Leon, Nicaragua to San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua

Matagalpa (pictured, with Alia), in Nicaragua's northern highlands, was the next stop on our trip. A two hour mini-bus ride from Leon, Matagalpa sits at an altitude of approximately 680 metres, giving it a much cooler and hospitatable climate.

The cooler mountain air combined with some German knowhow (they really do seem to know EVERYTHING) last century combined to make this area the centre of Nicaraguan coffee and cocao growing country. Unfortunately earlier than expected rains last year meant all the coffee had already been picked, so there was no point visiting any of the coffee farms, a key objective of our trip there. We did manage to see the coffee bean drying process as we entered the town (beans laid out on large plastic sheets), and we also enjoyed a full dose of the sensuous aroma of the beans being dried in nearby factories. It was like living in an open-air cafe, minus the cafe-latte sipping set staring at their latops and Macbooks.

The mountains surrounding Matagalpa gave it a pleasant aesthetic, and much of our time there was simply spent wandering around its streets and a few of its museums, incluiding the home of leading Sandanista resistence fighter Carlos Fonseca. Politics remains important to many people here, particularly with an election due in November this year.

Matagalpa gave us a small taste of what authentic Nicaragua is like. Whilst considered a slightly well-off town due to the revenues gleaned from coffee and cocao, it remains down to earth and honest. A night having a beer and a meal at one of the local establishments hightlighted this, with plenty of locals, from older men in cowboy hats through to twenty-somethings in trendy garb, all there doing the same. Numerous guitar-carrying men would wander around each restaurant table, offering to play any one of the seemingly endless list of Nicaraguan classics, songs which appeared to speak of loves lost or gained, or of passions ignited by patriotism. Or were they singing about pickup trucks, women and dogs? Couldn't really tell but I just chose to imagine the former. Either way, their music, often accompanied by a deep and melodic voice, formed a soothing background to the happy chatter emanating from the numerous patrons kicking back with un litro de Tona (beer) or a NIca libre (rum and coke).

While we were in Matagalpa we took a chicken bus an hour north to the small town of Jinotega. There isn't too much to see or do in Jinotega itself but the hour or so bus ride through the mountains made the trip worth it. Much of the original jungle remains intact in these parts, largely due to the coffee crop requiring a canopy under which to grow. The bus ambled up the recently improved road, through tiny villages and past humble abodes, with well-tended farms jutting in on the steep slopes amongst the tall trees. When the tree canopy parted there were stunning views to the west and north, where distant volanoes still managed to loom large.

From Matagalpa we took an express chicken bus (yep, this little chicken really flew) to the central town of Masaya, where we ended up staying for three nights. Masaya itself sits above a large laguna of the same name, with the water filling the cone of an extinct volcano. Whilst the views looking away from Masaya were impressive, the sights within the city itself weren't overly charming. Yes, it had some relatively nice churches and plazas, and the main market (the city is famed for its artisans) was pleasant, yet for the most part the city reminded me of how lucky we were to be from Australia. There was plenty of poverty on display, and if I were a vet I would have felt compeled to euthanize the entire dog population, so bad was their health.

The town's main calling card is the volcano of the same name, which sits in a national park loacted 10km outside of town. An active volcano, Alia and I decided to visit the sulphur-spewing cone on a night tour in the hope of seeing lava. And even though we were to see just the reflection of lava (the lava was 90 metres below the surface, although its glow was easily visible through a hole inside the cavenous cone) it remains a highlight of our trip. We also managed to walk through a lava tube, and to partially enter a cave filled with bats that circled just centimeters from us.

Next stop on our trip was the colonial town of Granada, the country's showpiece. After a short chicken bus from Masaya we were greeted by a tranquil and well-groomed town. Churches dominate the small skyline, as does the nearby Volcan Mombacho which we had already glimpsed the night before from atop Volcan Masaya. The town sits adjacent to the 8000 sq km Lake Cocibolca and overall retains a stately feel to many of its streets. The main square is stunning, the town's main cathedral on one side, the other three sides bursting with the yellows and whites of well-maintained homes, restaurants and shops. Its market area remained rough and ready, although if anything that just ensured Granada hadn't become too big for its rustic boots.

