Pancakes and mountain-fresh water

Back in the hosteria/farm of Papagayo and getting fat on the delicious pancakes, it was time to get climbing, and get some practice at altitude before attempting Cotopaxi. Getting in late Friday night, I met Nath, a consultant from New York who was to be one of my companions for the following mornings climb up Pasochoa. This was the ease-in for climbing with this one only 4200m high, so after a laid back breaky (of more pancakes) we hit the road with our guide Abel, and one the kid Santiago from the farm.

 

After driving virtually all the way us Pasochoa, we felt pretty comfortable with a quick hop, skip and a jump to the top. Nath was not on top form having picked up a bit of a bug he day before, but needless to say, no climber ever ascends unprepared. At the time, jokes about mountain spring water being so fresh sprung to mind, but such jest was a touch premature, as lets just say, if I see mineral water from Volcan Cotopaxi, I may have to pass, and so should you.

 

By noon we had reached the top for an early lunch.

 

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/5410564883/in/set-72157625976426330/

 

The views were spectacular, and Nath and I were rather pleased with ourselves. The trip back down was quick, and our guides proceeded to jog down. I think they felt very smug for a little while, leaving the panting gringos behind, but after turning around to see me right behind them it was my turn to feel a bit smug. We then all collectively felt a bit bad as we'd left the slightly delicate Nath some way back. We passed a Canadian on the way down just metres from the summit unable to go that little bit further. We decided he deserved no sympathy or encouragement and that he was a complete and utter fairy. He had one of those stupid hat-umbrella things on, so felt he deserved not to get to the top in the first place. Silly man. 

 

Back at base, and suitably stuffed with cake, we met our other partner for the next days climb, a Swiss chap called Danny. The evenings in the very quiet Papagayo were thankfully assisted by the arrival of a Belgian couple who would also be climbing with us, along with the huge collection of pirate DVDs, something that any Latin American hostel is rarely without (pirate DVDs, not Belgians you understand).

 

The next day we were all gun-ho and still trying to digest the worlds best pancakes as the Land Cruiser thankfully stopped bouncing up the hill to the mountain for that day; Corizon, 4800m.

 

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/5410570985/in/set-72157625976426330/

 

With a lot of fresh blood on the mountain, the going was not smooth at first, but after necking vast volumes of water we were soon motoring up. The terrain at first was easy going, but soon the grass and earth gave way to loose scree which was unstable to say the least. Danny is a former air pilot for the Swiss air force which I blame for his ability to climb quickly and fairly soon we'd gotten ahead of the others, for the final stage, which was a full-on scramble, and by far the most exciting part of the climb.

 

Along the way the site of Cotopaxi, was as impressive and ominous-looking as ever, but from so far away, it looked like it would be easy. Foolish.

 

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/5410571139/in/set-72157625976426330/

 

Up on top, the mist surrounded us, which made for a very eerie and strange feeling, like the clouds might suddenly disappear, like some giant playing peek-a-boo. Clearly, and as the photos also demonstrate, the altitude was doing strange things to my head.

 

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/5410571477/in/set-72157625976426330/

 

After a hasty lunch, the guides were keen to get moving in case the mist got worse. The scree on the way up that had proved to be so annoying turned into a super-quick way to descend as you could literally skip down hill at a decent pace, besides, we all knew there would be tasty cake waiting at the hosteria, so we had to motor! 

 

That evening was the beginning of my rest day before climbing Cotopaxi. The others were all climbing Iliniza Sur (mountain on the right) the next day, but I was going to be stuffing myself with as many calories as humanly possible.

 

Photos in the usual place:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/sets/72157625976426330/

Joseph, Dennis & ITS GRIPPED!

