In which I become a Page 3 girl, go green at the gills and get dual nationality

Here I am in another airport, waiting for my flight out of Barbados. Once again I am sad to be saying goodbye, I have had a brilliant time here- this is such a special place and I have met the kindest, friendliest people.

My last week has been a fun and busy one. The weekend was full of surfing in the blustery, violent Caribbean. The waters were the biggest I’ve tried and gave me a good work out but was fun. My instructor even spotted a turtle swimming in the waves beside me, so I tried extra hard to stay up and not fall on the hard-shelled cutie.

I also had a brilliant Friday night out when the gang from the newspaper took me out to Oistins, a fishing port town on the East coast. The town is the place to be on a Friday. Along from a beautiful sliver of golden beach are a little village of take-away huts each offering all kinds of grilled and fried fish. I made do with macaraoni pie and chips and we all settled down in the bustling courtyard to chat and eat our hot food. I also had my first taste of local Banks beer, which was yummy.

Next we headed into the town of huts and found a clearing where a group of dancers were practicing their ballroom dancing moves. We hung around watching the couples glide around the square. Then the music changed to upbeat soca and the dance floor filled with people ready to line dance! I got involved and just about managed to keep up- line dancing to Soca… brilliant! The girls also taught me the Bajan art of the “wuk up”, basically a hand on the head and girate your hips while slowly crouching to the floor and back up again. Like the twist meets the hula…. At least the way I do did. It was a great night and so nice of my workmates to take me out. And once I'd shown them my wuk up skills they crowned me an official Bajan. I'm sure immigration will be cool with that.

I will really miss my work colleagues, I feel like I really settled in to work at the paper and have really loved my assignments. Except that is for Tuesday when I had to wake up at 3.45am to go out on a fishing boat to write a story for “Fisherman´s day”. Problem is… I had kind of forgotten how sea sick I get… within 15 minutes I was green and groaning, my head on my knees hiding in the cabin. Not the best in-the-field reporting job ever but I got a good first person account out of it and it was an interesting experience at least.

I was given a lovely send off with a massive card, cake and wine and I tried Claudia’s recipe and made a pound cake as a thank you. It feels far too soon to be going, I have really settled into live here. It is a wonderful island and great way to live! Plus I really love reporting, the chance to go out and about, meeting people and hearing their stories is right up my street.

But, it is time to move on. Two days back in London then off to meet Han in Vietnam! Ah life is good.

Lessons learnt:

So it seems kind of patronizing or superior to go on about how long the people in a foreign country are but I have been overwhelmed by the kindness and friendliness shown to me in Barbados. I have genuinely learnt a big lesson about acts of kindness to strangers. Lorna let me into her home on the just plea of a mutual friend. She looked after me, included me in her family events and left me to stay in her place for two weeks un-supervised. Her kindness and openness have really inspired me and I hope I will be as generous to others in the future.

Lazy, seasick vegetarians should not go out on fishing boats. And if they do they should make sure they do not let someone take a picture of them groaning on the floor, because said picture will almost certainly end up in the national paper!

I got to work on some great stories and even got a front page and lead Page 3 article. So I am now technically a page 3 girl. Ha.

In which I become a Pirate of the Caribbean, look for Nemo and boogie in a tent

The past week has been full of firsts for me so I thought I'd share a few.

Last Sunday, after lounging around through a torrentially rained off Saturday, I made my way up to a town two thirds up the island called Holetown. It is a tiny little hole really but has a lovely beach, which is part of the reason I was there. I had decided to spend my Sunday morning on a glass bottomed boat ride. After a quick breakfast of toast on the beach (while reading some Sherlock Holmes... suddenly felt very British!), I made my way aboard the little boat.

At first I had the place to myself as we set sail along the glorious white-sanded bordered coast. Our first stop was at a sunken ship where I, alone, being the only one on the tour, donned a snorkel and slipped into the warm water. The sight was breath-taking. So was the being underwater with a loose snorkel. I have never seen so many fish in one place, the sea was teeming with them! I mean hundreds per square sea metre. Sergeant Majors and Blue Chubs engulfed the boat looking for food. It was all I could do not to hit them as I trod water. Absolutely stunning but a bit disconcerting too, especially for a girl who freaks out when seaweed brushes against me.

Things go more frantic when the boat guy/ sailor/ imaginary pirate asked me if I wanted to feed them. Still in the water I threw little chunks of white bread out in front of me and watched the ocean scramble as hundreds of fish jumped, slapped and fought their way to the morsels.

Back on board we popped back to land to pick up a late-arrival couple (from Tottenham!) and together we set off again. Cruising along the coast our guide pointed out the sea front houses of Andre Agassi and Roman Abramovich (which I had thought was a luxury 5* hotel, it was mahoooosive!) I am quite ashamed the pirate in me didn´t take advantage, I didn´t plunder any booty (monetary or otherwise).

We soon came near a catamaran full of tourists and were told to get in to the water. This is what I had been waiting for.... the sea turtles. Lost for a while I swam round in circles but then there, between the thrashing sunburnt legs of several tourists loomed a large, green sea turtle. Soon more appeared and suddenly I was swimming with about 10 of the beautiful beasts, so serenely slow and graceful under water (me not them, they were alright too I guess.) One of the guides was feeding them fish and they swam nonchalantly past us, so close we could and did reach out to stroke their large, fuzzy shells. It was a truly truly magical experience. To see such beautiful creatures so close up was just mind blowing. Forget swimming with dolphins, turtles are the new black!

After that we headed back to the shipwreck and explored the coral reef next to it. The tornado of fish had dispersed by then and I was confident enough with my snorkel to dive down and see the beautiful jewel-like little fish swimming in the reefs. And the eels, which, old though I am, made me a little nervous Ursula the SeaWitch was around somewhere.

That evening more treats were in store as I was off to a calypso concert to write a “first-timer´s impressions” piece for the paper. I had been told about calypso tents and so was expecting some sweaty, UK festival style wobbly circus-tent. Instead it was a pretty swanky affair, plush seats, hostesses offering chocolate, cheese and icecream samples (!), and everyone dressed up in their best. I had come dressed for sweaty tent. Oh dear.

The music was great. Caylpso is this fun, swinging beat with either party lyrics or songs about political and social commentary. There was a 10 piece band and two great backing singers and one by one a host of calypsonians came on to do one or two songs each. I´d heard a lot of calypso on the radio but it was so great live, it is all about audience reaction and people went wild whooping and cheering clever lines they liked! The show was closed by my favourite Barbadian artist Biggie Irie who sang this song, which I love and is my theme song for my time here:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=scdi_NFauFs

Afterwards we popped back stage to do a few interviews and then headed home.

Re-energised after my aquatic experience and calypso catch up I went back to work with renewed vigor and had a good week which often involved popping to the beach in between or for assignments.

We have moved offices but just to around the corner. Now Lorna, whose house I am in, has gone for meetings in Paris I get 2 buses in in the morning which takes about 2 hours. Gives me time to study my Journalism course though and see the beautiful sites. The second bus´s final destination is a place called Jackson so every morning I have Johnny Cash in my head.... unless I get the bus driver who´s favourite radio station is blaring reggae interrupted EVERY two seconds by the announcer either singing along or making random comments. Drives me nuts.

I´ll sign this one off now but have lots more firsts to write about.

Lessons learnt:

Screaming underwater is not a good idea.

Saying hello in the street does not make you weird. It is a lovely sensation to smile and say hi to everyone you meet. Sounds all rainbows and buttercups but it is, so there.

Today I got commented on in the street by a guy. He was 6 years old and said “You are pretty. You have very nice skin.” It is the sweetest heckle I have ever gotten.

In which I meet a notorious BIG, go deeper underground and have food glorious food.

I've been meaning to update this for a while but it turns out the real world of work is significantly more time consuming than being a laze-about student. Used to my three hours of classes followed by hammock naps and guacamole it has been something of a shock to the system to be doing 10-12 hour days. Work is really interesting though and I may have discovered a new style of traveling: journalism tourism. The best way to see a place is to work as a reporter and go and interview everyone while seeing the place. Today, between meeting UNICEF reps and talking to a guy making a band for the huge carnival here I wandered down by the turquoise sea side and once again thought how lucky I am.

I am getting to learn all about Crop-Over, which is Barbados’ biggest festival. It has been fascinating talking to people involved and finding out just how much work goes into the country’s biggest party (those glittery bikinis don’t just make themselves!) Things are cranking up in time for the main events in July, which is, massively frustratingly, just after I leave. Still I got a taste of the party atmosphere when I covered the launch of a “band” (one of the groups of party goers- there is so much vocab to learn here!) There were some seriously glamourous outfits and a lot of flesh on show, plus I met one of the country’s leading calypsonians Biggie Irie (more vocab lessons- calypso is a form of music, often with witty, political messages. Musical story telling.) Meeting a big, fat musician called Biggie was cool. I felt like Tupac.