A highlight was the nearby town of Catarina, from where you can soak up an impressive view of Laguna Apoyo (another large extinct volcano cone filled with crystal clear water which sits between the towns of Masaya and Granada), Volcan Mombacho and Granada. An easy day trip from Granada, both the view and quaint town of Catarina made it time well spent. We both enjoyed Granada but found we had had our fill of colonial towns, so any chance to get out of town was taken with relish.

San Juan Del Sur, a small town set amongst the rolling hills of Nicaragua's southern Pacific coast, would absorb the next nine days of our trip. Much of this time wasn't spent undertaking the usual pursuits in these parts, these being surfing and drinking (not necessarily in that order). Instead, we studied Spanish for seven days (four hours each day) at the excellent Spanish Ya school, under the guidance of the excellent teacher Juanita. I would rate this school higher than the one we studied at in San Pedro, if only due to Juanita - she pushed us harder, but never to the point that you couldn't understand what was being taught, and she maintained a good balance of speaking versus writing. It was the first time that I felt within sight (OK, a distant sighting, but a sighting none the less) of one day conversing fluently in Spanish. Yes, we both still stutter when speaking Spanish, and we can't have overly indepth conversations with locals, but we know quite a deal more now than when we set foot in Mexico in December.

We also had a few swims whilst in San Juan Del Sur, a dip in the ocean a refreshing change from the heat of Masaya and Granada. And with our relatively modern and comfortable three-bedroom apartment including a shared kitchen, living area and balcony, we also enjoyed the company of various fellow-travellers. Although San Juan Del Sur is a gringo town if ever there was one, it retains a dignified and graceful air - the gringos haven't destroyed the place. Maybe that's due to the large number of returees from North America who live here, people who have a vested interest in keeping the place 'small' and quiet. Of course, life in one of the youth hostels may have yielded a different opinion but for the most part we didn't experience too much evidence of gringos partying excessively. Or did this old bastard just go to bed too early? Well, I did have Spanish in the morning...

From San Juan Del Sur we then headed an hour or so east to La Isla Ometepe, an island set in Lake Cocibolca. What makes this island special is the two volcanoes - one active, one not - at either end. Volcan Concepcion, the active volcano, is 1600 metres high and, reportedly, has the most perfectly shaped cone of any volcano in Central America (a Nicaraguan told me that so please take that with a grain of salt). At the other end is the 1400 metre Volcan Maderas, on whose jungle covered flank we spent our first night. But before we even set foot on the island we faced the full fury of Lake Cocibolca's surprisingly large swell - in a rather pathetic excuse for a ferry. I think a rowboat in the middle of the Pacific Ocean would have had a smoother run; our boat was swept up and down the lake's large waves like a toy. Occasionally the residue of a large wave would wash over us as we clung to our seats, which were unfortunately located on the side the wind and swell were coming from (we wondered why those two seats were still free when we boarded). At one point I was seriously plotting out my route past the 40 or so other passengers to get one of the only seven lifevests on board, stowed in the vessel's ceiling - with my height I thought that at least gave me a better than average chance of beating most of the (short) locals to one. And hopefully two, as the first would, of course, be for my dear wife Alia.

Ometepe, home to just 30,000 people, is a wonderfully tranquil and natural island, largely made up of farms and natural forests/jungle. We spent our first night at a farm cooperative that also operates a hostel - Finca Magdalena. The view from the Finca of Volcan Concepion (see picture)was wonderful, particularly at sunset, and adding to its appeal are the 2000 year-old (or thereabouts) rock pictographs that lay on its property. We decided against climbing either of the volcanoes, both of which are apparently grueling ascents (and descents) - plenty of heat, mud and wind (on the tree-less top of Concepion).

We departed Finca Magdalena after one night (whilst it was a great spot for views, the accomodation, in an old barn, wasn't the best) and walked the 5km to 6km to where we are located now, in a small and basic 'hotel' (really just two buildings with three rooms in each) literally on the eastern shoreline of the island. With its own small beach we can take a swim in the lake's warm waters, and we were close enough to walk the three kms to Ojo de Agua (eye of water), a mineral-infused natural water spring set amongst a stunning jungle setting. We enjoyed the day there yesterday (Monday), lazing about and jumping into the sparkling blue waters every so often. We've tended to walk here on the island, as the bus service along its often rocky roads is sparse, and because we haven't been able to walk with as much freedom elsewhere in Central Americ as we're constantly warned about the potential of being mugged. With our hotel here in between towns, the walks from the restaurants we've eaten at for dinner back to here have been a tad edgy - walking into a black void with only the howling winds and waves thumping into shore as our company - yet the stars are amazing, perhaps the clearest I've seem them on the entire trip. Suffice to say it's a quick walk though, as we don't risk hanging around too long.

