop on the lake is Panachel, the busiest town and the place to get the onward journeys from. A bustling place where I can finally get the picture postcard shots of the volcanoes and also a place that has a bookshop. I am quite surprised by bookshops in Guatemala. They´re all full of romance novels, fantasy novels or cheap immitation spy novels by Tom Clancy... very bizarre. Upon picking up Victor Hugo´s Les Miserables however, I find travelling is going to leave me, just possibly a bit more sophisticated... yeah right...

Having done said speed of travelling for a week and covered a lot of ground very quickly I´ve learnt it ain't a good idea as I´m recovering from being ill again... but hey, that´s travelling...

photos in the usual place: 

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/sets/72157625300050884/

Volcan de Pecaya and Chichicastenango

On the Sundays of Spanish School I had the day off and so I visited the active volcano of Pacaya and the market town of Chichicastenago.

Chichicastenango (Chichi)

6 days of 8am starts meant it was a great idea to start my first day off with a start of 6am in order to make it nice and early to Chichi where the region´s best market kicks off.

Barely had the shuttle bus turned up had we spotted it´s flat tyre. 10 minutes later with one new tyre and the driver had an faulty starter motor. One huge push down the street and we were off again on the 2 hour journey.

50 minutes later and the starter motor died completely. 2 hours later we finally made it to Chichi and to a market more akin to a labyrinth than anything I was expecting. Losing time to a knackered old van before a replacement turned up wasn´t the end of the world as there is only so much a person can take of the market there. With touts only to keen to make you their new amigo it was a place ou had to do a lap of very quickly (in about an hour) before re tracing your steps to identify something you actually wanted and commenced Operation: Barter like Hell.

A few little presents later and I discovered that Chichi is hybrid of Mayan and Catholic tradition. The local church is to the untrained eye a regular catholic church, but head inside and it´s like the Mayan tradition has not gone far and the two religions are practiced side by side. With ornamental flowers, incense, statues of saints and crucifixes, this is quite a confused church but still one that has me interested.

Having soaked up the market (several laps - it is huge though) and visited the church I decide to risk a full meal at one of the market stalls. I figured, it´s time to test that constitution that seemed to fail after most visits to Chicken Cottage. After a tasty meal of fried chicken, rice, buritos, veg and something that looked suspiciously like a dried up poo (left alone I should add) I was on my way. On the bus back to Antigua it was clear to see just how many and how severe the landslides had been a month before. Whole sides of hills were gone in some cases and despite there being adequate diversions in place after seeing one landslide that had a truck at the bottom it, it was quite easy to see how fragile Guatemala when hit by the rainy season.

Volcan Pacaya

On my second Sunday in Antigua, and with a new partner in crime (Tom from Yorkshire, but with more of a Canadian accent) we decided to climb up the local active volcano with a bunch of randoms from Antigua. En route to said volcano I had my second, "it´s a small world moment", when I met Baz, who worked for The Guradian and knows a multitude of people from Mindshare, least of all Henrietta Bridgman and some lazy bum from Invention called Mark Campbell.

Finally at the foot of the volcano in the pooring rain we had our guide and security (this consisted of a man, a child and a donkey - fearsome, especially as the kid had a machete). Not a difficult climb but one tht had amazing views and even a vent up top where you could see some liquid hot magma. After melting my face off cooking a marshmellow we decended the volcano at what was now 6pm and pitch black. Far more entertaining in the dark with out a torch we skipped our way down the volcano whilst helping out the oldies and being scared shitless by the tour guide who took it upon himseld to jump out at us from no where!  What a guy!

A great afternoon out but I´m still keen to get a good trek under my belt, as the volcano wasn´t that challenging and I had to resort to getting out a penknife to modify a marshmellow stick in order to feel a it more like Bear Grylls.

photos: http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/sets/72157625283241404/

Arrived in Antigua, Guatemala - and time to go to school

After 6 hours on a flight and being in the minority who´s Spanish is definitely more Spanglish, I decide it a good idea to enroll in Spanish School, upon getting to Antigua, Guatemala. Besides, my hand gestures, aren´t that good anyway...

Somehow I manage to get to a hostel called the Ummagumma. My first official review of a hostel: Don´t stay here, there are bed bugs, big ones at that.

