Day 1
Set out from the Lighthouse Apartments in misty Eastern Wall at 2pm and headed to the airport which resembled the post-Hurricane Katrina Superdome in Ny'awlinns - no room to move, queues for everything. Even worse in Gatwick where security took ages to clear. Flight to Honk Conk went smooth as ya like - they had Walk The Line and Superman Returns on the entertainment system so I watched those, listened to some iTunes, did a lil' writing on my laptop and before you know it, the 12 hours had passed. I had even smuggled a half-bottle of vodka and 2 bottles of Dr. Pepper onboard (as the alky drinks weren't free) but I ended up just having one glass! (I ended up combining the vodka with OJ so I can't even let you know if Voddy n Doc Pepper is the way to go or not. All in good time!)
Day 2
Oh yeah, it's Sunday now. Haven't a clue what time of day it is as I got feck all sleep on the plane. But it feels brilliant to be back in Asia. Honk Conk airport is pristine as ever - I got a limo taxi from there to the Chinese border (about 25 miles away) for 15 yo-yos. The views on the way were stunning - there were fishing villages on stilts and masses of skyscrapers in the same line of vision. Got through the border fairly quickly and into another taxi for the hour-long onward journey to the Sheraton Dameisha Hotel. Protracted negotiations were the order of the day beforehand - the little shit wanted 35 yo-yos and I got him down to 15 which was still too much but I wasn't in top negotiating form. I arrived at the hotel at 5.30pm HK time which meant I travelled pillar to post in 22.5 hours - not bad for 7,000 miles! The hotel is stunning - it's as nice as it looks on the website -http://www.starwoodhotels.com/sheraton/property/overview/index.html?propertyID=1968 private beach with jet-skis for hire (a must for one of the days ahead), big indoor and outdoor pools and - whoop whoop! - 2 water-slides! My 12th floor room is deadly with stunning ocean view, balcony and big-momma LCD TV. Walked down the town and popped into a local supermarket which I always like to do wherever I go (batty I know but don't knock it til you've tried it). Pissed myself laughing at the names of some of the products - "Generous" Shaving Gel was my absolute favourite, especially as it was smallest tube of it that I'd ever seen. Generous my fucking eye! Stocked up on waters (10 cents for 500 ml bottles), Fanta (60 cents for 2 litres), Pringles (60 cents a tube) and a 1998 bottle of Chinese red wine for €3.50 - I'll report on its taste when it happens! Anyway, it turns out that I am literally the only whitey in the city (and it's a big one!) so everyone is staring and all the kids are coming up saying "Hellooooo!". "Fuck off, ya wee cuntz," I said back to them all. Except I didn't. Played it safe tonight by going with the hotel buffet and boy was it d-lish! I demolished a plate of fresh shrimp, tomatoes n pesto, rocket, olives n sushi, then phab chicken meatball n vegetable soup, then satay skewers of chicken n lamb, then sea bass and snapper with rice n teriyaki sauce, then 5 wickle desserts which I piled on 1 plate, of which the chocolate raspberry fudge cake was the undoubted highlight, then some fruit. What a piglet! All for €18, which I have no doubt is considered a rip-off in these here parts but who gives a puck, cos it was class, and I'm on me 'ollie-dies. A good kip tonight and I'll be ready for bronzage and touring action tomorrow with a venom. Day 3Went to bed about 1am and reasoned with myself not to set any alarm, and to wake up unabetted by electronic implements, in celebration of my first actual workday holiday. So lo and behold I woke up at 2.20pm! And I loved it! Sha'nt make a habit of that, though, but hopefully that has banished the jet-lag to the hills overlooking Dapeng Bay. By the time I had applied my P20 sunscreen, it was clouding over, so I decided on going for an adventure using naught but public transport. So down I went to the Concierge and asked him how I would get to the Window Of The World theme park by bus. He kindly wrote out the bus routes (103 and 223, fact fans) and very kindly (and unprompted) wrote in Cantonese the name of the stop where I should change for the 223. So off I went across the road and a 103 came along within 30 seconds. Chinese busses are fascinating yolks altogether. Driven by the bloke, conducted by the woman (life imitating sex there, I feel), it's a tightly-run ship. I had no idea how much it would be, so when the conductress came along, I proferred her a 5 yuan note (50 cents). "Where are you going?", she probably said in Cantonese. Luckily I remembered the note from the concierge in my pocket, and I pointed to the Cantonese characters he had scribbled in 0.4 of a second, even though there was probably about 100 strokes of the pen involved. Upon seeing this, she barked something, presumably the price and luckily a schoolgirl was within earshot and called out "8! 