We have one more night on the island before we take an eight-hour bus trip from the nearby town of Rivas to the capital of Costa Rica, San Jose. We spend the night in San Jose (this Wednesday) before taking yet another long (14 hour) bus trip to Panama City, from where we catch a flight this Sunday to Peru. I'll update you once there; in the meantime, take care, and thanks for reading.

San Pedro, Guatemala to Leon, Nicaragua (via Honduras)

Well, as usual, we've covered many a town and mile before I've had a chance to put it all down in words. It's ironic in some ways, I feel like I had more opportunities to write when we were cycling through North America, even with the many days of isolation that trip entailed.

Alas, we are now in the somewhat worn yet atmospheric colonial city of Leon (pictured to left), in the northwest of Nicaragua. We've been here for two days and basically have used that time to catch up on some much needed sleep, and to wander around this compact town of 145,000 people. A prominent town during the country's revolution (this is where dictator Anastasio Somoza Garcia was assisninated in 1956 by Rigoberto Lopez Perez), it also includes Central America's largest church (construction commenced in 1747 and continued for 100 years) and the home of Ruben Dario, renowned Latin American poet.

This leg of our journey began with a hair-raising (yes, even a few of my depleted folicles managed to rise) mini-bus trip from San Pedro to Antigua (still in Guatemala). The first part of this trip took its toll on Alia's sensitive stomach, and suffice to say we were lucky we had a spare plastic bag with us. Once we reached the main highway (the Interamericana) she was fine; it's just those agressive twists and turns that have her stomach in knots. The three-hour trip ended in the graceful city of Antigua, which sits precipitously beneath three volcanoes, the most prominent of which is Volcan Agua (Water - pictured to the left), at 3766 metres. It was difficult not to continously stop and admire the nearby volcanoes, one of which (Fuego, or Fire) remains active and continues to emit gas clouds every few minutes (something we enjoyed watching whilst sipping on a cold beverage). The town itself was a treasure-trove of old churches and civic buildings, some of which have been left in-situ after one of the many earthquakes that have hit this city in the years since the Spanish first built here (1543). It was originally the capital of Guatemala until it was completely destroyed in an earthquake in 1776; the capital was then moved to Guatemala City, about 45km to the southeast.

The street-food here was great as well; we managed to eat quite a bit at the Plaza adjoining the Iglesia (Church) Merced, usually tacos or sandwiches filled with pork, sausage or beef and salad.

A 6am pickup had us on our way to Volcan Pacaya (pictured), an active volcano to the city's southeast. The hike itself wasn't too strenuous, delivering us to an outlook just below the smoldering cone of the volcano. This volcano erupted as recently as May last year (hence not being able to walk to the cone at the moment), the remenants of which were easy to see (we were literally crunching and sliding our way through the former lava flow). Our guide, who managed the ascent dressed in well-worn black leather slip-on shoes (last seen the night before in a nearby nightclub), had gathered a heap of dry tinder on the way up; he threw these into an open trench, at which point they exploded into fire. I'm not sure whether this was a party trick or an efficient means of keeping us gringos on the designated trail.

The same evening had us travelling 8-hours northeast, via Guatemala City, to the town of Flores. This small town, which sits on a tiny island in Lago de Peten Itza, is the main jumping-off point for the majestic Mayan ruins of Tikal (70km to the north). The overnight bus trip, which wasn't the best experience considering they gave us the two seats at the front of the bus with the least amount of legroom, had us arriving in Flores at 5.30am.

Bleary-eyed we trudged around the town looking for a room; the first hostal was full, which turned out to be a good thing as the second option, Hotel La Union, included a small balcony overlooking the lake with its modest but clean room. And didn't I give that small balcony a good shake each evening around 5pm as I watched the sunset over the lake, beer firmly in hand. A small wharf beneath our room was the focal point for many a local and Gringo alike; many jumped into the seemingly pristine waters for a swim, whilst others just did as I did and had a few beers whilst watching mother nature do her thing each evening.