I´m swiftly sized up for spanish school by the hostel manager and I get swiftly enroduced to Marco a local "headmaster", more accurately more of a Delboy Business man than a head teacher. Marco has more bling on his teeth than most hiphop stars, and after a while, I realise not all Guatemalans are doing too badly out of tourists who can´t speak spanish...

The next day and Spanish School starts and I meet my teacher, who comes up to my armpit. I´m not a tall man, but Julio definitely isn´t. But what he lacks in the vertical, he certainly makes up for with patients and the ability to teach as I soon discover Spanish the way Michel Thomas was trying to teach me isn´t quite the way it works... not sure if that´s a Central Amercica thing or not. Julo is a nice bloke about 49 with more kids than you can shake a stick at, and very keen to redirect me when I commit the odd conversational faux-paz. For instance, describing your self as hot with the Spanish, "Estoy caliente", is a sure fire way of getting yourself slapped as it means "I´m horny",where as, "Estoy calor", means ,"I´m hot". Julio also quickly informs of how to call some one a Gay in Central America - as any other bloke with a mind of a child will agree...a skill I´m glad I´m not with out. Also after my escapades in Venice Beach,  I´m sure to accidentally end up in a gay bar again.

Apart from thefirst day, school recommences in the front yeard of the family I´m living with, which I quickly learn is Marco´s family and quite a family they are too.

Marco: Delboy with a head for getting the family asmuch money as he can (and often at the expense of the teachers).

Maria: Marco´s wife or ex-wife (I think), my favourite of the family, she´s 62 and the  head of the house, cooks all our meals except Sundays and always spoke her mind. Every meal was delish and on some occasions when she was feeding 4 young male students on top of the family this was no mean feet. She always spoke with us at dinner time and was always keen to tell us the country and her family´s problems! Who cares about missing East Enders, when you´ve got Maria?

Julio (not my teacher): Marco´s son, a teacher in his late thirties with over 6 children with a crazy obsession with computer games and he female students. He´s also keen to tell us the local history of Guatemala and tell us all the rude spanish words the other teachers won´tell us!

Alehandra: A grand daughter of Maria, she´s 19 years old and the mother of Jose (2 years) and Nacho (9 months). She´s quiet and always seems to be trying to control her two sons, the oldest of which was either sick, throwing a tantrum or trying to nick his uncle´s tuk-tuk.

Julio´s brother: A recovering alcholic and coke fiend, I´m annoied I can´t remember his name. He drove a tuk-tuk like every other tuk-tuk driver in Antigua; at speed and firmly relying on God not to crash.

Marco II: Marco´s son, in his mid-forties and I could never work out what he did aside from run errands. My teacher Julio promptly told me he was a bum, but he take me and the other students to a football match one Saturday so wasquite good fun!

Jose: A little tyke who took a liking for Tom´s ukele and anything he couldn´t have. I also think he liked to rehome the family tortoise in front of my door, so that I kicked it first thing in the morning. Little scamp

Nacho: 9 months old and owner of an awesome mobile contraption that meant he could bounce aroundthe kitchen to his heart´s content!

There were several others, but they were all good fun and aside from not being able to remember their names the PC I´m on in northern Guatemala is awful...

On one Saturday afternoon Marco II took us to an over 35s football match up the road. A great afernoon out with the other students as most of the local supporters seemed more keen to feed us rum that let us watch the football. There were some awesome teams, mostly playing in combination of Chelsea, Portugal or Argentina kits and on a surface you´d win a prize for being able to spot a blade of grass on.

On one of my last days of study in Antigua Julio (Marco´s son) takes us all up to the look-out oint over the city as it´s just behind the school. A great local guide, Julio proceeds to tell us that it was an incident 15 years before at this place that involved teachers and students from the school that resulted in Guatemala having to have Tourist Police. In the incident, one teacher was killed by banditos when a group of students and teachers were looking over the city. The area many years later is now very safe and police are always not far away.