8!" So I very happily coughed up the 30 cents extra. As the bus trek turned out to be an 80 minute one, this represented splendid value for money. Throughout the journey, I was stared at by the entire packed bus of commuters. Staring is being introduced as an Olympic sport for the 2008 Beijing Games and I would urge all other countries not to bother sending competitors as the Chinese will unquestionably scoop gold, silver and bronze in both the men's and women's disciplines. It's quite the novelty and quite liberating to be a thing of wonder and amazement (or, if you will, a freak) but as Shenzhen has a population of 7.2 million people and I only saw 3 other white people all day (out of thousands) then I kinda see where they're coming from. Still a weird feeling, though. At least a few of the kids shout out "Hello" and wave - it seems to be a thing they have like where we used to gesture with an up-and-down arm motion at lorry-drivers in a bid to get them to sound their horns.The bus journey was fascinating - it was about 20 miles long and there were skyscrapers everywhere - loads built and loads loads more under construction. This place will be one of the world's largest 10 cities within a decade, yet it's largely unheard of - that'll change very soon, I reckon.So anyway, the kind conductress barked at me when it came to the bus-change point so I disembarked. As I had been travelling the best part of 90 minutes and was now in downtown Shenzhen, I decided to take a wee break. As it was now 5.15pm and I had yet to eat, I headed straight to McDonald's where my breakfast (a Big Mac with large fries and coke) set me back a whopping 2 Euros. Looking around, people had clearly dressed up to come here - it seems to be regarded as a salubrious establishment in these here parts. After a quick trip onto a flyover for some pictures of the city, I caught a jam-packed 223 bus. The conductresses have eagle eyes in observing who gets on and off (you can do so from both the front and the middle doors) and she was up to me through the melee in 5 seconds flat. I didn't have the name of the theme park written in Cantonese so I proferred her a 10 yuan (1 Euro) note and hoped that'd do. Absolutely not. "Where are you going?", she probably barked. "Window of World", I replied, slowly, breaking it into pidgeon English in a hopeless effort to assist. "Fucking WHERE?", was her likely reply. "WINDOW.....OF....THE WORLD. PARK? THEME PARK?", I retorted, uselessly. Luckily, a fellow commuter intervened and provided translation, although further pidgeon English was required. Thus it transpired that the fare was 20 cents (2 Yuan). So eventually I got to the Window Of the World - I knew I was there, as a half-sized version of the Eiffel Tower and the Parthenon came into view. Even crossing the road to get to it was an adventure - down into an underground metro subway - up again 10 minutes later - D'oh! I'm still on the same side of the road, just further down. Back down again and this time, much success. High 5! I paid the 12 yo-yo admission in and was treated to a series of replicas of world-famous sites - the Taj Mahal, the Pyramids, Sydney Opera House, Notre Dame, yet not one single Irish landmark! I was appalled - what of our beloved Spire? Or the statue of Molly Malone? Or........another of our beloved world-famous structures? However, all was redeemed when a supermarket-music version of The Cliffs of Dooneen emerged from the tannoy, all cheesey-guns blazing. I wept bitterly and thought of my mother country, and of comely maidens dancing at the crossroads. Then came a deluge of rain so I sheltered under the tiny 2-foot high arches of the St. Mark's Square in Venice where I stayed for 5 minutes watching the torrents come down over the Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Colisseum. A trippy moment to be sure.Now it was 7.30pm and time for the park's Super Dance Elegant Culture Show where a couple of thousand punters pile into "Caesar's Palace" (more resembling a large bingo hall) to watch a troupe of 30 strut their stuff in various national costumes, to various national dances. Asian audiences are hilarious - they give the tiniest ripple of applause to something that they absolutely love. Anyway, halfway through, I'd had enough - probably when 10 blokes came out wearing sparkly "Luck Irish" hats, singing "There's No Business Like Show Business". The girlies were wearing Stars n Stripes outfits which were almost equally hideous, if somewhat more appropriate for the murdered tune.So back on the busses for 2 more hours of getting stared at, prompting me finally to get up, hold my arms oustretched and roar, "Is that enough for you to see, you pack of staring FUCKS?" Except I didn't.Got off outside the hotel at 10.45pm and rather than pay a king's ransom for Sheraton Room Service, I went into a nearby restaurant for my "lunch". The 8 waitresses had no English between them and all insisted on swarming around me at my table, doing various duties. One bringing a pot of tea (to pour over the chopsticks and sterilise them, apparently), one bringing a plate of appetizers, which apeared to be battered chicken claws and the 6 others taking my order. I was absolutely parched so I said "Tsingtao?". No response. "Tsingtao? Beer? Tsingtao?" Blank looks. "TSINGTAO! Chinese Beer! Eh...Heineken?" Whether it was the repeated utterances of Tsingtao or the uttering of the word Heineken, I don't know, but it caused one of the faces to light up and cry "Tsingtao!". Cue screams of derisive laughter from her and the other 7. "THAT'S WHAT I SAID THE FIRST TIME, YOU PACK OF RUDE BITCHES!", I bellowed, furiously. Except I didn't. Although I was on the verge.Anyway, along comes an ice-cold 600 millilitre (nice one!) Tsingtao and a giant plate of special Fried Rice, and all is well. Cue further sniggers from the bitch waitresses when I struggle with the chopsticks, but one icy glare sends them scarpering for cover and puts paid to any further cackling. And impressively, as soon as my glass is empty, along comes a waitress out of nowhere each time to pour me another part of the bottle. The total damage is 28 Yuan (€2.70). Bleedin' noice wun!Today's blog was brought to you by Generous Shaving Gel. Don't be stingy (cue uproarious laughter at the double-meaning!), buy Generous Shaving Gel.
