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

https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGeNytNp7ve7ZW4kbQSnh0inyW7VD_j5aboEV5JMOC0_wdRHZEMayTgvKjLVypYeY74gMfQBJjckhZjW7hqxjYdiBhj2baEEy-PEt-fTtBA6w3m7dP7tE1tAPR2WJSz5BaFEito3ahQVlJ/s1600/800px-Tikal_screenshot1.jpg

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/