Antigua is the Guatemala´s old capital city, because it was devastated by an earthquake over 200 years ago. The capital was relocated to what is now G-City and the town of Antigua was re built losing a lot of it´s original character. Its a lovely place but a far cry from what most Guatemalans would call Guatemala but none the less with it´s colonial style and it´s surroundings of two volcanoes its still a wonderful place to try and learn Spanish.

for far too many photos check out flick: http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/sets/72157625158231993/

San Diego II: Ron Burgandy clearly didn´t surf or ski

After getting bored with the Banana Bungalow escapades I headed off in the drizzle to Downtown San Diego. Yes, that´s right, Drizzle. Sunny San Diego has naffed off for the remainder of my time in California which turns out to be quite a problem in San Diego as it turns out the typically hot weather is the most redeeming feature, or at least the thing that makes everything else seem good. 

My remaining days in San Diego account for 3 of the 65 days a year when San Diego is officially not sunny, but rather than let this dishearten me I´m determined to explore the down town city of San Diego and reveal all that this place has to offer come rain or shine I will discover all. 

I think this might be a short entry today. 

Do I hear a sigh of relief? 

Forget it, this is a blog. Que Rant:

Highlights, and there are some are limited and depend on your mood, I was feeling geeky and quite optimisitc, so the Cold war Russian Submarine in the Dock at San Diego (I think) was pretty cool. The B-39 Soviet Sub demonstrated just how little investment the USSR had going spare when they built their subs, as my previous idea of what I thought cramped meant was squashed down a few more feet. This wasn´t the key attraction of the maritime museum, but compared to the Star of India (the world´s oldest active sailing ship, with not one sail intact... I smell a rat) and a bunch of steam powered ferries it actually was the few things that is actually interesting about America, the Cold War.

San Diego is a city famous for it´s Naval history, or at least it´s where the US decided to house the navy, not the same thing, and more the latter than the former. A huge naval ship is the hub for tourists interested in the US Navy, but after they got the start date of the Second World War wrong in the film of Pearl Harbour I feel reluctant to concede that the US Navy is better than the British (well at least before the impending budget cuts take hold) so humming the tune to Rule Britianna I march off to the Gas Lamp district to explore where San Diego´s brothel district used to be in full swing.

The brothels have now alas shut in favour of art galleries, dodgy American sports bars and pawn shops (I know... not the pawn I had in mind), so my tour takes all of 5 minutes. Which is handy as dinner beckons and my hostel is close by.

Keen to prove there is an underlying culture somewhere in San Diego I head off for Balboa Park and the zoo the next day. The zoo is huge, with more animals than you can shake a stick at. It is however, just a zoo. I think my photo of a bored/depressed/hungover Komodo Dragon says it all. Animals in cages. Brilliant. Determined to get the most for my $37 I power march all around the zoo, with very little to get excited about although a huge Harpy Eagle and some spooning hippos were quite interesting. But to be fair, they were only spooning. 

Ejected from the park for making jokes about said spooning hippos I make it to the huge collection of museums and galleries that is Balboa Park. There are more museums than would be possible to fully enjoy in a week, but this doesn´t stop me getting bored in less than 2 hours. Not through the lack of interesting exhibitions, but more that it´s so apparently obvious that San Diego is a city that is lacking. The city has no interesting architecture or heritage to speak of, so the creation of Balboa Park seems a massive effort to import as much culture as they can into a part of the city that looks actually looks nice even if the sun is not out.

Quite a good plan, but I like to visit places that have a history or actually try and build one. San Diego has culture, it´s just not it´s own, it´s imported.

My negativism is not completly justified as there are small galleries in the city centre that demonstrate that Southern California has some budding artists and one of the galleries in the gas lamp district does actually make me want to return and buy a painting, but it´s San Diego´s geography that makes it stand out.

In the last 12 months I was reminded that there is more to life than surfing after a ski trip to France showed me just how much fun it can be (you can´t stop for a rum and hot chocolate out back at the local break). It´s for this reason that San Diego is a brilliant city, not to a visiting tourist, but as a resident. If you can brag to most cities in the world that you had to flip a coin whether or not to go surfing or skiing this morning, (but that it didn´t matter as you were doing the alternative in the afternoon anyway), I think you could feel pretty smug. 