Having avoided the ketchup bandits of Quito, I was keen to explore elsewhere, and at the back of mind there was an image of returning to England, and being asked, "what do you mean you didn't get me a present?". To avoid such moments of awkwardness, I made my way to Otovalo which has one of the most famous markets in all of South America. The indigenous people from the surrounding hills all descend in force on Friday night in anticipation for the carnage of Saturday's market. On a normal day there are a couple of streets full of stalls, but on Saturday, the market spreads like a zombie virus through the adjoining streets and completely takes over the town square called the Plaza de Ponchos, and no, you're not all getting ponchos.

The market is huge and with every conceivable thing made from Alpaca or Wool, the colours were simply incredible. It was like stepping into an episode of the BBC's Any Dream Will Do but far more colourful and without the need to keep asking my old house-mate Helen why I was being forced to watch this crap. Otovalo's growing reputation means that the market is now more of a tourist must-see than the market from previous years, but I was not disappointed to see some of the old market's more quirky elements. Namely the shrunken heads:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/5411148174/in/set-72157625850978209/

Also, rumours that the former Big Breakfast stars Zig and Zag were hiding out in the hills of Northern Ecuador were not it seems, with out some truth. Their disguises could not fool me:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/5411148040/in/set-72157625850978209/

I was very keen to buy something woolly to keep me warm in Cotopaxi, so amongst picking up a few things for Brits back home I picked up a lined red and black hoody. Now dressed as Dennis the Menace, but without the accompanying immaturity ("yeah right" I hear you say) I headed back south, past Quito and onto to the mountains of Cotopaxi National Park.

Unable to find people in Quito to climb Cotopaxi with, I set off for a hostel next to the park in an attempt at least to get things moving. I stayed in a place called Papagayo, the place now directly responsible for my addiction to American style pancakes, and alas responsible for giving me back the stone in weight I had previously miss-placed in Central America.

Unable to find climbing partners straight away, I went with my new Aussie friends Bonnie and Craig on a day trip to Quilotoa. The ex-cons from New South Wales were a great laugh and they even tried to hook me up with their hot Auzzie girlfriends living in Europe. I think this would have been a good compromise, as my Mum said she'd kill me if I fell for an Auzzie girl and moved down under. Personally I think it would be worth it, at least as long as England have the Ashes, good fun baiting the criminals about the cricket!

Quilotoa is, or rather was a beast of a volcano until 800 years ago when a Krakatoa sized eruption destroyed it. There is now a giant lake where the other half of the volcano used to be...

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/5410545623/in/set-72157625850978209/

The summit used to be over 6000 m high, but post tantrum it is now 3400m, so fairly big then. The eruption caused a huge quake near by separating the landscape somewhat. The result would make an excellent 18-hole golf course, I think Tiger would find it difficult to get his balls out of that one.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/5410545375/in/set-72157625850978209/

We trekked down and back up Quilotoa, and for my first taste of altitude I was pleased with my progress but somewhat surprised when realised I had no need to take my pulse as I could hear my heart like it was thumping bass drum. Back at the hostel we were treated to post climbing cake and tea, and alas I was still without people to climb with, so duly departed the next day for the Jungle.

After spending most of the day on buses I arrived in the Oriente. I was in the rain forrest and I was supremely shocked at the change in climate. I had gone from freezing nights and clear warm days where there were no mosquitoes, to baking hot and humid days where simply put everything bites, I had the feeling that I prefer beach, hills and mountains, as opposed to hot sweaty jungle. Thankfully I had found a solution to get wet.

It's GRIPPED! Lets go White-water rafting! (Fastshow reference for those who didn't get that). 

Like an excitable school child I arrived at the rafting agency office, and after some brief introductions we had a team of rafters from Washington, New York.... and Woking. Also accompanying us were two kayakers (for safety) and our guides, Luis and Abby. Despite a flat tyre we made it to the drop off point and slipped and slided our way to the rivers edge. Before getting under way, our guide Abby decided we needed to "warm up" a bit so took us to a near by waterfall, and told us all to jump off or else, which we naturally did, only about 35-40 feet.