The next day had us departing for Tikal at 4.30am. The main reason for the early departure is it offers the very real chance of seeing animals at their most active, just after sunrise. Tikal was different to what I had expected; the crowds simply weren't there. And that wasn't just due to the early hour, as it was just as quiet when we departed at 12.30pm. This gave us the solitude we had craved, and an even better chance of seeing animals. And we weren't disappointed; plenty of howler monkeys were to be seen along the many jungle-enveloped paths that linked each of the site's temple complexes; two coatis (small pig-like animals) made an appearance; green parrots squawked from above; and then, the highlight - a clear view of around eight brightly-coloured toucans from a distance of 10 metres or so. It's a bird I've longed to see (Ok, ever since the bird became the emblem for a breakfast cereal, Fruit Loops I think. Not that my parents let me eat Fruit Loops when I was young, as they had WAY too much sugar for this growing boy...), and I couldn't have hoped for a better sighting. We were at the top of Temple IV when we saw them - this 64-metre-high temple has trees clinging to its sides most of the way up, so you get to be above the jungle canopy as well as amongst trees as you ascend.

Tikal, which was largely built between 250 and 900AD, is as majestic for its steep-sided pyramids as it is for its tranquil location. It's easy to find peace and quiet at many a temple complex, to get the mental space you often require just to sit back and digest what you're seeing. This space was a much rarer commodity in many of the Mexican-based Mayan sites. Often we also had the top of each temple to ourselves, giving us time to sit back and admire the vast jungle canopy (which was shrouded in an early morning mist) spread before us. It's natural I think to ask yourself why the Mayans deserted many of their cities, although when you consider most relied almost exclusivley on rainfall for their water supply (there are no rivers in the near vicinity of Tikal, nor near many of the other ancient Mayan cities in the Yucatan) you can at least imagine a scenario that could prompt people to leave in droves. Additionally, when you consider that sacrificing people was a means of encouraging rainfall (the blood was meant to please the Gods), you've likely got another damn good reason to hit the road come times of drought. Adios indeed. And rapido. Muy rapido, por favor.

Our next stop was quite a nice contrast to what we had seen so far, an isolated set of thatch-roof cabins set amongst the mangroves and jungle of the Rio Dulce (Sweet River - pictured with water lilies) in southeast Guatemala. Only accessible by boat, the retreat - Finca Tatin - included numerous huts (rooms) all joined by concrete walkways to a central hut large enough to accomodate plenty of lazy gringos laying prostrate in hammocks and couches. This is the sort of place that legitimises laziness; not only does the sultry heat encourage little more than ambling to the nearest hammock, the retreat itself adds to the desolutery atmosphere by promoting such 'activities' as deep-tissue massages and/or reading. As if that isn't enough to get your pulse snoozing, all meals are provided for in an eating area not more than 10 metres from the main hangout.

Alia and I did managed a few activities whilst there. We swam a bit. We saunered (is that even a verb? Even my verbs are lazy). We sat. We even managed to kayak for an hour. After that though it was back to the sauna. And into the adjacent river for a quick swim. We then sat around some more. Drip-drying, you know - that's still an activity in my book. And, oh, what time do you have now darling? 5 o'clock? Really? Well then, we all know what time that is...beer time. And what a well-earned thirst I imagined I had.

The only distressing part of this adventure was when the launcha (like a communal power boat) we were in (when leaving the town of Rio Dulce) hit a small carved-out wooden canoe piloted by two young boys. One managed to jump off just as our fast-moving boat struck theirs (we actually went over the top of their boat, we were travelling that fast); the other, younger boy didn't fair so well and was likely hit by the side of our boat (as best I could guage). We swung around and collected both kids; the young boy writhed in agony as one of the passengers hauled him out of the water. We last saw both boys as they were dropped off at the Rio Dulce town wharf, the young one being carried to a nearby doctor.