I had a break from work at the weekend, though thesis work took over most of Saturday. After hours of correcting footnotes I couldn’t take anymore and went for a quick walk and discovered my local beach five minutes down the road. Oh and sorry did I mention, it is one of the top 10 most beautiful beaches in the world. Five minutes away. Awesome.

On Sunday I took two looooong buses to get to the Harrison Caves, a series of incredible underground caverns filled with waxy looking stalactite and stalagmites. There is a tram that carries guests down down down into the caverns to see the stunningly architectural calcium formations. The rooms filled with protrusions reminded me of the rows of tall, tapered candles lining the floor of a Mexican church, or a magnified image of microvilli in the intestines. Quite appropriate seeing as were in the bowels of the earth.

However if I thought this would be a nice cool activity I was wrong, even under ground the caves are 26oC! Plus I managed to get sunburnt waiting for the bus home. Only I could spend a day underground and come out burnt and sweating.

In the evening Lorna took me out for a drive to the East coast of the island. It is much less developed over there and covered in wild, rolling green hills and rugged coastline. It was just stunning and the sunset over the choppy blue Atlantic was glorious. The spectacle of nature was given a final conclusion when turning into Lorna’s road a group of three monkeys calmly walked the tightrope of the telephone wires stretched across the road.

Finally I just wanted to write something about the food…. Because it is delicious. My new favourite is a Saturday delicacy called pudding and souse. The souse is meat which has been marinated in lime, salt and chile, (so I can’t have that,) but the pudding is the texture of sticky toffee pud but made of steamed shredded sweet potato, onions and spices. A savory pudding. It is just delicious!

Other delicacies include: vegetable patties, coucou (cornmeal mash with okra in), macaroni pie and roti (wrap with curried veg inside). I also ordered a cheese cutter thinking it sounded like a tasty addition to my Bajan diet…. Turns out it wedge of carefully cut cheese, delicately placed in the folds of a white, bread bap…. A cheese sandwich. Well you can’t win the all. I am also constantly being encouraged to try flyish fish, pig’s tail and fish cakes which are all considered tasty treats here. I’ll stick with the cheese buttie.

Lessons learnt:

It may be having spent a year without addresses in Costa Rica but the road names here seem really beautiful to me: Small land, Industry Road, Clammy Cherry Avenue,

I am slowly learning the Bajan dialect as well as the art of sucking one’s teeth when frustrated or annoyed. It is a great noise and something I may have to bring back to the UK.

In which I track creatures from the deep, go with dead bodies over sheep and power-walk the island

My time in Barbados has been brilliantly odd right from the start. After dragging my recently acclimatised body to Gatwick airport I found my flight had been canceled as the plane was stuck in Barbados having hit a bird! So on top of feeling guilty about carbon emissions now I have bird murder on my conscience! This does not bode well for my hippy credentials. Luckily they got us on the next flight and soon I was touching down to the balmy heat of Barbados.

 I am staying with a friend of a friend, a woman called Lorna who is very well known and respected in the island due to her work with the Coastal Protection Agency (Barbados is mainly coast and Lorna is a real high flyer in the global discussions on marine conservation). Now having a coastal expert as a landland has some interesting consequences. Lorna and her sister Claudia met me at the airport and quickly informed me that, before going home, we would quickly pop to a beach to see a weird, unidentified, white, gelatinous creature that had washed up on the shore and been freaking people out. Worried that the white, jelly-like creature appearing on the shores somehow related to my arrival and crossed messages we headed off for my first peak of a Bajan beach, and a creature from the deep.

 The news of the sea creature was top of the agenda when I arrived into the newspaper office where I am interning (it turned out to be whale blubber and not some pale, British girl)  so we moved on to other stories. Barbados Today is a national, online newspapers and with its relatively small team is a great place for me to get some hands on journalism experience. My first day was suitably random, at first I was asked to contact the sheep farming organisation to ask if a new calypso song about “taking my sheep to town” was good for the industry or if it was in fact sheep exploitation. Yup you couldn't get much more Craggy island! But that was interrupted by a colleague asking me if I wanted to come and investigate a dead body in a car. “Wanted” was maybe not the work I would have used but off I went and got my first taste of reporting on deaths. A bit unsettling but oddly not as creepy as I thought it would have been.

Since then I have met the Minister for Education (who was super relaxed and chatty) and have written up a few articles. I may have also have discovered an new tourist mode: the tourist reporter. There is no better way to get to know the island better than racing around investigating the news. Of course not being able to tell the Minister of Education from Adam makes things about bit harder but I am doing my best to catch up.

When I am not interning, coming up with stories, finishing my MA thesis, starting my Journalism Diploma or applying for jobs I have managed to see a bit of the island. My weekend was actually uncharacteristically athletic. I spent Saturday morning on a 2 hour swimming session on a beautiful white sand, turquoise sea beach. Unfortunately, even going early in the morning didn't mean I escaped coming out of the sea as red as a lobster (beats white, gelatinous blob I guess). Breaking news: The sun in Barbados is hot!

Sunday brought more fun. I went to a big Sunday, family lunch with Lorna and her family. With twelve of us squashed round her sister's big dining table we scoffed down delicious food: cornbread, sweet potato, rice and peas, chayote and other goodies. It was all soooo good and was really lovely to be part of this big, typical Bajan lunch. (It is strange, every now and then the Bajan accent sounds a little Northern Irish, (other times West Country) and in a big group of sisters talking to their mum I feel like I am back visiting the grandparents in Ireland. Comforting in many ways!)

However the gluttony was soon to end as I headed off on a National Trust Sunday hike. Now this was advertised as the easiest of the walks, and if it was then I dread to see a hard one! We started out by one of the two remaining sugar factories and set off (virtually at a run) through the intense afternoon heat (we're averaging mid-30s here!). The walk/jog took 3 hours and we traveled about 8 miles, through forested gullys, hacking our way through dense undergrowth and clambering over hurricane-felled trees. Scrambling through the forest and up steep hills I was reminded of my childhood days of playing “freedom-fighters in the forest”, that classic children's game. A great way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

Sweat drenched but happy I finally arrived home having had a fascinating tour of the low flat, green fields of sugar cane, the damp, cool forests and the wide-sky sunsets that this beautiful country has to offer.

The main thing that has struck me about Barbados, other than the stunning postcard scenery, is just how lovely people are. And I don’t just mean smiley, I mean go-out-of-their-way-for-others lovely. The first example I found was Lorna and her sister Claudia who have been so sweet showing me round and making me feel at home. Lorna is a real gym buff and Claudia is a professional baker.... you can imagine whose skills I have been drawing on. Claudia and I had a huge baking session where she taught me to make pound cake- a delicious, dense sponge with raisins and essence in. We now have a fridge full of cake so instead of taking advantage of Lorna’s home gym I am just sat stuffing myself with delicious treats!

 Another example of kindness is when, coming back from Bridgetown, I managed to get on the wrong bus. As we got to the end of the line and I realised I hadn't found my stop I looked bewilderedly at the bus driver who calmly asked where I had been trying to go. When he didn’t know the directions to point me in he instead drove his big, empty bus around for 10 minutes until we found my house! Now that is service!


So yeah, if things keep going this well this is going to be a brilliant month! I am going to try making more cakes, go surfing a few times and check out the start of the huge festival called “Crop Over”. So stay tuned.

This is Maeve McClenaghan reporting for The Year of Jam Times, Paradise.


Lessons learnt:


Number one: Barbados is paradise. Seriously. I always thought it was a bit of a cliched holiday destination but wow is it beautiful!

I am one of the fastest walkers I know and have endangered many friendships because of it. I have nothing on Bajan hikers!

Pound cake involves a pound of sugar, a pound of eggs and a pound of sugar. And I have two of them in my fridge. Calling to me. Constantly calling to me. As a result I will plan to stay away from beaches when reporters or easily spooked fishermen are around.

In which I nip home, worship beans and remember there is just no hiding from the “London weird night out”

It was with a blurry head and bloodshot eyes that I arrived into London having made the now all too familiar flight back from Costa Rica. With a year´s worth of luggage to drag onto the tube and into a taxi I didn't have much energy for mopping over leaving though. I managed to haul my Tica life possessions all the way to Kings Cross on the tube then gave up the fight and dragged them to a taxi. Driving through the drizzly, graffiti covered streets of East London, retracing the cab ride that had taken me from my London life on the way out, I was so excited to be back home! New bars and galleries called to me from the fogged up windows while the streets were full of the most interestingly dressed people I had ever seen! It was a feast for my sleepy eyes.