Finally underway in the raft, I was surprised to learn that one of the girls from NYC on the boat couldn't actually swim. So it makes absolute sense to go white water rafting then doesn't it? Muppet. Thankfully the raft guide Luis didn't relent the pace despite carrying a non swimmer (holding on for dear life at the back of the raft) especially as he proceeded to take us down the bigger rapids backwards (the poor girl).

After putting us through countless waterfalls we were all soaked, so I took it upon myself to even the score with the kayakers, soaking them whenever the got too close. We then stopped for lunch. Abby's mum had over ordered on the picnic, but we made our best attempt and 3 big burritos later I was not only stuffed, I was in danger of sinking if I went overboard, life jacket or not!

The afternoon was great fun, but the highlight had to be riding the boat bronco style. We took it turns, sitting on the bow of the raft with a rope between our legs whilst going over the rapids. The trick was to hold on with just one hand and with the other to wave an imaginary cowboy hat in the air and still hold on. When I turned around for some congratulations at staying on board despite some quite gnarly rapids, I was promptly pushed in. Bastards.

The biggest mistake of the day was that I had left my camera, that's right, the water & shock proof camera, ideal for taking rafting, in my room. So I am still trying to hunt down the photos from Ben, in Washington, but hopefully I'll have them soon. The next day I headed back to Papagayo in Cotopaxi, as fellow climbers had been found and I needed to get some practice for the almighty Volcan Cotopaxi...the largest active volcano in the world.

photos in the usual place

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/sets/72157625850978209/with/5410545375/

New Year's Nuns

This entry is less of a long narrative but more of a collection of small chunks of the time between New Years to mid January...

 

Arrived in Cali, sweating buckets left right and centre in the company of Debs and Chris. Alas this would be the last time for a while as Debs and Chris were off to "help kids who can't read good and want to learn to do other stuff good too" in Quito straight after NYE. Before that however, we made friends with the strangest bunch of backpackers yet, in our new hostel and with whom we elected to spend New Years with. Sometimes when you look at those as yet to be certified as insane you can't tell that they're the ticking time bomb they turn out to be, which is understandable (with the exceptions of George Bush, Richard Nixon and Katie Price, who all looked like nut jobs and we have only ourselves to blame for not spotting them sooner). However, when said locos have drunk too much, aggravated everybody and even tried to push someone down the nearest flight of stairs, I have to draw the line and insist on all Americans being given mandatory sanity checks before being allowed to get on a plane. Apologies to all my American friends who are the nicest of people, even when merry, this does not apply to you... but I am watching you, just in case. Suffice to say that the group we were with had their highlights, some should be committed and some simply sent back to the states. Despite the nut jobs, NYE was great, we got to see in the new year atop of a fancy tower block and all in all it was a good night. Special mention needs to go to Debbie who clearly showed she has the skills necessary to be a shrink for depressives as she consoled all those affected and was the general negotiator to the wackos of said NYE, well done Debs.

 

Into 2011, it was time to arrange buses towards Ecuador, however, doing such a task on the day after New Years, is not an easy task, especially for Chris who we dragged to the bus stop only for him to find the nearest bench and fall asleep on it. Naturally, all tramps must be awoken with water to the face, and needless to say Chris was not best pleased. I should try special brew next time... Finally bus bound for Ecuador, Debs, Chris and I said our farewells near the border, they were headed directly to their volunteering work near Quito, whilst I was headed to the Santuario de las Lajas on the Colombian side of the border to see what all the fuss was about somebodies mum's image appearing on a rock. Turns out it was the Maria's image that appeared on a rock there, so they built a massive church around it over the last 400 years...

 

I got bored of looking at Cathedrals and Churches about 3 countries ago, however the Santuario de las Lajas was quite stunning. Set in a plunging valley, the church looks almost to defy physics it looks so precarious, but so far it is one of the most impressive sights I've seen in Colombia. Hundreds of years before, the image of the Maria appeared to a local women and ever since the image has attracted thousands of people from Colombia and Ecuador to pray miracles. Similarly to Lourdes in France, they even sell holy water, although here it seems to be litre tubs that look suspiciously like Evian bottles. The walls are scattered with plaques of prayer and even though the Maria's image is absolutely spot on for a typical 16th Century artist, the visitor numbers are unrelenting, as what ever gives people faith I suppose it was is important.