Day 4 (Tuesday August 28th)
The day got off to a tragic start when I learned that a very close relative of mine had died suddenly. My brother explained that it was all very sudden - a heart attack. I will of course have to return home immediately which is insignificant compared to the deep personal loss. Then I realised, "Wait a minute, this is all happening at my family home in Cavan - I'm here embracing my family members in mournful consolation." Then I woke up instantly. Dream Machine, you are an absolute bollox. Clearly vexed that I'm having a ball, it decides to concoct the most horrific story which I fell for hook, line and sinker.That very sudden wake-up occurred on the stroke of noon, a 2 hour improvement on the previous day! After some high-class lounging, it was off to the pool outside for....some high-class lounging. It was a gorgeous day - blue skies, 29 degrees and a brisk cooling sea breeze. Nothing for it but to lie back and think of iReland, listening to iTunes that iLike on my iPod. "American Dream" by Jakatta was particularly in keeping with the chilled oriental mood, while passers-by were surely amused at my actions to the Fast Food Song which just happened to come up on the randomizer. "A Pizza Hut... (join hands to form the top 2 sides of a triangle)....a Pizza Hut (repeat).....Kentucky Fried Chicken (bring folded arms to one's sides and wiggle them about) and a Pizza Hut (repeat first action, then repeat first verse).....McDonald's McDonald's (write out the Golden Arches "M" using one's two forefingers)......" Before you die of embarrasssment (one death today is quite enough, thanks very much), I should point out that the dance moves were done whilst lying on a sunlounger and were most subtle indeed.After a couple of hours of that nonsense, it was into the infinity pool for a couple of lengths (arduous fare as it is 80 metres in length) and a couple dozen testings of the water slides. The yellow slide was longer with a couple of tunnels but the blue one was more kamikaze-style with a few instances where you felt that you were going to rise up too much and fall out over the edge, and therefore won my vote, with 14 go's versus the 11 on its yellow rival. Then to complete the exhausting programme of daytime events, it was into the internal facilities of the jacuzzi, steam room and sauna. A frightened-looking 16-year-old was upon hand to dispense towels and toiletries. "Your wish is my command, Sir," he appeared to be saying, as he followed me around constantly, somewhat unnervingly. "I wish you to ravish me," I could have said, and he would not have batted an external eyelid, maintaining his abject horror fully internally. Thankfully a group of others came along into the fitness centre, diverting his attention for the duration of my jacuzzi soak.Upwards to my room to order a club sandwich and chips for lunch (d-lish and a Sheratal (?) bargain at €5.50), having had some Pringles for breakfast at 1pm. The ordering process was an arduous one, with what seemed like 11 others at the other end of the phone, trying to decipher what exactly I wanted. But it arrived in perfect condition fifteen minutes later, replete with gushing waiter. I lunched on the balcony and took in the fantastic views of Dapeng Bay and its surrounding hills.After some exquisite potterage, I headed into downtown Dameisha to see what it had to offer. I quickly came upon an arcade of establishments including McDonald's (whose establishments I was determined not to visit for at least another few days) and the fantastically entitled "Feeling Party Club". Despite the fact that it just had a few people inside seated on nondescript stools, it was evidently a place where people could come to feel each other's genitalia, at least going by the title. I decided to walk on by and headed down a side street or two where the real Dameisha was beginning to emerge. A group of budding Yao Mings were playing basketball on a floodlit street-side court, and a massive crowd of 40 people were watching some random DVD on a television located just outside a supermarket.I then happened upon an open-air restaurant entitled the "Brand Name Roast Pigeon Club." They certainly love their clubs here in Dameisha and seeing as there was a big crowd there, I decided to join in the Roast Pigeon fun. I sat down at a streetside table and ordered a Tsing Tao for starters. Once again, the waitress had no clue what I was on about but at least was more mannerly about it than those nasty bitches last night. I uttered "tSing t'OW" four or five times, along with "Beer" and "Heineken" but to no avail. She scurried off and a pigeon English speaker was on the scene in no time. Apparently "Tsing Tao" is pronounced "Tsung Toe" but I'll believe it when I say it somewhere else and it gets understood. An English menu was also plucked out of nowhere and I proceeded to peruse delights including Baked Eel with Fungus, succulent Roast Frog with Vermicelli, and mouth-watering Duck Placenta, amongst other delights. I ordered noodles with soy sauce and diced chicken with hot peppers. The waitress recommended the house special roast pigeon, which I politely declined, so she countered with the offer of some oysters. I had never tasted them, so I ordered a brace. Turns out they're delicious - like giant mussels - and they were served in their giant shells with garlic, herbs and spinach stuffing - d-lish! The chicken was rank - I deliberately ordered "diced" chicken as I didn't want any bone or gristle, but they just dice that too and serve it up. The noodles were delightful though, and the whole shebang came to just €5.80. All in all very worthwhile, for the people-watching value alone - a grandma constantly nagging her daughter-in-law, letting everyone know who's boss, and a roaming guitarist going round the cafes with mike and speaker in hand, getting people to pay a Euro to hear their personal favourite. ("Imagine" was gently murdered.)I returned to the hotel via the supermarket that had provided Generous Shaving Gel. A quick scout-round gave us today's product of the day - Dandyism Hair Conditioner! Dandyism does a range of products it seems - shampoo, conditioner and sea-weed facial scrub. Russell Brand would no doubt love it!Back at the Sheraton ranch, I milled into the 1998 bottle of Chinese Red wine which I must say was absolutely class! 9 year vintage for 4 Euros? - Gift!Tomorrow is a moving day - off to Guangzhou (known to us as Canton) - population 6 million. By the end of my travels I will have been in cities whose total populations exceed 60 million people!
Day 5 - Wednesday, August 29th, 2007
Arose at 9.40am, representing another two-hour-plus improvement on the previous day - methinks such advances are now at an end. Packed up all my stuff and headed down to check myself out, and then to pay the bill (boom boom!). The total damage for the 3 days and nights of hedonistic pleasure was a mere 44 Euros, which was entirely pleasing. Mr. CheckOut Guy delivered an extraordinary pearl of trivia during our conversation - that this hotel was the only one in the whole of China that is built on a beach. I must use that one as a question in my next Table Quiz, where surely over 78% of tables will know the correct answer. On to the Concierge Desk where Cherry kindly informed me what bus route to take to the train station, and wrote down its name and the name of the Westin Guangzhou in Mandarin (or is it Cantonese? I must endeavour to find out.). All Chinese people who believe that they will have contact with Westerners seem to choose a new Western name for themselves, most likely out of politeness. Thus, the hotel had a plethora of Cherries, Pearls, Alexes and Padraigs amongst its staff. (Perhaps not the latter one.)So I bade a tearful farewell to the Sheraton Dameisha Resort and headed across the road to catch the Number 357 bus. Cherry had told me that there were a few busses that went to the train station, but that she recommended this one because their busses were cleaner. I was hitherto unaware that there were filthy Chinese busses lurking out there, but I was most grateful to the good Lady Cherry for steering me down the continued Path of Hygiene.Outrageously, it took a full 70 seconds for the 357 to come along, and sure enough, it was spotlessly clean. As I pulled it