I arrived at Ciara´s and filled her room with my junk (habit of a life time) before dragging her off for a good old English breakfast! Ahhh hashbrowns and beans! (Fran had come to visit a few weeks before which was awesome, and really warrants a blog which I may try and slot in somewhere. He had brought me 7 cans of beans as well as an awesome Will and Kate tea towel, so the taste sensation wasn't all new but it was good to be back in a greasy spoon.) Crashed out sleeping for 3 hours before dragging my tired butt out to meet Sho and Ella at The Reliance (my and Sho´s regular). First real pint in ages went down well as did catching up with these amazing ladies. I popped off to get a briefing on Barbados from Terry and his wife which was really exciting and certainly helped pump up the adrenalin. Just as well because I nipped back to see Ella and Sho again and ended up in The Macbeth, with my face painted like a cat dancing to Shaggy's My Boombastic. I don't know why I was surprised.

The next day I met up with Conor, Ciara and Dad and had a great chippy lunch and a walk round St James Park. I´d forgotten just how brilliantly odd my family can be, especially Conor who named the squirrels after dead comedians and confectionery... for a reason I can´t remember). Later Ciara and I re-enacted our infamous nights out on Brick Lane which start with “well just a glass of wine to accompany the curry” and end up with us stalking boys and dancing raucously in Cafe 1001 or 93ft East. Nothing has changed.

On Sunday I met up with a great range of friends for a Sunday lunch in Angel. So lovely to see all these amazing people from different walks of my life around one table sharing stories. Plus I love Sunday lunch. So win win! Next met up with Mum and Con and walked along the South Bank (uber London) then went to see Stewart Lee's curated comedy show at the Royal Festival Hall. A mixed affair but awesome to see a fair portion of The Young Ones casts and John Cooper Clarke.

That was all there was time for before I was repacking my faithful bags for the next chapter of the Year of Jam: Barbados!

Lessons learnt:

Four days is not long enough to see London/ catch up with friends/ recover from jet-lag.

Mushy peas are a taste sensation and should be added to more meals!

Squirrels do not eat Twix bars Conor. Not even a half.

In which I pack it up pack it in, realise it is time to say goodbye, and rip off other song lyrics to try and mop up the sop

It is strange to think that just under a year ago I opened up my computer to write a blog which word for word could describe my feelings now. Those feelings, stripped of their poetic elegance, go something like this: Noooooooooooooooooo I don't want to go!!!!

The last few days of my time in Costa Rica passed in a blur of numb packing and emotionally charged goodbyes. I dragged all my books and readers up to campus and lugged my heavy heart back home with me. Don´t get me wrong, I was seriously excited about heading back (briefly!) to see friends and family and for all my adventures ahead but over the months my Costa Rica life had become, well, my life. This was my town, my routine, my favourite foods and my new extended family, and it seemed totally incomprehensible that I should be leaving it all behind. Again.

As you may have gathered over the past few blogs this has been an incredible year. I haven´t mentioned my classes that much, and heaven knows I´m not sure I feel like an MA student, but it has been absolutely fascinating to study again and International Law and Human Rights was the perfect course for me. But my head is filled with more than just facts, I also have a cranium full of memories which I am truly grateful for. Like tea and cake on Marion's porch, the looks of locals faces as I did my lonely Santa fun run, sitting out on my porch playing guitar and singing to the evening sky with Ben, wild dance moves and eternal bus rides with Isabelle, hang-over market breakfasts with Rafa and green food-dye with Patrick and a hundred other people and places that made this a special time.

The only thing that really got me through it was thinking back to the very first blog I wrote, where I was sure I was making the biggest mistake of my life walking away from the people and place I love. I read those words again trying to make this girl recognise herself in that girl and reassuring myself that the future will bring more good times.

So I have decided to keep this blog going a while longer. It is meant to be lessons from Central America, but there are lessons to learn elsewhere too. I have made it to eight countries and 3 continents in the past 9 months... and the plan is not to slow down just yet.

So I´ll close this soppy chapter with a poem my Mum gave to me on my very first, fresh faced adventure (I went inter-railing at 17 and caught the travel bug... and miraculously not bed bugs!) I am trying to hold on to the words of this poem and keep my achy breaky leaving heart together for a while longer.

Away and See- Carol Ann Duffy

Away and see an ocean suck at a boiled sun
and say to someone things I’d blush even to dream.
Slip off your dress in a high room over the harbour.
Write to me soon.
New fruits sing on the flipside of night in a market
of language, light, a tune from the chapel nearby
stopping you dead, the peach in your palm respiring.
Taste it for me.
Away and see the things that wordsgive a name to, the flight
of syllables, wingspan stretching a noun. Test words
wherever they live; listen and touch, smell, believe.
Spell them with love.
Skedaddle. Somebody chaps at the door at a year’s end, hopeful.
Away and see who it is. Let in the new, the vivid,
horror and pity, passion, the stranger holding the future.
Ask him his name.
Nothing’s the same as anything else. Away and see
for yourself. Walk. Take a boat till land reappears,
altered forever, ringing its bells, alive. Go on. G’on. Gon.
Away and see.

Lessons learnt:

Costa Rica is paradise. UPEACE is a weird and very special place. The students there are the most fascinating and brilliant student body around!

Rice and beans doesn´t get old!

I am an unattractive crier (but I knew that already)

In which I refute Aldous Huxley, play the Virgin Mary and walk on flowers

A fair few weeks have passed since I rolled into Antigua, Guatemala one dark, misty night, but it has taken me that long to process all that went on there. After another epic 10 hour bus journey we squeezed our way into the busy, dark, wide streets of Antigua. As our big rucksacks were bustled by the throngs of people crowding the streets we realised just how silly we had been to pop to a legendary festival town on the busiest weekend of the year without hostel reservations. For a while it was beginning to look just like a biblical story, no room at the inn anywhere.... and just to add to the confusion as we went to cross a street in search of a manger our path was blocked by the eery apparition of a huge Jesus Statue being carried along in a procession of trumpets and swinging incense clouds.

Perhaps I better explain about Antigua. You see the small town is renowned in Central America for its Easter Celebrations. Every year the town fills with people, statues and processions fill the streets and the roads are adorned with beautiful carpets of dried flowers and coloured sawdust, destined to be trampled under pious feet. 

So within 10 minutes of arriving in the town all our expectations had been confirmed! Miraculously we managed to find a place to stay (one step up from a donkey’s pen) and we went out for a better look around.

The whole town had a feel of a Dan Brown novel (but better written). Everyone taking part in the procession wore long, purple robes and carried cross-topped staffs. Clouds of incense hung in the air long after the floating effigies had passed. Each Statue base was the size of a small car and involved lines of people either side lugging the weigh on their shoulders like coffin bearers.

We spent the next couple of days taking in the dramatic displays. On Good Friday things stepped up a notch and we were disconcerted to have just bought lunch at a busy little food market only to look up and see an effigy of Judas hanging from the trees. After 3pm, the time Jesus was crucified, everyone changed to black robes, making things even more eerie and giving the place a sense of mourning.

It was particularly interesting to watch the almost masochistic precision with which people took to making the carpets of flowers which lined the routes and were trodden to dust under the procession’s feet. Something interestingly cyclical and re-birth-like about that. But, for the short time they existed they painted the streets with glorious colours and patterns, offset nicely by the moving, constant sea of purple robes.

Easter Saturday Ben I am decided to head to Lake Atitilan, which Aldous Huxley described as the most beautiful lake in the world. Now Huxley was pretty smart and all but he clearly hadn’t been to the lake on Easter weekend. Instead of the pristine, natural beauty we were expecting we were welcomed with hoards and hoards of Guatemalan party makers. It was actually great to be away from the tourist crowds and we had a great time exploring. It turns out Lake Atitilan, on Easter weekend at least, is Central America’s answer to Blackpool! We made chip butties, took a bumpy boat ride out onto the rainy lake (my scenic seat meant I got very very wet and caused the other passengers no end of delight), watched the ring toss, fairground games and Ben got his wallet robbed. It was the whole deal! A very bizarre day out, not at all what Huxley had promised us but a strange new world at least!

On Easter Day itself I accompanied Ben to the cathedral for 5 minutes of mass before my atheism got in the way and I headed to the artisan chocolate shop and the comic book store for some decadence.

The next day we were up at 4.30am for a flight back to Costa Rica, and we got back just in time to catch the bus up to uni! Many coffees later and I was home at last after a fantastic Easter holiday!