 

Given the nature of the following here, its not that surprising that I make my home that evening inside a nunnery. Upon arriving I had excited images in my mind of what lay in store in the convent, either like the lonely nuns from Monty Python and the Quest for the Holy Grail (short vid or long vid) or the slightly manly ones from Nuns on the Run (trailer). Sadly, as ever, expectations can be a dangerous thing, and most of the nuns whilst rather giggly did in fact look more like a short but tanned version of Robby Coltrane than anything I was hoping for. I won't mention which person sent me a text telling me they'd pay me 100 quid for seducing a nun, but lets just say their money is safe.

 

After taking my fair share of 16th century artwork in the church and annoying the apparent Mother Superior with my ipod stereo, it was time to head for Quito. A place where everyone warns you about the muggers, who'll spray you with mustard and ketchup given half a chance. Clearly, I shall have to make sure that I don't dress up as a hot dog. Quito was fairly uninspiring to write about but I've included the photos here.

 

photos in the usual place

NYE and Sanctuario de las Lajas

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/sets/72157625844785466/

Quito

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/sets/72157625844808248/

Coffee, Kids & Explosions

It was December 27th and Christmas was officially over. I tried to explain this notion to Debs, who is as obsessed with all things Christmas as Dobby the house-elf's is (was) with Harry Potter. She didn't look pleased, and I knew another roast dinner was not going to be far away. Upon arriving in Solento, we bump into the infamous Frank Rippy. He's an eccentric gent from the states who used to be a pro tennis player back in the 70s and now trains the coaches that train the pros. He's a real character, telling us many tales, some taller than others, over Deb's birthday dinner at a fancy trout place in town. Trout is the local delicacy and is typically served on a plate-sized kettle crisp!

Having left the festive fincas of Medellin behind, we bused ourselves down to a small town called Solento in the Zona Cafeteria, in pursuit of the other well known ( but legal) export of Colombia; coffee. The region is non-stop rolling hills and plunging valleys and packed wall to wall with coffee farms. We visit a small plantation next to our hostel and see the process in practise, and a labour intensive practise at that. Colombian coffee is not only quite delicious but we learn why it's not so cheap, as they harvest the beans by hand given the fields are so steep. Hopefully if they can continue to produce coffee in this unique fashion, it keeps the local people employed and is a method that is a breath of fresh air in today's modern landscape.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/5301410640/in/set-72157625718507833/

A few bags of coffee maybe making their way home, but you'll have to offer me one or more of the following (money/a place to live/a job/a lift to the beach/bacon sarnie) to stand a chance of getting to try some. Looking at that list, I think its my parents that stand the best chance so far!

Aside from drinking too much coffee, we also made our way to the infamous national park down the road called the Valle de Cocora. Its a valley, unsurprisingly, but is stunningly lush and beautiful and great for a days hike. We get into the forest to be confronted by raging rivers, only cross-able by bridges sometimes made of only 3 thin palm tree boughs. Chris and I are gun-ho and even attempt to bounce on them, if to the dismay and concern of Debs. We shepherd her across the mortal peril (life and death guys... and not a hint of sarcasm I should add) on several occasions and alas, no body gets wet. Shame. After impersonating Indiana Jones in The Temple of Doom we manage to get to the top look out point in the park and get our first taste of climbing at a bit of altitude, which in short leaves us a little breathless.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/5331334730/in/set-72157625844202540/

Heading back to the town, we march down hill, scoffing the last of the left overs from the last nights roast dinner, and generally descending both literally in height but also in mental capacity as we regress into small children, particularly when Christ squatted for the camera above a giant cow-pat. I was of course the very essence of maturity; and if you believe that...