up the steps of the bus, the pull-along handle of my suitcase came out of its socket, much to the unbridled merriment of the as-ever-exclusively-native coterie of commuters. The lady conductress pounced upon me immediately looking for my fare, but a now world-famous icy glare dispatched her elsewhere until I could regain composure, get seated and get a handle on my luggage woes. This achieved, it was safe for her to return so I presented her with Cherry's Mandarin script, and my 10-yuan (1 Euro) note yielded 3 Yuans in change. The bus took a different route to that previously travelled into Shenzhen and led us through a seemingly brand-spanking-new tunnel one of Dapeng Bay's hills. The tunnel was equivalent in size and length to Dublin's Port Tunnel, but was probably built for fun during a number of workmen's lunch-hour. I continue to be bowled over by the sheer scale of mass-construction in this region - everywhere you look, there are tunnels, motorways and skyscrapers in constructive progress. A 500-foot-high mass of bamboo scaffolding rises up to the base of a massive overhead bridge, whilst port-side lorry-containers are stacked 30 high in mile-long rows. (Shenzhen is the 4th largest port in the world.) All this leads to believe that one day soon, we will blink, and China will have become the world's most powerful economy. And good luck to them.After an hour, we reached the train station - a massive building in the background of a giant plaza. As the 35 degree heat beat down, my luggage handle popped out of its warped socket every 20 metres or so. Entering the train station (which more resembled an airport terminal) a giant bilingual scoreboard reveals that there is a train to Guangzhou in 15 minutes. "Platform at left of hallway," the scoreboard also utters. A flight of escalators is all the left hand side of the hallway has to offer so I ascend those, and am greeted by a host of army chappies, who are scrutinzing ID cards of various commuters. I say "Guangzhou?" to one of them, and he points me downstairs again. Cue my return to where I came from, and much headless-chicken-like scurrying around. A kindly gentleman came along, enquired in English where I was going, brought me out of the building into another, bought my ticket, and sped off on his merry way, insisting on no gratuity. Thank you, kind mysterious stranger!The train ticket is a mere 75 Yuan (7 Euros) and is just about to leave when I board. I show my ticket to the conductress and her screwed up face instantly reveals to me that I'm in the first-class compartment. I feign ignorance and she hasn't the inclination to push me down the carraiges, so I plonk myself into a plush seat and within a minute, a complimentary cup of refreshing tea has been served to me. Pure civilisation! And this is no crockety chicken-train either - the carraige has a speedometer showing that it reaches 200km per hour, with an average speed of 160 kilometres per hour, and it glides along with the smoothness of a baby's arse. The journey reveals more massive infrastructural development all along its route. The train pulls into Guangzhou East station exactly on time at 1.22pm, 57 minutes after it had departed Shenzhen and it truly had been a pure delight to be aboard. I ambled past the shysters shouting "Taxi" knowing that they were looking to rip me off, deciding to walk on for a couple of hundred metres and look for a taxi then. Before I had the chance to do so, the Westin skyscraper revealed itself in the distance and I made a beeline for it on foot. So Sheraton Dameisha to Westin Guangzhou completed for 8 Euros - nice one!The hotel is as nice as had been imagined - a 40-storey glass skyscraper consisting of two main towers, with lush interior design. My 13th Floor Suite offers cool views of all the other skyscrapers in the city. Guangzhou has 6 million people and is officially the 10th most skyscraped city in the world, fact fans! The room has a sofa, a writing bureau, a Heavenly (trade-mark) bed and a Japanese pagoda-style bathroom where you can open its window to be able to watch the 32 inch LCD TV whilst in the bath. It's a far cry from the 4 Euro Bangkok cell where I spent my first night in Asia 8 years ago, which had 4 brick walls, a fan and a sheetless bed. So the opulence is causing no pangs of internal guilt whatsoever.Leaving my room, I catch sight of the first whitings that I have seen in quite some time - an American couple who appear to be adopting a little Chinese girl. The "Dad" is clicking at the child in a bid to get her to move in a certain direction - parenting skills will have to improve there ever so slightly if that tale is to have a happy conclusion.I head across the square to the International Citic Shopping Plaza - a rather posh galleria with shops including Calvin Klein, Armani, Prada and....McDonald's. Determined to eschew it for a little while longer, I decide instead to breakfast in the much more culturally-endowned Papa John's Pizza restaurant, where I down mushroom soup, orange juice and a delightful pasta bake, setting me back 60 Yuan (6 Euros).Having recently endured a panic attack that I might need a Vietnamese visa in advance of travelling there and having no real idea how I'll get to Hanoi by Saturday, I pop into a travel agency. As flights to Hanoi are a ridiculous 220 Euros one-way, I opt for a 68 Euro flight to Nanning on Friday morning instead. Apparently, Nanning is but 5 hours away by bus from Hanoi, so hopefully that'll work out. My fears of needing a visa are confirmed, but it looks hopeful that the agency will get me one within 24 hours.Back to the Westin, where I head to the leisure facilities. The changing room is a luxurious hoot, with dressing gowns, duvet-sized fluffy towels, electronic lockers, more toiletries than Boots, and couches instead of benches to sit on! As promised by the promotional photo, the indoor pool does indeed have a giant chandelier overhead. There's a steaming jacuzzi and an ice-cold plunge pool, as well as a giant sauna and steamroom. The outdoor pool has views of all the city skyscrapers and is bordered on two sides by the two towers of the hotel, with a bridge 30 floors above to keep any rains away. Mint!Utterly relaxed, I head for a wander and I soon find myself down a narrow dark alley with a series of businesses operating either side. I see a cool pair of Converse that I want to buy for 6 Euros but the biggest size they have is 7! Walking further into the alley, I realise that I should be scared, as the place looks like a slum and is full of strange people. But ask me if I bovvered? No, I ain't bovvered! I don't really fancy going for another Chinese tonight so I head for the only other option (as it's 10.30pm) which is McDonald's, and feel suitably dirty afterwards, as ever.Today's blog has been brought to you by Tongcheg Entertainment who kindly offered their services in a flyer handed to me this evening : "You want beautiful young chihnese girls for massge and sew? yes,that,s we have. We are providing brofessinal massage service. Eccelent quality of our girls is guaranteed and fast delivery is our bromise. we will assign gorls According to your special requirements, your comfort, our pleasure? 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Day 6 - Thursday, August 30th, 2007
Woke up at 1pm, having dismissed the 9.30am alarm call earlier - tee hee!Went fashion shopping but got nowhere quickly.Returned to Westin to receive fawning service from Season, Giggs and Bobo (triple sniggers).Went to Baiyau Mountain Resort, where I ascended the treacherous 1500 foot peak!Returned and lunched in Ikea! A horse of a feed!Got my visa to 'Nam and booked a flight to Nanning for tomorrow morning, from where I shall launch an assault the China-Vietnam border and head onwards to Hanoi, which I'll hopefully reach y tomorrow evening (but I suspect I might get held up at the border).Went shopping in posh Mee Mall. Was generally disgusted by the prices - G Star shirts and jeans were more expensive than in Dublin- fack right off! However, got myself a rather flash Kangwei (Chinese label - watch out for it, kids!) ensemble of shirt, shorts n trainers for 32 yo-yos - mint!Called into Hooley's Irish Pub on the way back - it was as Irish as Ally McCoist and I've seen bigger hooleys in Beaumont Hospital.