In a city that isn´t that attractive (when there´s no sun), there is always something to do. In just one day, those things can range from the piste in the morning, to a beach in the afternoon to catching a good gig or play in the evening, San Diego definitely gets my vote. In the film Anchorman, Ron Burgandy tells San Diego where to go by reading a sabotaged tele-promt. He discovers a lot of San Diegans are actually very proud of their city and I think if I lived there I´d be a bit put out too. You stay classy San Diego.  

photos in the usual place: 

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/sets/72157625193375556/

Staying Classy in San Diego

Arriving fairly late a night in San Diego I managed to get myself to the coast at a place called Pacific Beach. It felt like being in the town centre of Newquay on a Saturday night in in July but with fewer northern chavs, but more sports bars than you could shake a stick at.  I stayed in the Banana Bungalow and subsequently feared I´d never be able to get another night´s sleep ever again! 

Despite being in a party hostel I finally felt I was in a place that I always wanted to visit, warm waters, surfing on the doorstep and skiing only a few hours away, it sounded like heaven and I knew I wasn´t short of potential advocates. A number of people back home had mentioned a desire to actually live there and I felt not only that I was on my travels but on a reconnaissance mission with people back home keen to hear the debrief. Well here´s the report....

I positioned myself in Pacific Beach so I could easily get to the area called Windansea and La Jolla (pron La Hoya) as I´d been reading about the surf and longboarding scene of the area for years. To get out and about and explore quicky, I hired a behemoth of a cruiser bicycle and scaled and plummeted up and down the many hills of Windansea and La Jolla and was taken back at how I´d found such a beautiful area, something severely lacking from nearly everywhere else I´d been already in Southern California. Unfortunately this all came with a rather large price tag of a catch as the area seemed to be home most of San Diego´s elite. However, guessing that if a character such as Ron Burgundy ever existed, he´d definitely live there, I´m definitely putting it high on the list of places I´d have a house if those lottery numbers ever came up.

The area was by far the most scenic stretch of urban coastline I´ve ever seen in person or from the media. Lots of coves, reefs, beeches and plenty of wildlife with seals and leopard sharks apparently frequenting the area. I cycled all the way through Windansea; a small neighbourhood with some brilliant surf and quite a community feel all the way to La Jolla, a larger town that also had great surf and a seemingly unquenchable thirst for art galleries which helped it fuel it´s slightly superficial atmosphere, as it´s objective seems to attract Southern California´s wealthy elite. None the less I loved La Jolla and discovered one particular photography gallery of a chap called John Mangelsen. He travels for 10 months of the year taking some of the most amazing photos I´ve ever seen. A bit cute and cheesy you might think, but take a look, it´s quite staggering. http://www.mangelsen.com/

Pushing ahead with the hire bike (please note: only one gear) I rode to the Birch Scripp aquarium, which only looked like a short bike ride away on the map, turned into a near exhausting 4 mile jaunt up hill in weather that would make even the hardiest of sun worshippers to run for the shade. The aquarium  was a thankful escape from the midday sun and showcased a whole array of marine life that I knew I´d pay triple if I wanted to go to Sea World. Not wanting to get killed by a Killer Whale I was content with being a shark geek all over again before enjoying the 4 mile ride back down the hill and back to Pacific Beach.

Every surfer I´ve ever met hates wetsuits, pure and simple. Therefore going for a late afternoon surf at Pacific Beach in just boardies and a vest was something I´m hoping will make a lot of the guys in the London Surf Club green with envy. A few more evenings like this and I was more than content to spend the next day time snorkeling in La Jolla Cove with millions of Gary Baldi fish (bright orange), a group of seals who were more keen to parade and heckle the land dwelling tourists than entertain the hardy waterborne tourists in masks and snorkels. Despite not getting to see the highly anticipated Leopard Sharks I loved the experience of snorkeling so close to the cliffs and caves amongst a vast array of calipo coloured fish and would recommend it to anyone. 

The Banana Bungalow hostel where I stayed at became the place to introduce me to America´s premier drinking game. Beer Pong, complete with it´s own purpose built table (like an American Football pitch) I was keen to represent Great Britain and did so with deadly accuracy putting out a pair of Kiwis and duly sending them to bed early. Retiring (not passing out I must insist) undefeated I enjoyed the Banana Bungalow experience but was keen to get some decent kip and hit down town and see what the City which promised much, had to offer.

a few selected photos are on my flickr account.... 