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/5330783329/in/set-72157625844202540/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/5330748433/in/set-72157625844202540/
sweaty bum!
http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/5331357164/in/set-72157625844202540/

Back at base and we're off to the pub. Ever since I could get into pubs (aged 17 and with a shocking fake ID), I've seen many forms of in bar entertainment, from pool tables to quiz machines, but Solento has the best...and its called Tejo. In the back of a Solento bar there's a small strip (bit smaller than the strips in cricket). At each end is a trough of clay, with a metal ring embedded on the surface. Upon the ring are small packets of gun-powder. You're stood at the other end of the strip armed with a fist sized lump of metal... you might be able to see where this is headed. After more near-misses than explosions we wrap up the game with our ears ringing from the loud bangs and an important lesson learnt: It's not the winning that counts but its the look on Deb's face when she loses. I've just been told that it is possible be to be a bad winner. Oh well!

With New Years fast approaching, we're keen to get moving so we pack up shop and leave the cool & fresh highlands behind us for hot and humid Cali...

photos in the usual place

Coffee plantation
http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/sets/72157625718507833/
Valle de Cocora
http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/sets/72157625844202540/

Christmas in Colombia

After 13 hours on a bus, I was fit for not a lot, but managed to find a hostel in down town Medellin. It´s Colombia's second city set in an enormous valley and was until 1993 under the thumb of the infamous Pablo Escobar, but now that he's long gone, the place is a lot safer. As a place to visit it had its quirks, but my main objective in the few days before Christmas, was on behalf of my festive friends Chris and Debbie, to secure an oven. It´s not Christmas dinner unless something gets roasted!

After a day of recognisance, the picture was unsurprisingly not looking good as lets be honest most hostel kitchens would be shut in a heartbeat because they're so dirty, let alone having decent facilities to cook a roast dinner. Thankfully, as happened to Tiny Tim, Black Adder, The Simpsons, and countless other festive characters, miracles do happen at Christmas. Ours came in the form of the Colombia chica called Manuela. Her cousin was married to Chris's uni mate in England, so a few nights before Crimbo we met up for drinks.

Unlike previous nights, where we'd be shoulder to shoulder with every other backpacker, Manuela whisked us away to a new locals only area called La Strada. It was a setup of swanky looking bars underneath a business tower block without a tourist in sight. We were soon introduced to Manuela's cousins and friends, who were very keen to introduce us to Colombia's notorious drink; Aguadiente. Think ouzo but stronger. After being fed a few shots of that, we were introduced to the shot bar next door for a few el Demonios, a tequila based shot that I´m guessing leaves a visa stamp on your liver to say, "yes, I was here". On the second of such indulgences, the look on Chris's face was a sight to behold as clearly his visa request was almost rejected, thankfully though it crossed the border.

Now in a slightly merry state, Manuela was adamant that we could not spend Christmas in a hostel and that we had to go to their finca (home) in the countryside. After negotiations, we agreed, but on the condition that we cooked for her and her family. We now realised we had a shot at a pretty unique Christmas, upon which more celebrations were had and more aguadiente was consumed. Taxis followed and only slightly sore heads emerged the following morning.

Prior to getting to the finca, we had to buy all the necessary booze and food. After a fairly huge chunk of the local supermarkets stock was removed we made our way north on Christmas morning (yours truly donning his new Xmas pressie of a cowboy hat), only to leave half the food on the bus before arriving at Manuelas finca, which was in the most stunning of settings. A quick jaunt to grab some more food and we were in business, Debbie led the cooking charge (Chris and I mainly played cards and prepared the odd pig-in-a-blanket) until come evening and a feast was unleashed. We (Debbie) managed a fantastic spread of roast potatoes, peas, carrots, broccoli, cauliflower, chicken, pigs in blankets and roast chicken that we were still eating parts of it the next day. After the food had gone down, Manuela's friends came to play and after a few silly games (with and without booze) it was time to learn how to merengue. I feel it important to add in a disclaimer that at no point in the evening did I dance with a mop to the Chemical Brothers' "Hey Boy Hey Girl" in a cowboy hat. It simply did not happen. Fact.