Day 7 - Friday, August 31st, 2007
Necessity - the mother of all evil - decreed that a 7am wake-up today was unavoidable, as I had a plane to catch. Seeing as I awoke so late yesterday, I didn't nod off until 4am, so do the maths and proceed to weep for your poor unfortunate cousin Damo. I bade a reluctant farewell to the Westin and to Giggs, Season and Bobo, but vowed to return one day soon, preferably teeming with good company on that occasion. The 45-minute taxi-ride was uneventful and cost 120 Yuans (€12). Guangzhou's brand new airport is 45 kilometres out of town - I thought if you were building a new one, you'd have it closer to the city centre, but what the hey! The airport is a bright cavernous affair, with room for everyone to swing their proverbial cats. They did manage to hold the international constant - that of terminably slow security checks. I considered eating but wasn't all that bovvered, and was less so when the only food outlet was trying to vend coffees at a fiver a pop. Pluck right off with yourselves. The flight to Nanning was with China Southern Airlines and the hairdryer of a plane that I dreaded pleasingly failed ot materialise - it was in fact a Boeing 737. Service was more Ryanair than British Airways, but they did manage to dish out a complimentary bottle of water and the driest "Moist" towelette known to mankind. I had the great fortune of being seated beside a family of 4 Chinese hillbillies (Maw, Paw, Grammaw and Suhn), who were clearly enjoying their first ever flight of their collective lives. Maw was seated beside me and was particuarly animated - before the plane even moved, the table tray was opened, shut and opened again, before an hostess admonished here. She flustered over the application of the seatbelt and she dished out vile-smelling sweets and Doublemint chewing-gums like they were going out of fashion (which I believe they have - it's all about the Extra Professional Whitening Gum now - get with it, Maw!). Her programme of hysteria cranked up several notches when the plane became air-borne, by which time I had fled to the safety of a seat in the emergency exit row. However, I was able to enjoy seeing the hicks all swap seats with each other on several occasions, and go ballistic at each new ball of cloud that they could see out the window. I fully expected them to burst into applause upon landing, in the style of 90% of all Irish charte-flight goers and 25% of all Ryanair flyers, but mercifully they desisted. (I could never understand the clapping business - flying is safer than crossing the road. O'Connell Street or Oxford Street would be veritable carnivals were the practice to extend to pedestrians there, upon successful completion of their daring voyage.)So next up was a bus from Nanning Airport (15 Yuan) into the city centre, which happened to be another 40km haul, followed by a 30 minute taxi ride (30 Yuan) to the bus station, followed instantly by the 3 hour bus journey to Pinxiang (60 Yuan) near the China-Vietnam border. The lack of breaks between modes of transport meant that I had yet to eat at all that day, though thankfully the complimentary waters kept on flowing. The bus to Pinxiang was very stylish indeed, with reclining seats, a TV showing shite Chinese chat shows and curtains to shield us from the searing heat of the sun. A further mini-bus ride (20 Yuan) was then required from Pinxiang to the actual border crossing, which took an age to complete - big queue to exit China, then the walk through no-man's land (it genuinely looked like the background in Mortal Kombat), then Vietnamese passport control, then Vietnamese medical control (which merely involved them taking 20 cents from everyone) and finally Vietnamese customs. By now it was 5.30pm and I hadn't eaten in 19 hours, but I was holding up well, probably because of the pig-out feast that I'd had in Ikea the previous day. Straight onto another luxuriant bus, although they insusted on playing a DVD compilation of some Vietnamese pop-stars woeful hits. Picture a 19 year old Vietnamese version of Daniel O'Donnell, with cringe-worthy home-made videos, and that add the excruciating torture of having the DVD skip and pause every 5 seconds, for 2 hours solid. Thankfully I had my iPod to retreat to, otherwise I would have gone quite postal indeed.At 7pm, the bus stopped at a ramshackle Vietnamese roadside cafe, where I managed to wolf down a couple of pork sausages each of which were fairly unnecessarily wrapped in masses of jungle leaves, and a potato-esque footstuff called a "Tarot", according to a couple of Americans (the Westerners are returning!) that I exchanged pleasantries with there.Onwards to Hanoi and the closer we got, the more the bus (and all other vehicles on the road) beeped. "Beep!, you're in my way, move over. Beep!, I've just overtaken you - tee hee! Beep!, I just felt like beeping! And so forth." The traffic system in Hanoi has to be seen to be believed. 3 streets will lead into one and all three flows of traffic will not stop to yield for the other - it is absolute chaos, but no-one seems to get hurt, and traffic seems to keep moving. How Bizarre!, as that obscure New Zealand pop ensemble once remarked.The final leg of the 15-hour traffic journey was in a "meter" taxi to the hotel, where the meter had clearly been doctored, as 300 metres were ratched up at sudden and sporadic intervals, with barely the length of a car travelled. The bill came to €4.50, and as the bloke's car had conked out and died just outside the hotel, I just threw him the money and walked off. At this point, the long-suffering pull-along handle of my suitcase did the decent thing and disintegrated into 3 pieces. It will receive a decent burial and a new one will be purchased before Hanoi has been evacuated.The Sheraton Hanoi is a grand old French colonial affair and seems to be well into its "faded glory" era but that can add class - the jury is out on this matter thusfar. The check-in service got off to a bad start, as Mr. Assistant Manager started looking for internet printouts of booking confirmations and suggested that I go off to a PC (who knows where) and print one off and give it to him. After 15 hours of travelling, I was in no way backwards about telling him waht he could do with his request. "I'VE NEVER HAD TO DO THAT BEFORE AND I'M NOT GOING TO DO IT," I said betwixt clenched teeth, and Mr. Assistant Manager had the good race not to pursue the matter, deciding instead to change his tone by saying that I had received a Room Upgrade and that I could check out as late as 4pm (all these are standard to Starwood Preferred Guests such as I, but it was absolutely lovely to be reminded). The room is a nice one though, on the 14th floor, with fine views of the lake and the city centre.Ravenous at this stage and at 9pm, I decided to take the quick option and go for the in-house buffet dinner for €18, seeing as it had been so good in the Dameisha a few day earlier. Turning up at the restaurant, the snooty little native Madame said that I would need to cover my naked arms, should I wish to enter (this open-plan buffet). You see I was wearing a red Nike sleeveless shirt - of the style championed by Ronaldinho - and whilst this bore no problems in the much swankier Westin Gunagzhou and Sheraton Dameisha, it was deemed utterly offensive couture in this inferior joint. "Fuck RIGHT off with your "Come back with some sleeves", you snooty bitch," I bellowed, except I didn't. I said "OK" and walked out to find another eaterie, which I managed to do with ease. And, joy unconfined, it was an Indian, enabling me for the first time in a week to eat boneless chicken dishes to beat the band, all washed down with some refreshingly effervescent Tigers. Huzzah!