Lessons learnt:

Whether in Guatemala or Mexico- always always always try the spicy sauce before slathering your food in it.

Dyed sawdust may not be a smart business career path but for one weekend in Guatemala you could make a fortune!

No matter how much you know it is not the point, big, pointy white hoods can’t help but scare the pants of me with reminders of the KKK!

In which I play the revolutionary cowboy, try not to steal souls and improve on a carrot

There are a few cities in the world that I feel I could settle in (these itchy feet don’t stop just anywhere!) San Cristobal de las Casas in Chiapas is one of those (others being London, Granada, Amsterdam and Cuzco in case you are interested/ fancy meeting me there). After just a few hours wandering San Cristobal that was it, I had fallen for the city.

San Cristobal is a beautiful, old-colonial city full of handsome building and cultural happenings. This was the focal point of the Zapatistas’ uprising in 1994, when Sub-Comandante Marcos announced to the bewildered tourists now surrounded by balaclava-clan Zapatista protesters that “We are sorry for the inconvenience, but this is a revolution.” Revolution and ironic good-manners. Oh yes you can see why the history seeping out of this place appealed to me!

Our merry band of travellers had temporarily dived, simply due to the fact that taking two taxis to what turns out to be a ghost hostel, and without mobile phones it is sometimes necessary to give up searching and find a place to sleep before regrouping. All those hours spent watching Ray Mears are beginning to pay off you see: survival techniques of mobile phone-less worlds. So anyway, without eating animal dung or whittling any canoes Diego, Lindsay and I found a hostel and settled in for the night.

I spent my time in San Cristobal trying to suck up as much information about the Zapatistas and as much cultural fun as possible. I also managed to find a load of hang-outs that would have been my locals in the alternative universe where I lived in this city. One key find was a great tea-shop with a documentary film festival on. I spent my first night in the city sat in a tent on the building’s roof, sat in a camp-chair and, trying not to be distracted by the twinkling lights of the city and the random fireworks, to focus on the small projector screen. The film was called Maria Sabina and quietly and slowly told the story of an old woman in the Chiapas hills who was a spiritual healer, using magic mushrooms as her medicine. She would feed her patient mushrooms as well as herself, they would then hallucinate (and come out with some beautiful poetry) until one of them vomited, expelling the illness (or, call me a cynic, the mushrooms). It’s here if you are interested... http://wn.com/maria_sabina  It was a nicely made film and gave me an idea for a story which I will try and find time to write at some point.

Another night I crammed into a three-sofa screen room to watch another documentary on the Zapatista’s structural changes. So yes, I ended up watching some TV on holiday but it was educational, honest!

It wasn’t all TV though. There was food and drink too. On the great tip of my friend Kayla (you might remember her from such blogs as New Year in Panama), I dragged the others to a cool cafe called Cafe Revolution. Covered in politicial stencils and posters it was something of a tourist trap but made great Micheladas (beer with lime, spices, some tomato juice and salt and pepper- savoury-er beer!  The spice makes downing it too quickly hard at least).

The rest of the time in the city is a blur of bookshops, markets, horchata, mole, hot chocolate and plenty of tequila. We managed to find ourselves in a Blues bar one night, being sung to in English, which was pretty disorientating. We also hung out in a great Zapatista cafe complete with propaganda posters and book shop.

I also found my alternative-universe-regular-bar, a mescal bar. (Mezcal is a liquor made from cactus. I am not quite sure how it is different from tequila but after one or two you don’t seem to care.) This tiny bar was full of local hipsters with some of the best moustaches I have ever seen. The walls were dotted with shrines to lucha-libre-wrestler-saints, there was a toilet instead of a barstool, beer only came served in plastic yard-of-ale glasses and as well as peanuts you got deep-fried bugs as bar snacks. Sigh. Eighteen years of vegetarianism gone for a crispy cricket. But at least now I have a better answer to the “what’s the weirdest thing you have ever eaten” question other than a funny shaped carrot. (Yes our UPEACE exam questions really are tricky).

On our last day Lindsay and I jumped into the back of a Toyota truck and trundled our way up to the hills above the city to horse-ride up to local town Chamula. It was lovely riding up through the green forest,  past a Zapatista university and past families working on their farms. The waves and smiles from the local children just about distracted me from the wooden saddle slowly numbing my butt.

Barely able to walk we dismounted at Chamula and explored the bustling market square and its rows of piled fruits, beans and (moving piles of) hermit crabs. Our explorations were rhythmically punctuated with the sounds of explosions. They were setting off fireworks for San Pedro’s Saint’s Day but given it was mid-day we only heard the noises, and having secretly pretended I was a cowboy for the past hour it was hard not to run from cover from the gunshots! Anyway, it spooked me, if not the horses.

After making our way through the market we headed to the beautiful green and blue church. Inside it was the most amazing church I’ve been to. The floor was scattered with pine needles and leaning against the wall were fully grown pine trees. The walls were lined with shrines to saints, each illuminated by jars of candles crowded in front. On the floor there were lines and lines of thin, taper candles melted upright like penitent worshippers. People knelt on the needle-strewn floor, in their black, furry ponchos chanting and praying aloud. The whole effect was remarkable, if not a little on the fire-hazard side.

Back in the city we were treated to another spectacle when we went to a dance show- a bit like the West End Lion King but about a battle between Mayan tribes.  Beautiful costumes and gymnastics but as it was in an anchient dialect the only thing I could get was that they said Palenque a lot. But who doesn’t.

Ok my brain has run out of superlatives so I’ll stop going on about San Cristobal for now but I’d advise you to come and visit me there in the alternative universe (p.s. you might want to find someone else to stay with though cos Gael Garcia Bernal lives with me in that universe and it could get a bit crowded.)

Lessons learnt:

In Chamula you can’t take pictures of people as they believe it steals their soul (same as the Innuit, interesting that despite distance and separation the same beliefs crop up!) So I resisted, despite the philosophical conundrum: if they don’t see me take the photo is that still disrespectful to their beliefs? My head hurt too much from the fireworks so I never puzzled it out.

Four hour horse-rides on wooden saddles aren’t great preparation for another epic bus journey. Probably should have been able to work that out.

Mexican street food is amazing! Corn on the cob covered in lime and hot sauce and empanadas make sore stomachs worth it!

In which I almost sneak into Mexico, give up the fight and decide to stick on the human side of Bruce Wayne

After the physical exertions of the Mayan ruins we were ready to pass out on the journey to Mexico. Not that it was without some exertions of its own. Our eight hour journey was made up of a bumpy bus ride to the Guatemalan border where we got our exit stamps. Loaded up with our bags we were shepherded on a rickety long boat for a 45 minute journey down the Usumacinta River. The peaceful journey down the wide, green river, lined with local families bathing and washing their clothes on the banks, was only punctuated by the nagging suspicion that, having not reached the Mexican border post, we were, in fact, sneaking illegally into the country. Good things don’t seem to happen to illegal immigrants in Mexico. Gulp. Fortunately a short walk after the boat brought us to the post and the necessary stamp. Finally I had made it (legally) to Mexico!

Not five minutes after negotiating our way through the border control our bus was stopped to collect a voluntary donation for up-keeps on the local village. Now all those months of reading about Mexican officials’ corruption had got me on guard and seemed to be playing out. We asked if this was an official tax or if it was voluntary. We were told it was not mandatory so being the cheapskate students we were decided not to pay... only to be told they weren’t going to let the bus move until we did. Five minutes in Mexico and I was in a hold-up situation, perfect. Bravely (or grouchily) we stood our ground for 10 minutes before getting bored and handing over a couple of dollars so we could just move on!

Several hours of buses later we arrived in a steamy, hot town called Palenque. We had a trek finding a hostel and headed out to refresh with quesadillas, horchata and a steady stream of amazingly colourful mariachi music videos on the cafe’s TV. No one makes a low budget, horrifyingly cringeworthy music video like Mexican mariachis. Fact.

Now this was one of my standard travels so there was no time for common things like relaxing or sitting still. We pushed on for an action packed day taking in all of Palenque’s treats. We started at the Palenque ruins- smaller and slightly newer than the Tikal ones but very impressive all the same. Surrounded by steamy forests and blossoming trees they had a strange Oriental feel, added to by the pagodaish roofs on some of the buildings. (Pagodaish is a word.)