We spent two wonderfully relaxing nights at Finca Tatin. And we needed the rest considering our next two days had us on the road, travelling across two borders. The first stage had us on small launcha travelling further down the Rio Dulce, through steep jungle-clad limestone walls filled with birds until the water flows into the vast expanse of the Carribbean at the port-town of Livingston. From there it was another 30-minute ride in a launcha to the decripid and filthy town of Puerto Barrios, from where we (very quickly) caught a mini-bus for the hour-long ride to the Honduran border. The rain began to tumble as we arrived at the tranquil border post; luckily it was just a short walk to the nearby bus station (well, the small gravel car park that served as the town's bus terminal) for our relaxed chicken bus ride to Puerto Cortes. Just under two hours later, after a quick changeover on the side of the highway, we were on an express mini-bus to Honduras' second largest city of San Pedro Sula (in the country's northeast), an hour or so away.

San Pedro Sula was little more than a town to spend the night, as we booked seats on the next morning's (5am) Ticabus for Leon, Nicaragua (11 hours away). What we did see was an amazing array of well-stocked and fancy shopping malls, certainly on par for glitz with anything we had seen anywhere in the world. Quite the sight after spending so much time in rural Guatemala and Honduras. To ensure we kept with the Western feel of San Pedro, we devoured some fast food (KFC) in one of the mall foodcourts...when in Rome, hey.

Which leads us now to where we are, in Leon. Nicaragua certainly 'feels' different, but just how to describe what that means is too difficult at this early stage of our time here. Our next stop is the northern highlands, specifically the city of Matagulpa, about three hours by bus from here. After that we'll head towards the capital Managua, and then onto Masaya and Granada. Alia and I adjusting to Central America quite well; the food isn't sending us to the washroom in any hurry, our Spanish is making us (largely) understood, and we're clutching down the gears somewhat in terms of how much we do each day. Nice and easy does it. And we're learning plenty about the local history and culture, something we both find as fascinating as it can be sad. Poverty is everywhere, yet there are also plenty of people that appear to be doing OK for themselves - plenty of teenagers with mobiles (I'm not suggesting that's the definition of modernity, far from it, just an indication of what people can afford), and plenty of others with enough cash for a beer or three at the local. Extremely anecdotal I know, but it's tough to judge prosperity when you're just passing through. The backpacker scene is varied, although as we've noticed since entering Guatemala the hippies are certainly out in force...and there's always that guy who insists on playing a guitar in communal areas even though many of us would rather have peace and quiet. What is it about these guys? Do they really think their guitar will get them laid??

Thanks again for taking an interest in our trip. I hope to write a bit sooner next time.

Guatemala - Tecun Uman to San Pedro La Laguna

If you thought our pre-trip understanding of Mexico was modest, then consider this humble fact -all we knew about Guatemala was the names of its currency and capital city, and the ancient Mayan ruins at Tikal. Yep, our knowledge stretched all of two, maybe three sentences, and only then if you had asked me what the national sport was (I would have correctly guessed football). Guatemala really was a land of mystery to us. We crossed into Guatemala via the border towns of Cuidad Hidalgo (Mexico) and Tecun Uman (Guatemala) in late January. The border crossing was exceedingly sedate. After paying our 'non-immigrant departure tax' (I'm always fascinated with the names each country gives what is really the 'Let's make sure we get that last bit of cash from each tourist' tax) of US$20 each to the Mexican border guard, we ambled across a bridge into Guatemala.

Entry into Guatemala was simple; a 90-day visa was issued for $1.50 each that covered four countries (Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador and Nicaragua) with a minimum of fuss. Our next mission was navigating the slightly unruly town of Tecun Uman - we needed to get to the bus terminal, which according to the local Tuk Tuk touts was a grueling walk of many kilometres (translation - a flat, simple walk of about 2km, or 15 minutes). The next challenge was getting the correct bus or minivan to our first destination in Guatemala, namely the town of Retalhuleu. The first touts insisted the mini-van was the best (translation - only) option; our guide book said otherwise. What is it about the very first person that rushes up in an attempt to 'assist' you?; almost without fail these are the guys trying to confuse you for the sole purpose of making some extra cash for themselves (in this case more than double the actual cost). Alia and I simply walked away from the tout in question and went to ask people whom we perceived at least would have no commercial interest in our trip (and therefore no reason to lie) - namely, a lady and man sitting nearby. Sure enough, they pointed us towards the bus sitting around the corner from us (the touts had purposefully guided us away from the bus area) - it was headed our way, and was ready to go. Vamos!