Day 8 - Saturday, September 1st, 2007
Good Christ!, is this odyssey already a week aged? 'Twouldst seem so! Awoke at 11am aftetr further bizarre nocturnal pictorial madnes - during the night I had met Stan Staunton outside (presumably) Croker before a match and proceeded to exchange many pleasantries with him. He proferred his hand to me in the first instance and seemed delighted with the extensive chat. At the end of it all, he asked if there was anything that he could do for me! I said "Absolutely not!", and reassured him that this was not a plea for match tickets or any other such favours!So I arose and showered and before long the good Lady Laura van Bellissima and the Marquis Stefan von Style came a-knockin' upon my door. How marvellous it was to see then both - this was the culmination of many a month's planning, and the rendez-vous had finally occurred, as planned. After availing of thr complimentary Sheraton fruit basket, we went a-seeking more sustainable victuals, and happenstanced upon what seemed to be a reputable culinary establishment close to the hotel. How wrong we were! A simple request for Coca-Cola was denied - apparently the brasserie was entirely out of stock of the much sought-after beverage. Sprite, Pepsi, Fanta and even water were similarly unobtainable, 'twouldst seem. All this led to misgivings that the repastural orders of chicken fried rice, vegetable boiled rice and beef stay with boiled rice would encounter significant danger, and this misgivings very much came to pass. The chicken fried rice arrived with chippings of gherkin and fish, yet was entirely poultry-free; the beef satay with boiled rice was skewer-less and entirely rice-free, whilst the vegetable boiled rice consisted of a very rice-less mass of sauteed green beans. Protestations were met by a complete lack of comprehension of the Englich language, so sagacity prevailed, and the collective 9 Euro bill was paid, and the pilgrims departed. Baron Damon decided that the fruit basket had sustained him sufficiently, but Lady Bellissima took the opulent decision to order a $15 burger and chips, which subsequently transpired to be of the most manky variety, chips aside. Unperturbed, the trio decided to avail of the in-house sporting facilities, by booking an hour of the 4th Floor Tennis Court's time. And so the trio took to the outdoor asphalt court, in the sweltering 35 degree afternoon heat, having rented tennis rackets and balls for the princely sum of $12. Whilst this sounds like €10 Dublin, it was akin to a $150 charge in Vietnam, but the trio remained unperturbed. It was decided that a duo would have a best-of-3 battle and the victor would hold court to receive a challenge from the 3rd competitor. The hour proved to be most taxing on the entire trio's endocrinal glands, and much sweat was duly produced. By the end of proceedings, Il Damiano had emerged a clear victor, but this was surpassed by the sense of general fitness in which the trio had indulged. Matters came to a merciful end when an American quartet arrived for their court booking. An ageing Jim Courier-esque member of said quartet kindly took photos of the energetic trio, and commented upon the redness of Il Damiano's tennis garb. Unperturned, the trio motored onwards to the hotel's delightful outdoor pool, where a trio of $4 Tiger beer cans were ordered and duly consumed with gusto, whilst Laura gleefully read Heat magazine, Steo devoured a week-old Daily Mail and I tittered at the various vagaries of Loaded. After a healthy round of bathroom refurbishments, the trio congregated over a bottle of '98 Chinese Honest Wine, and it was deemed to be entirely magnificent. Such rave reviews led to an encore of Vladivar Vodkas with Dr. Pepper accompaniment, and this too was deemed to be a triumph. A taxi was hailed from outside the Sheraton to the amusingly named "Le Pub" in the centre of town. The fare involved the divestment of a mere 40,000 dong, or €1.80 of our hard-earned cash.Into Le Pub we spattered, where we met Ash-a-leen from Norn Iron, Fiona from the posh end of Cark, Matt and another frugal lady from Engerland and similarly Engish but more flaithulach Chris. After indulging in some delightful tasty bites, we quickly adjoined to the main business in hand - an intense programme of drinking games. Jaysus - so much to catch up on! Here's the synopsis - elaboration later. The Ring of Fire drinking game was a raucous affair. We then got a fleet of motorbikers to drive us at speed through the mental Hanoi traffic to a Karaoke Bar. We negotiated 25 bottles of beer and an hour of karaoke for 50 dollars - deadly! Much karaoke hilarity ensued - the star turn was when Steo and I duetted on a song that we had never heard of before, yet got it note-perfect. Eat your heart out, Amadeus! More crazy motorbike journeys to a mechanic's garage which masqueraded as an underground nightclub and pool hall - deadly hurling! The music was R n B then progressed to techno. Rancid but potent triple voddy n oranges were less than 2 Euros each. There was a pool table there too, which got excellent usage. Crazy shenanigans on the way home - a taxi driver tried to rip us off, and I let fly at her in a violent and abusive manner - it did the trick. We got mopeds home with some clueless divvils so it took an age to get there.