Having build up a sweat dragging ourselves up more temple steps we were happy to move on the beautiful, tall Misol Ha waterfall. We chilled out under the fall for a while before Ben and I ventured our way into a pitch black cave. Led by a guide with a flashlight we carefully traversed our way through the shin-high water and thin rock passages until the cave opened up into a dark, little cavern. A scan with our guide’s torch revealed the low-ceilinged cave was full of water with a small waterfall at the back. Looming quietly in the blackness the dark pool was irresistible and seconds later I found myself slipping into the freezing, black water, my only guidance coming from the  strobbing flash of people taking photos. It was pretty darn scary in there and it was all I could do to banish possible horror-movie scenarios from my mind.

Having made it out of the cave without being eaten by zombie-cave-sharks we gathered the group and made our way on to a series of impossibly aquamarine rapids and waterfalls called (unoriginally) Agua Azul. There we bathed again and ate guacamole, empanadas and BBQ.

Bathed and full we got back on the bus for yet another epic bus-ride on to the colonial town of San Cristobal where we would lose each other and all fall in love with the city.

Lessons learnt:

Despite my love of Batman, it turns out dark caves are not my favourite hang out.

Screaming one’s head off in a dark, echoey cave does little to suppress your fears.... or indeed those of the people around you.

Fighting corruption is important. But $2 fines after hours on a bus can make one sell out principles for movement!

In which I break in to Mayan temples, climb a stairway to heaven and am proud to be a loser

Since working on Mexican rights at Amnesty Chile I´ve had a longing to explore Mexico. A questionnable dream given that I had done nothing but campaign on corruption, oppression and femicide. Despite that trauma those months in Chile grew an attraction and loyalty in me that the intervening years haven´t shaken. So with my time in Central America running out I took advantage of the last break we had (Semana Santa/ Holy Week) to race up and see what I could see. We managed to get a bargain flight to Guatemala City (about 90 quid return!) and put together a merry band of travellers before heading off for one last hurrah!

The first couple of days have been a blur of sights and buses, and the sickening sight of buses. As soon as we arrived in Guatemala we hopped on a mammoth 8 hour bus to Flores, a lake-side island town in the north of the country. Having spent an entire day (4.30am-11-45pm) travelling we rested up before regrouping the team the next morning (people had arrived on different flights and buses.) We spent our first real day of the holiday wandering round the sunny heat of the little island town, traversing its higgledy piggledy maze of winding streets and brightly coloured houses.

Later in the afternoon we hopped onto a tiny boat and paid the boat man 50p each to take up across the lake to another little island. There a 20 minute walk (in 36oC heat) turned into a 1.5 hr hike in search of the beach. Finally reaching our watery destination (with all my faded years of orientation melting behind me), we soon cooled off in the cold, blue waters of the lake. With shade a rarity I took advantage of the picnic table palm leaf umbrellas and stretched myself out on the table top for a quick cat-nap.

That evening chilled out and tired we hung out, drank Guatemalan beer and ate 20p tostadas (big, round corn chips laden with guacamole and other goodies), from a near-by street seller.

The next day we were up at 5.30am to go exploring the near-by Mayan ruins of Tikal, (supposedly the best in Guatemala, and perhaps anywhere!) As we drove along, with the sun rising, a thick mist settled over the road giving the whole thing a real adventurous feel. Through the fog the road was flanked by yellow signs warning of pumas, snakes, anteaters.... and turkies. Warning: turkies crossing. Bizarre.

Our Del-boy style taxi driver hooked us up with Constantino, a little, sun-weathered man with 25 years experience guiding people around the ruins. Fortunately for us Constantino seemed to have seen his fair share of penniless students and so assured us he could get us in the park for 2/3 the actual price. What he failed to mention, but slowly became apparent, was that this involved skipping the ticket booth and sneaking in through the rolling jungle around the ruins. As if the constant threat of turkies wasn´t enough to make me feel like a brave adventurer now this!

Despite breaking and entering us into priceless, historical ruins Constantino turned out to be a great guide. Our first breath-taking moment was coming across one of the huge, stepped, pyramids- a Mayan temple. Looming out of the lush jungle this towering structure was an incredible sight. Things got even more spectacular when, having summed up all my courage, I, with trembling legs, scaled the rickety, ladder-like steps up the side of the 50m tall temple. Edging my way onto the narrow stone ledge at the precipice of the man-made beast my breath was taken- with fear, altitude (ok more fear) but mainly the stunning view of a sea of green tree-tops broken sporadically by the soaring tops of other temples. I lasted about 10 minutes before the majesty of the sight before me was overcome by the terror of the drop below me and I shakily climbed down, truly exhilarated.

We spent the rest of the day exploring the ruins. Tikal means "city of voices" and the temples were built in such a way that acoustics meant preists could preach from the top of them and the people down below would hear every word. This wonderous feat of architecture is an added bonus for the modern day eaves dropper. It does however mean dozens of people may have been treated to some rather vulgar, terror-inspired language from yours truly.

We explored Mundo Perdido (Lost World), the last sight to be found, full of residential stone palaces, and climbed another 2 huge temples. My fear of heights having subsided, by then my legs were just shaking with pure fatigue!

We learnt about the Mayan ball game in which the winners, the winners mind, had the honour of having their heads cut off (men) or beating heart ripped out (women)! The girls we are travelling with are on their way to play in a football tournament in Hondauras, and this, frankly, was not the pepp talk they needed.

Visiting the Mayan temples of Tikal was a really magical experience. The Mayan´s knowledge of astrology is spookily accurate and the grandness and druability of their temples an awe-inspiring accomplishment, (and one I got to see before the Mayan-predicted end of the world in 2012!) The next few days would bring plenty more sights and advenures but the magic of Tikal will stay with me for a while!

Lessons learnt:

Forget step aerobics, temple climbing is the best workout around!

A tiny budget meant all I ate for several meals was cheese sandwiches. Cheese butties don´t quite live up to the spendour of a lost civilization, but they do make you feel like you´re on a school trip.

I am truly proud to be bad bad bad at ball games!

In which I enjoy monkey worship, hop to an island and fall in lava with Nica

Back in January I had decided six days wasn´t enough time to get to Nicaragua and back. Funny how things change over time. With two days off school added to the weekend we decided that last weekend was the perfect time to pop up to the neighbours upstairs.

Having survived the bus ride to Panama the six hours to Nica passed stress free (excpet for the waking up at 4.30am to catch the thing). We crossed the border without issues and soon got to Rivas, our destination town. But it seems like the lure of the bus (and the quality films on board- Scorpion King and a film about a monkey that is also a spy. Yes, you heard me.) was just too much and we decided to stay on until the Granada. I´m so glad we did (Granadas always serve me well, first Spain now this). Granada is a beautiful colonial city perched on the northern shore of Lake Nicaragua. All coloured facades and tall church spires it has something of a tidier Havana feel. We arrived into the scorching heat of mid-afternoon (it was about 36-37oC, much hotter than CR and boy did we feel it.) After a meal for 3 which cost $7 in total we found a hostel and headed out to explore.

A quick stop bought us some Nicaraguan cigars then it was on to climb a church tower, trying our hardest to resist the temptation to ring the giant bells. Our will-power was rewarded with a stunning view over the city, which helped give us our bearings for more exploration. The main square was a beautiful, tree and cafe filled cocktail of noise and people overlooked by the city´s big, yellow cathedral. We wandered the streets, got a lovely dinner in an Indian-hippy-style restaurant and then settled down in a hotel bar overlooking the square where we drank red wine, Ben smoked his cigar (with hilariously queasy results...Hannibal never went green when his plans came together) and we were serenaded by two guitar players. All in all, pretty luxurious!

The next morning we got up early to run to the bus station, only to find we had a 3 hour wait. Luckily the station was slap bang in the middle of the busy, market area so we hustled our way through the streets, found some breakfast and soaked up the atmosphere. Our bus down to Rivas was a chicken bus (these old, yellow US school buses they have down here). It was baking as we loaded on but sat by the open windows, being blasted by the breeze we found the 1.5hr journey pretty pleasing. At Rivas we jumped in a taxi then boat to get us out to the Lake´s main island Isla Ometepe.

The island is flanked by two volcanoes, one active, and is a quiet little haven of natural gems. After finding a hostel we jumped on a motorbike tuk tuk and headed out to the nearest beach. A little, black sand peninsula it was a little rough round the edges but was a lovely place to grab a beer, wade into the cool waters of the lake and watch the spectacular sunset over the water. Driving back under a sky of candy-floss pink clouds it was hard not to notice the yellow signs flanking the road announcing that this was the key evacuation route in case of an evacuation. Possibly the only thing able to spoil the calm of the glorious sunset is the mental maths needed to calculate if you think you could out run lava.