We had originally expected to get a 'Chicken Bus' from Tecun Uman to Retalhuhue - these are ex- yellow U.S. high school buses that now sport a profusion of obtuse colours on their wrinkled bodies and that are generally rammed full of humanity (three people to a two-person seat), and that stop for everyone and anything along the roadside. I'm not sure whether they still carry the chickens they are named after but it wouldn't surprise me if they did. These buses are cheap and great for short distances, not so much for hauls over a two hours in length. Our bus (see picture) though was an ex-coach, one that had certainly better days (during the Lyndon Johnson presidency perhaps) but that included much more leg room, less people (it's a bit more expensive than a Chicken Bus) and a quicker transit time (it only collected people at set stops). Well, it would have been quicker except for the military stop that led to the unloading of a vast amount of boxes from the bus' undercarriage. From what we could work out a man on the bus had failed to pay the appropriate import duty (or perhaps the GST?) on the goods in question, and as such the numerous boxes of household-type goods were being taken back by the government (ie. police). It's hard to argue with a bunch of guys carrying sub-machine guns yet our importer gave it a go. Suffice to say his boxes had as much chance of being returned sans-tax as we had of meeting David Beckham on the same bus.

The bus eventually continued its journey along the Carretera al Pacifico, one of the two main highways that run through Guatemala. Running along a flatter part of the country the Pacifico glides its way through a softly undulating scenery complete with farms and the odd small town. It was a prettier place than I had expected; trees were abundant, towns and urbanisation happily less frequent, and the views of the highlands to our east impressive.

Visiting Retalhuleu, population 42,000, was less to do with tourism and more to do with getting settled in our new country. There are a few 'tourist' sights near Retalhuleu, including the wonderfully underdeveloped Mayan site of Abaj Takalik. The town's main plaza isn't too bad, either, particularly when the local band turns up to perform a couple of robust Guatemalan tunes (the boys on trumpets certainly worked up a good sweat when I saw them perform). We had simply wanted to start out in a town that was pure Guatemala; a town where a dusty street corner served as the town's main bus terminal, homes and shops were simple utilitarian constructions of concrete and wood, the few colonial buildings were faded relics of yesteryear, and where traditionally-clad (Mayan) women walked about with pretty much everything balanced on their heads. And Retalhuleu delivered for the two days we were there.

Getting to our next destination of San Pedro la Laguna, on Lake Atilan, was simple enough. Catch a Guatemala City-bound bus further east along the Carretera al Pacifico until you reach the junction with Highway 11, and then see what heads in the direction of Lake Atilan. Sure enough, it was really that simple. Not that I understood one word of what a few guys at the local bus station said when I asked them how to get to San Pedro. Two different guys pointed to two different buses. So we took the one that looked better to travel in - another coach rather than a chicken bus (we had caught a chicken bus the day before to get to Abaj Takalik, so we weren't avoiding them altogether). The driver, a nice bloke who looked like he enjoyed a taco or ten each evening for dinner, all washed down with a liter or three of beer (yep, a man after my own heart), ensured we got off at the correct intersection an hour and a half later. A few minutes after that and we were on a chicken bus headed for Santiago Atilan, a town located just a short boat ride from our final destination of San Pedro. Upwards into the Guatemalan highlands we went, we and the seemingly hundreds of other locals who travelled at least some part of the journey with us. The air cooled, the mountains grew, and the foilage thickened.

Catching a chicken bus is simple but it may help to know the following; it may or not come to a complete stop where you're meant to board so its best to be ready to literally force your way on when it's moving at its slowest; squeeze your way as far back as you can so as to minimize the vast number of passengers who will need to pass you as they're getting on or off; two people on a seat is never enough, there's always room for one more no matter how generous one's girth is; finally, two guys generally run the show - one drives - well, cajoles and coerces are better decriptions - the bus, while the other keeps mental tabs on who has paid and who hasn't (people board first and pay later)...this is the guy you would take to Vegas with you to help count cards. What a memory.