Day 9 - Sunday September 2nd 2007
Rose at 2.30pm so the hangover got slept-off nicely. It was bucketing rain, but the concierge kindly supplied us with umbrellas for the 100 yard trek to a local brunch cafe, where flavoursome Peanut Butter n Jelly sandwiches, Cappucinos and the like were imbibed with hung-over turgidity.Back to the Sheraton for some saunage and jacuzzifying, and then into town. 1st stop was a sham of a cafe who had no chicken in stock, so we headed next door, where the enterprising waiter talked me into ordering and quaffing a 5-shot cocktail, all downed in one gulp - sambuca, triple sec, contreau, Bailey's and Creme de Menthe - all sucked through a straw while it was burning! D-lish!Back to the Sheraton for some chillage, in readiness for tomorrow's Island Trip.
Day 10 - Monday, September 3rd 2007
Headed off at 7am (eek!) to get our bus to Halong Bay - a 4 hour drive away. We were sharing with a group of Vietnamese tourists who were all the one family. Their star member was Chow Young Fat, the spoilt fat only child, who belied his (Chicken) tender 3 years by bellowing raucously at any given moment, delighting us highly. Further crazy high-pitchedness was the order of the day upon our arrival to the bay, where on the dockside, a middle-aged woman was screaming her lungs out and having hysterical and tearful fits of rage. At what?, we knew not, and we proceeded to find her enormously amusing. What compassionate souls! It was shocking caterwauling though, you simply had to be there.Onto the boat where we would stay that night; it whisked us off into the Bay and to some very cool island caves. Later on, the boat docked, and we all jumped off the top of the boat (20 feet high) into the sea, and proceeded to swim 300 metres to another cruise ship, and, after a lenghty rest, back to the boat again.After dinner, there was up-deck chilling, and cabin card-sessions with new friends Paka and Ruth from Hawaii, and the Lost Lock lookalike, Barry from Lahndon (innit).
Day 11 - Tuesday September 4th 2007
More cruising. Back to Hanoi. Got ourselves a hotel and had a nice meal in a French cafe, where all the seats were wheelchairs. Onwards for suitcase-purchasing and beers.
Day 12 - Wednesday September 5th 2007
Rose late enough and went shoping in Hanoi. Bought prescription designer glasses - 2 pairs for 50 Euros! My optician brother will be furious! Also bought loads of DVDs - Sopranos Season 6, Entourage Seasons 1-3, Heroes 1-3, Desperate Housewives 3, Lost 3 and a host of films currently in the cinema like The SImpsons and Knocked Up. All for $1 each! Tee hee!Then we got the bus to Vientiane in Laos at 6pm. 23 hours later - we arrived! The bus was laden down with goods such as milk, rice, computer parts and mysterious briefcases which all got delivered at various interbvals along the way. Throw in the stops every 2 hours and the breakdowns and puncture stops, and you have a very long and arduous journey to test even the steeliest of backpacking hearts. Somehow, we all thoroughly enjoyed it!, especially the latter 9 hours in Laos, where the scenery was breathtaking.
Day 13 - Thursday September 6th
Arrived in Vientiane at 5.30pm! Checked into a nice hotel ($5 each!) and went for a superb meal. Just popped out to do some blogging, now heading back to the pub for some more delicious 90 cent bottles of Beer Lao.So back we went to the bar, which was most luxuriantly colonial in style - a large open patio, a round wooden bar, and a pool table inside. Steo signed the three of us up for the "Winner Holds Table" challenge and we proceeded with gusto to the bar to order cut-price cocktails. It was 9.57pm, and all cocktails were a ludicrous 20,000 kips (EUR1.60) until 10pm - so we ordered 2 each, except greedy pig Steo who went for 3. My selection - a Black Russian and a Mint Julep - were delightfully potent, and were downed within 38.7 seconds. I got talking to one of the girls beside me - Caoimhe from Athlone - and of course it transpired that they had a bestest buddy in common, continuing the Small World experiences that we have been having recently.After receiving 650 millilitre replenishments of my sexy new partner Beer Lao, we adjoined into the pool room, and Steo was soon called into action. His opponent was a studious Chinese man whose life appeared to depend on every single shot he took. The pressure of the gazing international community was clearly too much for our Steo, who was not on potting form, and Pot Sum Ball emerged effortlessly triumphant. Next up was Bellissima, who quickly became a crowd favourite, especially in the corner that housed several young Asian gentlefolk. Her every pot (of which there were many) were cheered raucously by the entire crowd, but Pot Sum Ball alas remained undefeated. Up strode Il Damiano, and relishing the gaze of the United Nations Assembly, he emerged victorious and claimed the night's championship belt, for the authorities had previously declared the game to be the final joust of the evening. Pot Sum Ball was utterly despondent and made a hasty exit in order to sob uncontrollably, or possibly something even worse.We had clearly made an instant impact with the assembled gathering, as my pooling fee was paid by an anonymous benefactor, we received a libation of a free Beer Lao from an onlooker, and we were joined by an ebriated but highly entertaining Bruce from Perth in Australia. He had lived in Laos for the past three years, working in gold mines, and before we knew it, we were tuk-tukking with him to a nightclub that he knew. I should point out at this stage that Laos operates an official government-imposed curfew of 11pm. It was now 12 midnight and after a brief pit-stop in an empty bar (where we had some more Beer Lao), we went off to Dong Chan - the illicit but stylish nightclub located in Laos's tallest building, which is 6 storeys high. I have used the term nightclub somewhat loosely, and the club was jam-packed with Laotian ladies of the night, who pack the dancefloor to offer their wares. A host of colonial dirty old men are there to greet them and talk financial terms, and the elevators were doing a steady trade with departing temporary couples. The dance floor was also packed with regular club punters, so it made for an excitingly intoxicating mix. After an hour or so, we made our exit whilst Bruce was buying us yet more drinks. Wracked with guilt, Steo was dispatched back up the elevator to explain to Bruce that we were retiring for the evening. Whilst waiting downstairs, it was entertaining to see the various temporary couples head off into the rainy night. A tattooed Scottish gentleman, leaving with his surly Laotian minx, espied us and seemed to get a little embarrassed (although he was probably physically "embarrassed" already). The first thing he could think of was to shout "Ohhhh, ah wash ah wuzz back in the Yoooooo Keeeeee" towards us. And we shall never know why, lamentably.We negotiated ourselves a tuk-tuk back to the hotel and retired gracefully around 3.30am.