Slightly hungover the next day, we consumed left overs wrapped in burritos before heading to a neighbours finca for some swimming pool action. Whilst the UK was still buried under a significant amount of snow, I felt quite glad to be in my boardies, supping a few beers and playing Frisbee in a swimming pool. A Christmas with a difference, without a doubt.

With promises made between all Colombians and Brits that they all had homes to stay in if they ever visited (that's a heads up Mum and Dad) we departed back for Medellin and then onwards to the Zona Cafeteria (not a dodgy canteen but the heartland of the Colombian coffee farms).

There was other stuff that happened in Medellin such as; a cable car, a cool national park, zip lining, butterfly massacres (American girl Michelle, not me!), weird fat statues (or voluminous if you're arty farty), jesting with the armed national guard, crazy markets complete with alleyways devoted entirely to market stalls of porn (not just the straight stuff either), amazing Christmas lights and an old American in our hostel who seemed only to pleased to tell us that he'd had a brilliant white Christmas. I just can't be bothered to write about them... the photos can do the honours.

Christmas photos
http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/sets/72157625694115104/

Medellin photos (worth a look!)
http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/sets/72157625764624166/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/sets/72157625764656390/

Muddy pirate babylons in Cartagena

As I write this, Christmas has been and gone and I've missed out many festive things but as with any family get together, I've missed out on the retelling of those (often cringing) family stories. My auntie Janet was would always make a point of embarrassing me (usually in female company) about how when I was just 6 years old how, I was fixated with my Dad's 40th birthday cake. To be fare it was a very well endowed birthday cake and being 6 years old I was understandably taken back at seeing such a booby-licious cake, but in my defense it was my aunts cat that destroyed the left breast resulting in a last minute boob-job.

You maybe thinking, "where is he going with this?", but upon arriving in Colombia the mouth hanging open fixation had returned. Colombian women are reputed to be the most beautiful in the world. Well there's some truth in that I suppose, but they're definitely the most enhanced women in the world for sure. With my lower jaw returned to its rightful place I soon learned that Colombian girls when reaching 16 don´t ask for that dream trip to Europe or a car anymore, its all about getting down to the plastic surgeon to get the works. I think I'll return to the UK, get my chiropractor's license and return to Colombia in 20 years as there are going to be a lot of back problems in Colombia´s future.

Aside from being easily distracted, I arrived in the Caribbean city of Cartagena, a place with a lot of history, from the trialing of supposed witches to the incessant invasions of English pirates, the city has experienced a lot. Most of whats interesting is kept within the old city walls, from museums showcasing just how to torture a potential witch to examples of the gold that used to be found there before the Spanish half-inched it. There's a lot to see and do, but the thing that keeps me coming back to the old town every day is the restaurant La Mulata. It´s Caribbean food but on a par with a lot of top London places (and I know I´m on a connoisseur of the Chicken Cottáge as my old boss Lonsdale used to remind me), but this place served up Caribbean delicacies for about 4 pounds.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/5280105967/in/set-72157625522989611/

The old town is fantastic for a stroll around, and the colonial architecture is stunning but I´m pretty certain there is still a significant amount of pirate blood in the local people here. Aside from some cheeky bugger trying to unzip my bag (he failed), the place has the feel about it that everyone's out for a fast buck and keen as mustard to party themselves to pieces come night time. This could be a lifestyle I could get used to and to make things feel like home the local clubs charge even more for a Cuba Libre than most places in London ($18,000 COP = almost 7 quid).

