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/