Our next day we went in search of the ancient petroglyphs that dotted the island. It turns out the old inhabitants of Ometepe really like monkeys and weren´t shy in displaying that love through engravings on volcanic stone. It also appears 5 year old children today have better artistic skills than back in the day. That or monkeys have really filled out.

After the strenous task of tracking down stones we headed to the Ojo de Agua, a concrete lined, natural pool, surrounded by lush forest. There we cooled off in the clear blue water, drank caipirinhas which were delivered to the pool side and generally felt like superstars. It was a lovely relaxing break before we headed back to town to catch the ferry back to the main land.

We literally sailed off into a glorious sunset. It was such a beautiful moment sat on the smooth boat, listening to the National and Little Hands of Asphalt as the sunset all across the lake. Back on the mainland we pushed on in a taxi to San Juan del Sur, a beach town on the Pacific coast.

San Juan had a great, fun vibe to it. We grabbed some pizza then headed down to a beachside bar where Isabelle and I drank White Russians in front of the dancing lights of the boats in the bay and the lighthouses. We had a little paddle in the dark, wide sea before heading back to meet Ben at the hostel.

The next, and last day we headed out early on bumpy dirt track to a hidden cove where Ben and I had a surf lesson. I am standing up easily now and starting to try to catch my own waves without help. Had a few big wipeouts misjudging some of the waves which were bigger than times before. Having swallowed my share of the sea and burnt my face and butt it was time to head back to catch the bus home. We had had a serious think about staying in San Juan an extra day but the responsibilities of organising European and Middle Eastern night dragged us back to the hectic world of party planning.

Things have been pretty damn stressful with planning this flipping cultural night and perhaps you wouldn´t have thought a 3.5 day race around Nicaragua would recharge the batteries but it really did. We had heard some horror stories about dangerous times in Nica but we had nothing but pleasantness and beautiful moments.

Lessons learnt:

If there is one person better at sleeping anywhere anytime than me it might be Isabelle. Boats, taxis, beaches, you name it, she Zzzz´d it.

Despite factor 50 suncream, 2 hours in the water under the blazing sun, lying on a boad with your butt in the air.... does not make for a comfortable bus ride home.

Monkeys make good spies, according to a documentary film I think I watched on a 6 hour bus ride. It may have been their skills on espionage which made them so reverred by ancient island inhabitants.

Double volcanoes all the way!

In which I get green, threaten a tree and plan for domination

Tonight I’m meant to be preparing for a debate for my Gender and Human Rights Class. Tomorrow I am due to argue against LGBT rights which means I really should be spending this time looking at homophobic websites to compile info for my big, evil argument. But I don’t want to! So instead I have spent it making fresh lemonade (we managed to end up with a carrier bag full of lemons left over from a party.... and well the rest wrote itself), eating guacamole and hanging out.

Life has been pretty damn busy lately, (isn’t it always). We have these cultural nights, I may have mentioned them before, when each region presents food and entertainment from their countries. Europe and Middle East is coming up and guess which idiotic, pain-addict has ended up organising it. No not Charlie Sheen, me.  But it is causing a similar style breakdown. The problem is Europeans and Middle Eastern students are definitely the minority at the school, so while other nights had huge task forces we have a few brave souls running around doing everything. But heck if history has taught us anything it is that Europe doesn’t really see logical things like physical size as an issue when it comes to world domination. And yes, I just compared my party planning to colonialism, which may mean the party will slowly crumble as the guests take control of their fun, one by one. But I refuse to look that far ahead.

Anyway enough pseudo-historical party planning, it is all happening next Friday (April 1^st if you can believe that) and has a medieval theme. So I have a week to make a suit of armour out of tinfoil. If you have seen my previous fancy dress costumes you should know tinfoil is a favoured medium of mine and this should not be a problem.

Speaking of parties, we had a great Paddy’s night house party at our house. Guinness, baileys, beer and my skin got dyed green, songs were sung and merriment was had. I did badly miss my and Sho’s tradition of Guinnpagne (Guinness drunk out of champagne flutes), potato bread and Father Ted, but I guess this was the next best thing.

Other than that it has been a lot of studying and trying to get my thesis done as fast as is humanly possible. My new flat is working out brilliantly, I live with Rafael from Mexico and Patrick from US (Michigan) and they are awesome flatmates. We have just discovered an avocado tree that hangs over into our garden so every day I check if the bulbous fruit is ripe yet. (Rafa informs me shouting abuse to try and make them mature faster is not an efficient gardening technique. But then he hasn’t experienced the British schooling system).  

Tomorrow we have a leaving party (Mum please see Paragraph 5 which outlines the work I have been doing. Ignore all the rest about parties!) This party is for the Asian Leaders Programme, (40 students from Asian countries) which will be really sad. Then on Saturday I am popping up to Nicaragua for a long weekend, so will report back on that soon.

Lessons learnt:

Nothing about homophobic arguments, thank goodness.

Green beer is fun. Green hangovers are not.

I helped Rafa out making guacamole for Latin American night. 200 portions of guacamole. Despite cutting a million tomatoes, etc I still love the stuff. I think this is real.

In which I go dancing in the streets, explore a ghost town and spend 36 hours on a bus

On the 1st Jan I was walking, in the rain, across a crumbly old bridge trying to ignore the circling crocodiles below, on my way to Panama. I had a brilliant time but managed to leave the country without seeing the canal or buying a hat... and frankly that just did not seem right. So two months on I was back again, this time on the way to Panama City to dance by the side of an artificial waterway, while wearing appropriate headgear, for Carnival! Now let me tell you, I´d take moulding bridges and snapping crocs over a 23 hour bus ride, complete with 5 hour border queuing any day!

A whole day after setting off Isabelle and I finally pulled into the big city, bones creaking and tethers pretty much running out. To rub salt in our achy wounds we made it to the hostel to find the boys (Arthur and Patrick) resting up at the hostel having flown in that day, with inflight movies and open bar. Such is the cheap-skate, vaguely environmentally aware lifestyle I suppose, damn.

The journey was soon forgotten though thanks to pizzas and Panamanian beer. We met up with some American girls from Uni and had a nice meal near the hostel. Panama City is an impresive, strange city. It has a real futuristic, post-apocalyptic feel. Or like an abandoned film set. Unlike any other Latin American city I´ve been to it is full of shiny, skyscappers, which, next to the beautiful Pacific coastline gives it a Miami kind of vibe (I say having only seen Miami airport or the city from the airplane window). We heard a rumour that a lot of the sky scrappers are empty having been built to launder money from Colombia drug cartels. I asked pretty much every taxi driver if this was right and it seems like a bit of an exageration but there is no doubt many of the buildings are fairly empty, most likely because they are second homes.

The next day we woke early and took a taxi then hour ferry out to Isla Taboga, a beautiful little island off the coast. It is the city-dwellers weekend get away and, while pleasantly calm during the week we could see just why people would flock here. The island´s village is a scattering of white washed houses with splashes of brightly coloured walls. From the golden beach we could see the ghostly silhouette of the big city across the water watching over us as we swam. We hung out on the beach, Isabelle with her laptop finishing her Global Human Rights Systems essay (which frankly was how I had imagined doing all my school work before coming here!) That evening the boys and I went to check out downtown, which is full of tall buildings and bright lights. Arthur ate his body weight in clams and a jolly time was had by all. Except the clams.

The next day we went to a city across the isthmus (my new favourite word!) to a strange tax-free, walled mini-city. I took advantage of the cheap prices and got myself this little notebook. And just as well I did or this blog would be significantly less tangible than it is now. Shopped out we enjoyed lunch and some umbrella-adorned drinks in Colon (Colon city seems to be a popular Latin American name, I blame the second of Freud psychosexual phasing. Or Christopher Colombus, whatever,) before going to the Gatun locks to see the huge ships slowly passing through. What with my Dad enjoying the odd walk down by the canal I have seen my share of locks in my time, but I have to say these ranked pretty highly.

We decided to take an old school train to get back to Panama City. The train was how I imagine the Orient Express, all dark wood pannelling and green glass lamps, very 1930s glamour. We all held our breaths going through the tunnels wondering who would be the first victim of the charasmatic gentleman murder who was sure to be aboard. We managed to escape dastardly murder and took advantage of the outside carriages to watch the sunsetting over the wide canal. The trip wasn´t without peril however, after joking about a Rakes on a Train pardoy (I am so sick of these monkey-fighting rakes on this monday-to-friday train!) we were sticking our heads out of the carriages and Isabelle came inches away from having her head Krugerred off by a rake-like barrier next to the tracks. Thank goodness we made it off in one piece.