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/sets/72157625158906102/

Santa (We´re-coming-to-get-you) Barbara

Leaving Los Angeles will no doubt provoke many feelings in you, whether you´ve been there or not.  Traffic, poor public transport and epic urban sprawl were at the top of my list, and having taken two hours to get from the beach to the station I was finally ready to depart for Santa Barbara. The Amtrak trains have the monopoly on the coast route but grabbing a sea view window seat for the last hour of the 2.5 hour journey was more than worth the extra $10 for the pyscho-hobo-infested greyhound. The aptly named surfliner covers the coast line of southern california for over an hour and approching sunset the views were spectacular, a journey that would later inspire me to seek out a like-minded soul to explore the surf along the coast.

Arriving in Santa B I hit the only the hostel in town to be charged a backpacker unfriendly rate of $35 a day. Thankfully with showers that this time didn´t resemble what I´d only imagine seeing in a POW camp, and a dorm all to myself, I was at least grateful to be clean and have peace and quiet.

Santa Barbara is a great place for a night out but as with any place in America, finding a bar that doesn´t have a million TV screens and is the equivalent of Yates is another matter. The hostel rep Cesar took us on one such night out to classy venue called Sharkeys, and whilst I didn´t think twice about an "over 18 night", the bar slowly began to fill up with many of the local Uni´s (UCSB) wildlife and the bar´s ethos for doing anything for money was slowly revealed. A bar where if you can drink you can´t mingle with the rather attractive yet underaged students. Somewhat of a problem as dancing and not drinking is something I and most men simply cannot achieve! It was only later I discovered UCSB (The University of Santa Barbara), is more aptly known as the University of Casual Sex and Boose)... bugger.

Having explored the little of what Santa Barbara had to offer in terms of culture (one rather cool court house but not a lot else) and in desperate need of some saltwater I picked up a second hand board and hired a car with a guy called Joe from the hostel and headed out north to a hotly tipped Jalama Beach. An hour and halfs journey north in our rather masculine Kia Spectra and I was actually in heaven. The beach is 15 miles down a very windy road that would typically not be out of place in the hills of Andalucia and faces west so picks up the combination of south and north swells.

Keen to test drive my board (6´3" x 18&1/2 x 2&5/8 J7 swallow tail for those of you who care) which was smaller than anything I´d ever ridden, but after a couple of over head right-hand waves (truely awesome) I quickly became too cocky and took a couple of poundings. I´ve never known myself to get bounced twice off the sand in one wipe out but hey the waves were rather forgiving and Joe took a similar number of wipeouts and proved for quite a heated argument as to who had the biggest wipeout. 

Surfing at Jalama beach was exactly what I needed. When you´ve been on the road for days and been conned a few times or been relatively unimpressed with the local tourist attractions, it´s always good to have surfing there to re-charge the wonderlust and reinvigorate the reason you came away in the first place. Further south and around the point apparently lie some of California´s best surf spots, there is however, a catch. They´re all in 100 private ranches that restrict all access, even below the low tide mark. A concept I and I´m sure most of the surfers from back home find rather alien. Well if I can come back with a few hundred million in the bank I might splash out on a ranch, rename it Potions and restrict access to just the London Surf Club!

A few days of boozing in Santa Barbara with Joe, a German girl Joanna, her heavily tatto´d partner in crime Jasmine and some other guys from the hostel I not only reaffirmed England´s dominance of pool but reaffirmed our inability to drink more than Germans or the Danish with copious amounts of water in the early hours, to my shame.

I wasn´t overly struck by Santa Barbara, it´s expensive, a bit sleazy and typically American. But to quote the age old mantra, "it´s the people and not the place", this couldn´t be more true than in Santa Barbara, both the locals and the other backpackers turned a mediocre city (c´mon America, they´re not cities, they´re just big towns) into a worthwhile trip.

The journey south to San Diego was complete with just one extra surf at a place called C-Street in Ventura. A pointbreak with so many people it was almost impossible to get a wave to myself. Not a great session but after getting over my initial panic of seeing fins in the water 20 feet away, it was a delight to share the waves with a couple of dolphins that were very keen to show us how it was done.

San Diego, Ron Burgandy´s Whale´s Vagine beckoned...