We arrived at Santiago Atilan and caught a small boat across Lake Atilan to San Pedro, arriving just after 4pm. The lake, located at 1600 metres in altitude, is surrounded by various volcanoes and mountains, with San Pedro sitting directly beneath a 3000 metre volcano of the same name (see adjacent picture of Volcan San Pedro). It's truly an impressive setting. San Pedro is renowned for its Spanish schools, one of which, the Cooperativa, had come recommended. As such, there are plenty of us Gringos around town, although for the most part the town hasn't lost its Guatemalan flavour. Just a few streets up from the tourist section of town and you're back amongst the locals. They also seem to be doing OK from our presence in town, highlighted by the two banana bread ladies who take up strategic positions along each end of the main pedestrian walkway each evening. "Quiere Banana Bread (Do you want Banana Bread)? Quiere Banana Bread', they ask each time you walk past them. And that's regardless of how many times or how often you might pass each of them in an evening - the question is repeated. And repeated. And repeated. If they don't convince you in the walkway, they change tack and get you at your restaurant table. Smile in tow, the question recommenses...'Quiere Banana Bread? Quiere Banana Bread?'. Finally, if that doesn't do it, in come the cute children, often as young as 6 or 7...and that's usually where we capitulate.

The banana-bread ladies strike again.


Apart from our time at Spanish school, which entails four hours of one-on-one tuition each day(Alia is pictured here with her teacher) under thatched-roofed huts in a wonderful outdoor setting, we have managed to learn some salsa and hike up 1,500 metres (3,000 metres return) to the top of Volcan San Pedro. The latter was a killer, a 7-hour hike that left our jaded legs begging for some serious deep tissue manipulation. The view though was worth every againising step, as per the image below (of Santiago Atilan).

Alas, our fatigued legs were quickly called back into action by a Cuban salsa beat; our school put on a free group lesson in salsa last night, so off we went. Of course, I wanted to ensure I gave it my all, so on went the dancing (hiking) shoes, tight black trousers, gold chains and white shirt (casually) unbuttoned to my navel (yes, it's amazing what I can fit into my small backpack)...and off I went. Memories of my (in)famous Stags two-step - honed after many a night on the dancefloor (nee carpet) of Auburn RSL's once ritzy nightclub - came flooding back. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three...yes, one more step than I had been used to at Stags perhaps. But it wasn't long before my gold chains were swaying in rythym to the Caribbean beat...well, OK, almost. Not. At all. That I can barely count to three in Spanish let alone move my legs to what was to me a complicated beat was an immediate issue, one compounded by the very real threat posed by my heavy hiking shoes crunching many an unclad female foot. I did manage a few delicate moves, a jink of the hips here and a flick of the head there, yet most would agree my best move was away from the dancefloor altogether.

OK, back to reality now. We depart San Pedro this Saturday for the colonial town of Antigua. After that, it's an overnight bus to Flores, a town located not too far from the Mayan ruins of Tikal, and then off to Guatemala's Caribbean coast near Livingston. Until then, all the best to you, and thanks for reading.

49 days in Mexico

Hi all, and welcome to my first post since ending our bicycle tour of North America about two months' ago. Alia and I are currently in Guatemala (the next blog will cover this).

Just to backtrack, we departed the U.S. on December 7 from Pensacola, flying to Cancun (via Miami). We went directly from Cancun Airport to Playa Del Carmen (Carmen Beach), about an hour south. We spent the best part of four lazy weeks in Playa Del Carmen, enjoying the warm waters and relatively nice sands of the nearby beaches. We managed to fit in a few day trips along the way, including to the Mayan ruins at Coba (with me pictured below), Tulum and Chichen Itza, and an alcohol fueled day on a catarman off Cancun (and Isla Mujeres) -see my brother setting a poor example in this picture.

The real highlight was visits from my family, including my brother Paul, his wife Helene and their crazily tall son Joel, and my sister Therese and her husband Tim. It was great to see family after such a long time from home (I was last in Australia in April last year), and we had plenty to talk about. I mean, the cricket (Ashes) was being played (but we don't talk about this anymore), Souths were trying to buy Greg Inglis, Aston Villa were plummeting down the Premier League table...such important matters needed to be discussed over many a beer. Helene was thrilled.