That night we decided to go check out Carnival, which after all was why we were there. We had a little pre-drink at the hostel before dinner, which took slightly longer than expected, and arrived to find the local Mexican restaurant closed. Fortunately the owner took pity on us and opened the place up just for us! Loaded up on burritos and nachos we headed out to the coast-side stretch of road which had been cordoned off for the party.

Carnival was fun but not exactly what we were expecting. Instead of floats and dancers it was more like a mini-music festival with large stages with bands and people hanging out drinking in the streets. We also learnt very quickly one of the most popular activities at Panama City Carnival was silly-string/fake snow/ confetti attacks. Isabelle got a throat full of confetti so we got our own back with silly-string vengeance. We drank seco (sugar cane alcohol) with lemonade, watched fireworks and fake-snow storms, boogied in the streets and watched some pretty awful bands.

The trip back was a lot better and somehow the 13 hours bus ride seemed to improve the chest/ear infection I had been suffering. So antibiotics can work but combined with massive bus rides it can also work.

We also:Checked out China Town. Ate some spring rolls and bought 5 different types of comedy glasses. Each.

Almost ate in a BBQ carwash! We turned up there on the way to find another restaurant, but if you like your burgers soapy this is the place for you.

Found a drive through ice cream parlour. Without a car. Walking by making brum brum noises is a passable alternative.

Explored the oldest settlement in Latin America... and quickly climbed all over it

The boys went to the ATM and took their cans of beer on the way. They got stopped by the police and forced to pay $100 as a bribe! A little different from Izz and my run in with the law where instead of a bribe we just got asked out repeatedly for a week.

Lessons learnt:Ridiculous sunglasses are not just stylish, they can also provide important protection from fake-snow attacks. (I am still scarred from PJ´s paintball blinding in Byker Grove. Whyyyyyyyyay man?!)

I am so sick of rakes on trains. And buses.

The Panama canal takes 8hr to cross on a boat, and you would need some strong arms to screw open the locks.

In which I try and catch up, get active and head across the border

This week I have been to the gym twice, gone white-water rafting and surfing, all for the first time. I only mention this because it is pretty much the most active I have ever been and hopefully does something to distract from the fact that I haven’t written anything in a really long time.

To rectify this here is a whistle-stop run down of the past month and a bit: firstly there was the surprise trip home. After making it through the fun of NY I arrived back to freezing Britain two days late, raced around London (managing to hit almost all my favourite pubs) and caught up with lots of people. Then headed up North where I almost gave the family a heart attack by letting off a party popper in my poor Mum’s face as she answered the door and by lurking out of the evening gloom when my Dad and bro came to pick Ciara up from sledging. I won’t be trading in jobs with Aston Kutcher any time soon, felt too mean about punking people and instead of delight I mainly got a mixture of disconcertion and confusion (also Demi is a bit too old for me.) I promptly caught a cold and slept a lot of the time trying to recover from the jetlag and illness. Still was nice to catch up and was great to see everyone again but also made me realise that I shouldn’t be too homesick because life goes on pretty much the same and my loved ones are so lovely as to remain that way.

Full of cold and sinus pressure I dragged my self back on various airplanes and, despite a blizzard in NYC (they know how to keep airports running- take note London!) made it back without problems and arrived in to San Jose airport to find Kayla waiting (Kayla was my best friend in Chile, she’s from the States and is totally awesome and lovely. Brilliantly we have managed to stay friends for the 4 years since Chile and now we were able to reunite on Latin American soil!)

Kayla and I had a brilliant time catching up. After showing her the two bars of Ciudad Colon we hopped on the sweatiest bus known to man or woman and headed down to the south Caribbean-side town of Puerto Viejo. There we went on lovely long bike rides, spotted monkeys and sloths in the trees, hung out at the beach, drank cocktails and spent a mad New Year’s Eve in a bar full of fire-crackers and inside fireworks (I jumped 10ft in the air everytime one went off- I blame this on my root-memories of Belfast but I think I might actually just be a scardy-cat.) Other things we saw that night included a crazy-eyed arm wrestling contest (if looks could kill) and a man walking round the bar using a tiny huskie puppy as the best woman magnet you’ve ever seen. We saw in the New Year dancing crazily to “Baby Got Back” and followed that up by arguing aggressively with some idiot boys from Florida who bought us drinks and then got on to universal healthcare and the right to food and it was all I could do to stop Kayla (rightly) ripping their heads off.

The next morning we dragged ourselves out of bed to head down to Panama. At 10am on the 1^st Jan we were walking, in the drizzly rain, along railway tracks and across a rickety, wooden bridge which linked the two countries. It was a very filmic and dramatic sight but we made it across without being shot by border police or eaten by the crocodiles swimming below. Once in Panama we took taxis and a long, arse-bruisingly bumpy boat ride out to the islands Bocas Del Toro. We stayed on the islands for several luxurious days, went dolphin spotting, accidently went snorkelling when the boat we were on stopped in the middle of the ocean and scuba gear was handed out, lounged on Playa de Estrellas (COVERED in star fish), ate good food and drank nice beer. All in all it was jolly nice!

It was very sad to see Kayla go but soon school had started again and we were back into the busy-schedule of class and parties. Ben and I recently held another open-mic/trivia night which went down really well. I have been overly energetic, as stated above. Oh and between Kayla and school I fit in another trip to Manuel Antonio national park where I saw more wildlife and did a lot more beach-bumming. Life is pretty bloody good. So there we go- just about caught up and I can start being more attentive and interesting in the future.   

Lessons learnt:

I surfed the same break as the current Costa Rican surfing champion. I'm not sure but this may mean I am now the Costa Rican champ. After 2 lessons..... it's possible.

Panama crossings involve rickety bridges and crocodiles- it is like something out of a really lame Indiana Jones.

In which I get stuck in New York- concrete jungle filled with Sesame St characters, photo opportunities and comedy-show -reenactments

Now the cat is out of the bag and has caught a death from cold I can fill people in on the epic journey that was my surprise trip home for Christmas. In a moment of hormonal, home-sickness (I blame listening to Dawn Landes “Dig Me a Hole” on repeat for a week), I had booked tickets home for Christmas. Having told my family the original plan, that I would be travelling around Central America, I decided to keep up the charade and surprise them. Easier said than done with the privacy pulverising Facebook in the mix, but some how, thanks to a combination of my friends’ discretion and their lack of interest I managed to keep the whole thing secret.

The main snag to the plan came slowly rumbling to light as I checked the news on the day I was set to travel and read England, once again, had been caught out and brought to its chilly knocking knees by a unexpectedly seasonal flurry of snow. Blindly optimistic I set off on my journey anyway and it was only when I got to Miami and checked with the staff that I was told, oh actually your flight won’t be getting to Heathrow. So I was given the option, stay in Miami or catch my connection as usual and get stuck in New York. Now I have seen Home Alone 2 so the choice was simple. New York.

Arriving in the first night I found myself completely shattered and bedless in the city that never sleeps. Issue is: I do sleep. A lot. After hours of queuing for information I already had (that the flight would not be heading off any time soon), I found the nearest, “cheapest” hotel and hunkered down for the night. Well it was 9.30pm, I was alone and Wizard of Oz was on TV. Fell asleep just after the part where Dorothy, trying to get home to her family, is stuck in the poppy-field full of snow but then makes it to the glowing lights of the Emerald City. It all seemed very apt. There  is no place like home but while I was trapped here I had big plans to check out all the munchkins!

The next morning I checked my emails to find to my, perhaps not his, delight that a friend, Stephane, from UPEACE was also stuck in New York. Plus he was staying in a lovely, swanky hotel on Broadway... so I promptly invited myself along and after a long subway ride next to a mentally ill but very friendly guy I was in the centre of Manhattan and ready to explore. I had a quick wander around and discover our hotel was three blocks from Times Square, the glamour, if anything being added to by the presence of people dressed as SpongeBob and Elmo on the streets. It was like I had wandered into the TV, and all the channels were playing at one.

I’d agreed to meet Stephane at 11am and sure enough, on the dot the elevator doors opened and there he was. The rest of the day was a montage of brilliant moments. Like an seasoned New Yorker I showed Stephane around Times Square, mumbling “hey I’m walking here” under my breath to anyone that came near. Stephane got a picture with Minnie Mouse and as she held out her hand after I realised she expected payment and felt very much like the naive little country mouse in the big city. Where I’m from the mascots on the street are in it for the love of the game.

I assured Stephane that I had a pretty good innate sense of direction and would get us around. I then proceeded to take us in EXACTLY the wrong direction at every turn. After walking for twenty minutes and not finding Central Park we found instead Madison Square Gardens and Penn Station. I also found myself a giant pretzel and had to squirrel most of it away for future snacks. We managed to get ourselves to 5^th Avenue and there found a kind of photo-booth where you could dress up in hideous Christmas gear and get a photo, all for a donation to charity. Like they say, when in Rome... dress as a giant Christmas-present and pose infront of a fake fire place.