One of the tourist tours that get myself on, is to the local mud volcano; Volcan de lodo El Totumo. Well I say volcano, it looks more like a 15 metre high termite mound, the top of which is a mud bath. The blog won´t do this justice, but it was great fun trying and failing to sink below our necks, evading the locals terrible attempts at massaging and getting the apparently healthy mud into every single orifice. A few days later and I'm still managing to find mud, which is a surprise given after you'd had your fill of the mud, you wander down to the lagoon resembling a slightly less-hairy chewbacca to be rigorously hand cleaned by one of the local women. I'm hastily reminded of being a child and being scrubbed to bits by my mum in the bath tub, my ears never feel the same!

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/5280184863/in/set-72157625648662090/

Back in Cartagena after a lengthy breakdown, its time to get a wriggle on for Medellin in central Colombia, in search of an oven to roast some kind of bird for Christmas... well that was the plan at any rate.

photos in the usual place...
http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/sets/72157625522989611/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/sets/72157625648662090/

Panama Vs Basingstoke

Day 79 in the Big Brother House and Ricardo is in the Diary Room...

Big Brother: "Ricardo, this is Big Brother, if you continue to tease people at home about the weather being so hot, we will subject you and the other house mates to heavy rain. Is that understood?"

Ricardo: "You what? Bugger that, could you russell me up some more suncream? I'm really starting to bake here and I need to show everyone back home my awesome tan."

It seems the endless taunting of friends and family back home has caught up with me in Panama City and upon arrival the heavens open and stay open for the next week. Not an encouraging sign when I and the majority of the other travellers in my hostel are planning on taking yachts for 5 days from Northern Panama to Colombia. The incessant rain seems to be the first of many hints that our intended sailing plans are simply not going to happen and in a hostel full of housebound backpackers, the grapevine is gossiping at max speed.

First off there's the rumour that they've had to evacuate a few of the San Blas Islands. These are little islands off the Panamanian coast that the yachts stop off at and are supposed to be stunning. Secondly there's the rumour that they've closed the Panama Canal. This turns out to be true, and was the first time it's been closed in 21 years, when the US invaded. On top of this boats are being cancelled or redirected, rather stormy seas are forecast, tales of sea-sick ridden travellers and coked-up alcoholic captains are abound and unsurprisingly I'm starting to get slightly cold feet. 

Thankfully not all of my time in Panama is spent fretting over weather forecasts and discussing flights and I do get out and about. Previously the only city I'd been to that was famous for having a canal was Basingstoke, so Panama City is faced with some stiff competition. It's by far the most developed city in Central America but the hostel is in the more deprived part of town (that is safe!). The influence of the canal is everywhere you look, from the wealth that has brought dozens of sky-scrappers, to the Chinese/Thai restaurants on every corner. Panama is a quite a mixing pot and I wonder what it would be like had the canal been built in Nicaragua which was apparently on the cards at one point (those crafty yanks!).

There are parks nearby and I'm keen to test out my David Attenborough skills and capture some wild life. It seems the only things I can get near to without running away are leaf cutter ants, I sussed out that they're the bailiffs of the forest, when you can't pay your mortgage, or you the rent on your tree, they systematically take your leaves apart and move it somewhere else. Apparently they do post up eviction notices, usually telling you, to leave immediately. 

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/5280071387/in/set-72157625648614840/

With a flight lined up (and cheaper than everyone else thanks to STA), I meet up with some Irishmen and an Auzzie and head out to the nightclubs of Calle Uruguay, which is apparently where it's at. After persuading the bouncer that he didn't actually need to charge us $20 a head entry (jedi mind tricks clearly still working) we got the rum out and showed the Panamanians how to dance. Despite getting out my revolutionary dance moves (the lasso, the meerkat and the dice all featured) the locals are not that impressed, clearly they're a bit behind the times!

With my name on the wanted-for-crimes-against-tasteful-dancing list I'm on the next flight out of Panama City, bound for the pirate ridden Caribbean city of Cartagena. Argggggh!

Photos in the usual place... http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/sets/72157625648614840