A big thanks must go to Helene in particular. She managed to get us organised in that nice, gentle manner that she specialises in. She also cooked us a few breakfasts, and kept us moving which meant we extracted maximum enjoyment from Playa Del Carmen. Our accomodation was simple but adequate, although we did decide to purchase a few things to make our stay that bit more enjoyable - and comfortable. The toilet seat was particularly welcomed. Those concrete toilet bowl rims can really cut off the circulation.

Post-Playa Del Carmen, Alia and I headed southwest to the small town of Palenque, around 12 hours by overnight bus. The town is renknowned for its nearby Mayan ruins which lay strewn amongst thick jungle at the base of mountains. Mist permeated throughout the site on our visit, giving it an semi-mystical appeal. We also visited the nearby Agua Azul (Blue Water) waterfalls for a dip in, well, refreshing blue waters that cascading from one waterfall to the next. Next stop was the colonial town of San Cristobal de las Casas, a winding five-hour bus ride that, whilst covering just 190km, took us from jungle-clad slopes upwards to the dry pine-tree laden mountains that surrounded our new home for five days. San Cristobal played host to plenty of tourists yet remained unhurried and informal. Her streets weren't overly polished yet had oodles of worn charm, and the surrounding mountains formed a neat frame around its outskirts.

Mexico City, our next stop after a flight from Tuxtla Guiterrez (which serves as San Cristobal's defacto airport), was a surprise in a few respects. Crime, which we were warned about insesently, just wasn't even close to being an issue. We didn't feel threatened ever, including on the metro or at night near our hotel (not far from the Zona Rosa area). Secondly, the city of 20 million and counting rarely felt clostraphobic or excessively intense. Instead we often found ourselves wandering many a tree-lined street with few others for company. Yes, you were never far from a busy road or intersection yet the ability for the city to deliver numerous moments of relative tranquility surprised me. Thirdly, I had never realised the city had largely been built on a former lake. As if being built at 2000 metres altitude in a caldera wasn't challenging enough; many buildings now find themselves being sucked south in a hurry. Buildings managed to contort themselves at angles Pythagoras would have struggled to comprehend.

Adding to our time in Mexico City was the company of my sister Therese and her husband Tim. Both were excellent companions, with the highlight of many days simply the conversations over dinner. A day at the majestic ancient site of Teotihuacan, built between 250 and 600 AD, stood out as well, largely for the climb up the world's third-tallest pyramid (the Pyramid of the Sun - picture of Alia and I in front below).

Alia didn't enjoy the best of times for the latter part of our time in Mexico. Tiredness, an allergic reaction to Advil and an unhealthy dose of Mexico City air pollution (the one BIG negative to the city) helped undermine her immune system. Blocked sinuses and severe bouts of coughing travelled with her for the rest of her time there. I managed to survive, something I put down to a regular beer or two each evening. Ok, my logic maybe flawed, but always worth a try.

Oaxaca (pronounced Wah-hah-ca) was the next town on our itinerary (pictured). An art and craft center, the town was, for a large part, a more polished example of San Cristobal. Our B&B was located in a very tranquil street just outside the main historic district. The lovely owner, an older lady, kept an eagle eye on Alia's health to the point where she was quite happy when we decided to stay an extra day. God love grandmothers. She even let us stay in our room until 6pm on checkout day, which was greatly appreciated considering we faced a 13-hour overnight bus ride that evening to the Guatemalan border.

So, apart from one additional night in the Mexican border town of Tapachula, this gives you a broad outline of our time in Mexico. A friend quipped recently that the only thing they knew about Mexico was it hosted two soccer World Cups and was where Corona was manufactured. I must admit my own knowledge of the country wasn't much better (well, I knew less than my mate as he could at least recount the scores in the final of each World Cup). Our interest in this amazing country was certainly peaked by our visit; its history is as grand as it is confusing; its peoples much more proud and complex than the stereotypical image of a grizzled man slouched under a dilapadated sombreo drinking tequila (Ok, I've watched too many John Wayne movies); its towns and historic sites more grand and stylish than many of Europe's; and its transport system as impressive as many countries I've been (e.g. checked-in baggage on extremely comfortable and reliable buses). Yes, pollution, drug-related crime and corruption may still plague her, but they're simply not worth stopping you from visiting the cities and towns you'll likely want to experience.

Certainly well worth the trip. Now for Guatemala.