For photos see: http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/sets/72157625144548706/

A week in california is a long time...

actually, I lie... can't believe it's gone so fast! and not with out drama

left heathrow on Monday after an emotional farewell to the folks it was mad dash for the gate (not having proof of onward travel within 90 days in the USA can lead to problems getting on a plane to the states) and on to the plane (Virgin planes - the people are so nice, I kept asking, "are you sure I don't have to pay for this (insert beer/food/blanket/pee)". Clearly scores of  Ryanair flights have left me cynical.

touched down in LA and on to possibly the skankiest hostel in Venice. I admit I had no comparisons to make, but suffice to say I am some who can bum it big time, but that place just had some kind of parasite lurking...beneath the sheets, in the oven, and definitely in the fridge... There were somethings the hostel couldn't help such as the weather being cold... I know, colder than London which was rather upsetting, thankfully the sun has rained down upon me with furious sunshine and left me nice and brown...

Venice is ok, the old canals are quaint and there's an urban/arty/underground vibe which is surprisingly comforting and in stark contrast to the LA depicted in the likes of "Dogtown and Z-Boys",and Pulp Fiction". The beach is resembles Leicester Square but with a bit more reggae tat on sale plus a massive beach full of tramps... met a very nice one called Bob incidentally. There was some swell but nothing spectacular, maybe waist high lefts and right on either side of the pier. Further north was the graffiti park - a massive skate park and open air gym (bunch of show off americans!). Cycling along a very cool (and possibly one of the world's longest ) bike paths north to Santa Monica there's less tat but still a nice mellow vibe. Be warned, it;s best to figure out that the bikes brake by  peddling backwards before you get on them, I think I managed to incur some cycle-roadrage from the mellowest state in america!

Hit the Getty Centre the next day - I'm not an art buff, but it's super cool. The photography and architecture and gardens are spectacular and I recommend you check out the pics when I get then up. The whole site was free and the views azcross LA were amazing. As lets be honest the rest of LA is pretty shite.

Got in the sea for a few hours the day after - hired an 8 ft foamy and surfed the waist to chest high waves at the breakwater. the lefts were pretty good, although this put you nearer the end of the breakwater and I think the water quality (although improved in recent years) still looked a bit suspect. My recommendation from the locals was more Vitamin C!

Met up with Gordon Investigates that evening for some super plush fancy living at the rather swanky-pants hotel Shangrila. I go from thinking,"did I catch a disease in that last place?" to, "Oh my God there's free champaign in this place!"

The next day Sarah had sorted cycle hire and we made it to down town Santa Monica to take in some art gallaries. Bascially a lot of,"thats's art?" and a lot of "how much?" but still very cool to see that LA has quite a lively art scene (as previous - everything else including hollywood, sunset strip is pretty shite...)

The 5start treatement continued the next two evenings with  free drinks at a prelaunch party for the Glow festival and then the next evening for a posh dinner with the PRs (who organised Sarah's trip). I ate for Britian at the thought my next feeding could be a while away (I think there is definitely a hotel service waiting to be devised for carrying overly fed partrons from their chair to to a taxi - especially in America)

One Glow festival later ( a lot of really stupid and lame attempts at art installations) but still a shit load of people all over Santa Monica beach - (like the old Fat boy Slim party on Brighton Beach but with a bit more space and fewer fatalities) we managed to get back to the luxurious hotel, the next day I headed to Santa Barbara and Sarah off to Newport Beach for a go at Stand-up paddle boarding... I know.... SUP... blashemy

I'm now in Santa B typing from the world's crapest PC but I think I've waffled for long enough

prologue: Countdown to the off

"Rich, have you got everything?"

"Erm..."

Now all packed with a surprisingly small bag I'm heading off to California, C.America. S.America. NZ and maybe even the Philippines (need to bag me a wife) taking and back sometime next year.

I fly out tomorrow, pretty nervous especailly after a near miss in the car on the way down to my folks (fingers crossed the clio makes it through her MOT). Just leaving the quaint countryside of Hawkerland (Nr Exeter) behind for the picturesque town of Woking before heading to LA via Heathrow tomorrow morning...

I'll miss you all but I'll be uploading photos, my encounters with Yanks, Latinos, kiwis, Philippino's and probably most of the other twenty-somethings from London running away from the real world, so I'll be pestering you all enough over the coming months.

Hasta Leugo

Rich