I, eventually after several wrong turns, dragged Stephane to Rockafellar Square where we watched the ice-skating, looked at the Christmas tree and I recreated every moment from the opening sequences of 30 Rock. Stephane had never seen the show but was very patient and polite, diplomatically commenting that my face looked “interesting in that photo”. Well it should I was being Kenneth.

We found the Empire State building but were both under-whelmed by it. They should never have gotten rid of the giant ape, it really finished it off nicely. The Chrysler was much better. From there were headed down 5^th Ave, sparkling with Christmas lights and finally found Central Park where we saw a break-dancing squad, carol singers, 50 half naked rugby boys, some aging extreme Frisbee players and big bird having a chat. We also stopped at every hat and glove stand and piled on the layers (I only had a raincoat from Costa Rica and so was wearing every jumper I had with me- it was still freeeeezing).

Later we got the subway to China town and who should be sitting opposite us but.... Todd, the bongo playing third Conchord from Flight of the Conchords. It was all I could do not to say Arf Arf. Stephane had never seen that show either (honestly it as if the French have better things to do than watch hours of TV) so was a bit confused as to why I was bouncing up and down with excitement.

Having finally calmed down we got some Chinese food, searched in vain for Brooklyn Bridge, grabbed a taxi home and stopped off at Times Square again to see it all lit up. Staring up at the big, neon lit billboards Stephane said “you know, just once in my life I think I should get my face up there.” The universe must have been listening because the next second the ad we were looking at flashed over to reveal a sign saying “Get your 15 seconds of fame, come in doors and get your photo taken.” Well you can’t ignore the universe, especially when it messaging you through a 50ft TV screen, so we got our best poses on in the shop and 5 mins later we were stood in Times Square watching our huge faces flashing up next to Hollywood stars and signs for Broadway shows. It was brilliant! So I can tick “Get my face on Broadway” off the list. I only wish I had had my Christmas present outfit from before.

Feeling like the stars we had been for 5 minutes we headed back to the hotel, sat in the incredibly plush bar and drank Manhattans and Cosmopolitans until the bar shut and our bank balances had run dry.

The next day I had to leave for the airport at 12 so we got up and headed off to nerdishly drool over the United Nations building. We took the tour and got to go inside the General Assembly room while they were in session. Couldn’t hear what was going on but pretty sure everyone was just chatting away on Facebook saying “OMG did you see what BKM just said! Happy face, angry face.” By the time we’d earmarked where our future offices would be it was time to go and I got the shuttle to the airport and held my breath while the plane was delayed and delayed and finally went! Off I flew to English snowy fields and to scare the living daylights out of my unsuspecting family. All in all, the best possible disaster.

Lessons learnt:

I mainly listened to Fairy tale of New York and Last of the Melting Snow (Leisure Society).

If you haven’t seen Home Alone 2 (like Stephane), spending hours in Central Park trying to find a bird-lady ally may seem a waste of time.

The General Assembly building is totally falling apart. Big damp patches and everything. The guide said, I wouldn’t be surprised if one day that balcony falls off. I might have to get into the Security Council instead. They probably have a retrospectively cautious plan to address having had a balcony fall on you. But it would be vetoed by China just because they know how to build walls that last.

In which I make a pilgrimage, have a breakdown and salsa the night away

So though some time has passed and I have been busy organising Christmas concerts, toy-drives and sponsored runs I thought I really should finish up writing about Cuba.

So when I left off last time we’d spent a few days in Havana and had acclimatised ourselves to the attempted scams and had actually become super cynical to the point where when the taxi driver took us to the bus station I was sure he was trying to rip us off when he was actually just taking us to the proper station.  Isabelle also found the smiling and nodding your head when she doesn’t understand people’s Spanish doesn’t always work out, especially when the taxi driver is saying you girls don’t like me with dark skin, you think we’re ugly right? Ah inadvertent taxi racism.

We got the bus down to the centre south of the island to the town of Cienfuegos, (meaning 100 fires). Ironically given the name, five minutes after we arrived there was a town-wide powercut. We ended up eating dinner in a paladar (where people’s front rooms are converted into mini restaurants- with 4-5 tables), in the pitch black being serenaded by the most beautifully-voiced singers. Very surreal, and you would pay a fortune to go to the pitch-black restaurant in London. We walked home in the pitch black along unfamiliar streets aware of the movement from the doorways where residents of Cienfuegos regularly sit out on their doorsteps and chat to each other. In fact just hanging out on the doorstep seems to be the primary form of leisure activity in this town.

We were staying with a very friendly couple who were both doctors and rented their room out on the side. They made us pina coladas and we had a lovely chat about all sorts of things. Restricted by the powercut we had a early night.

The next day we crammed onto a bumpy, run-down bus and trundled away to the seaside. As is standard on all our trips a young child vomited next to Isabelle (once is gross, more than once you have to start wondering about the effect you have on small children.) Found the beach, roasted in the hot sun and went for a lovely swim. We got back to town on a very loud, crammed in bus and freshened up before heading out to explore the non-re-illuminated bright lights of Cienfuegos nightlife. Started off in a very tiny, Cuban-only bar where we were quickly joined by the only other 2 men in there. Was quite nice to chat although I had said we don’t talk Spanish to give us a get out clause (Cuba brings out the liar in me), and then had to act really hard to not react to what they were saying in Spanish. After that we headed to a club called Benny’s where we hung out with a nice group of Cuban’s and tourists (6 ft 5 skin head from Salamanca, Spain, mid-40s playwright called Dante from Italy, plus young Cuban kids called Bryan and co.- looking around at our merry group I swear we looked like something out of Lord of the Rings). Drank rum, met a guy we’d met early who had come up to us at dinner and said “oh i saw you guys in Havana- let’s meet up later”, but turned out he was just a really European looking Cuban trying to fool us.  

The next day we found a bargain taxi driver and started out on the very long drive to Santa Clara. It was lovely to sit back and watch the flat fields of sugarcane monotonously rolling by... that was until the beat-up Fird Fiesta started spluttering the way and finally gave up the ghost and broke down right in the middle of nowhere.  After much pushing, and huffing and puffing we managed to get it going again and, holding our breath, rattled on to Santa Clara. The city its self was pretty underwhelming but we were there to visit Che’s tomb. Was an impressive site with an interesting museum but is all a bit strange with the deification of a man who’s claim was to be one of and for the people.

Our journey came full circle as we headed back in a collective taxi (with, unfortunately, the most overwight Cubans I’d seen since getting here.) Was great t get back to Havana after the quiet, understatement of the other cities. We wandered the streets with a homecoming joy, ate a lunch to tapas, did some shopping and then got ready for our last night out in Cuba.

First we headed out to eat at La Guardia, a paladar which had been set up in the flat used in the firlm Fresa y Chocolat, and a place I had been too poor to visit last time I was here (Eve and I had asked if we could stick out heads in the door without buying anything.) This time we sat in the relative opulence and ate nice food, mojitos and two very chocolatey desserts!

From there we had a quick power nap then headed down to the main street to find a good bar. We didn’t need to look far because soon enough we stumbled across a street party, full of salsa dancing and generally a fun atmosphere. We soon got chatting to two Cuban guys and had a crash (not kidding) course salsa lesson which soon made us the focal point, and probably chuckling point, of the street. Danced away and then we headed on with the guys to a discoteca where there was more salsa lessons (got quite dictatorial- a lot of not like that like this- Isabelle and I tried to teach them some of our patented disco moves but they were having none of it. After the disco we headed out to the Marecon, the sea wall where we sat and listened to the sea and tried to divide the boats’ lights on the ocean from the stars. All rather romantic and nice to use the Marecon the way the Cuban’s do- as a cheap date location. Headed home and packed up all ready for our flight out the next day.

Lessons learnt:

The cheapest taxi option is not always the best, unless you like your journeys to involve some cardio-vascular workout

Hiding from the 20 mins of rain we had the whole trip we ducked into a bookstore where I spent $60 on film posters. No-one needs that many film posters. Especially when you don't own, or plan to own, any walls. You can try and escape capitalism but it will find you.

Che was a man. He did some very cool things. It is weird how he has been made into a deity and a logo rolled into one. I'm not sure he would have liked this. (I still remember reading his diaries the first time in Cuba. "Day 2: We are low on drinking water. I think I remember reading somewhere if you mix sea-water and drinking water together it goes further. Day 3: Everyone is sick." He is a legend just for that.)