Day 18 - Tuesday September 11th
Enjoyed some of the greatest hours of my life doing the tubing down the Mekong river. Much more detail to come - it'll take me a week to tell you all about it!
Day 19 - Wednesday September 12th
Day of post-tubing vegetation. Went swimming in a nearby pool and dined in a charming Indian restaurant.
Day 20 - Thursday September 13th
Finally left Vang Vieng this morning, getting the bus to Luang Prabang. The journey is a mere 140 miles, but it took 7 hours, as we were going up and down mountains constantly. The scenery was breath-taking, as was the fact that there were no crash barriers to prevent us from crashing 2,000 feet into the valley below. All along the way we dodged chickens, cattle, goats, kids and dogs. We were also treated to dozens of naked Laotians washing themselves in streams and waterfalls!We arrived in LP at 5pm and got a tuk-tuk to the guesthouse that we chose. It is called Rattana but thankfully appears to be entirely rodent-free, despite its 5 Euro per double-room price tag! The tuk-tuk driver got commandeered by a shyster who tried to bring us to another guesthouse but we told him to fuck right off, and all was well again.We then went a-wandering down the town and got another tuk-tuk driver to bring us to a place where they had a pool table. Tuk-tuk cost approximately 30 cents each per journey, so your anguished concern at our over-spening on transportation should be quelled immediately. IS THAT CLEAR?Anyhoo, Mr. van (tee hee!) der Tuktuk delivered admirably, bringing us to a bar with a free (in terms of price and availability) pool table. Ginat bottles of refreshing delicious BeerLao were 90 cents apiece and they also offered some frozen daiquiris at 3 Euros per pair! We indulged shamelessly, needless to say.A tournament betwixt Bellisima, Style, Dave the Rave and myself ensued. Style and I battled it out in an ill-tempered final and alas the odious Style emerged victorious in the final frame.We were then joined by Gary and Nick from NornIron, an Israeli chappie and a couple of other continentals, and several games of Killer ensued. LP is also affected by a ridiculous 11pm curfew, but savvy tuk tuk drivers brought us to the only beer emporium in town that stays open late - a BOWLING ALLEY!We all amused each other uproariously with our shite bowling "skills" until 2am, when 12 of us were herded into a tuktuk and driven to our guesthouses. We managed half a raucous version of Bohemian Rhapsody before the tuktuk driver demanded that we stop before getting arrested by the Laos police. THey really love their beauty sleep around here!
Day 21 - Friday September 14th
Breakfasted in the cool Joma bakery/cafe. Toasted bagels, grapefruit juice and coffee - D-lish! Then we hired a tuk-tuk for an outlandish 3 yo-yos per person to bring us the 30km to a huge waterfall (and back). There was also a bear and tiger sanctuary there - the tiger came right up to us - v cool. There was also supposed to be a swimming area but it was flooded because of the wet season. It didn't stop us from dipping in, even though some kind Israelis warned us that there were leeches in the water! We had a relaxing game of cards at a picnic table afterwards. We were joined by a lone Kiwi for the duration of the game - he was hopeless at picking up the rules of Switch, but we enjoyed his company all the same before he wandered off into the forest. Off now to celebrate Bellissima's birthday in Style (tee hee!) at a dead-posh restaurant which we are hoping (craving) does a juicy fillet steak.
Day 26 - Wednesday 19th September 2007
In honour of birthday boy Style, we embarked on the most magnificent of tours, where we visited the Golden Triangle, where the countires of Myanmar, Laos and Thailand all meet. We then made a daring 20 minute foray into Myanmar to elicit a passport stamp. Achieved successfully, this means that I have now visited 49 countires, with Number 50 imminent - watch this space! Onwards to a remote area of Thailand to visit a tribe where the women are forced to put 3 layers of steel around their necks every 3 years. The photos will reveal the amazement in full. Out of pity I bought loads of keyrings and fridge magnets, so be prepared for lavish exotic gifts, friends and family!
Day 27 - Thursday 20th September 2007A magnificent day of posh golf was indulged in today. We all had Thai lady-caddies who advised us on club selection and green undulation, as well as caddy-cars, as opulent Westerners such as we should not face the indignity of having to amble along in the fierce South-East Asian sun. Bellissima emerged utterly triumphant, and I for the record went round in a stupendously awesome 127 shots.Afterwards, we retired to the snooker and darts clubhouse, where we enjoyed a number of games of snooker (honours were even, fact fans), and then I challenged the local Number 3 seed to a game of Darts. There was much surprise and joviality when I emerged triumphant, earning the princely sum of 100 bahts! (EUR2.08) The Number 2 seed then stepped up to the mark and won the first game but then lost the 2nd encounter, much to his public shame. The Number 1 seed was telephoned and ordered to speed to the clubhouse, but by this time we had eloped to the Saloon Bar for much required sustainance and beveragarial condiments.
Day 28 - Friday 21st September 2007
After a late ascension, it was straight to the pool for some quality tannage. Laterz, pre-match preparations commenced with some bottles of vintage rouge in our hotel room, combined with games of switch where a stake of 1 Baht (2.2 cents, fact-fans!)per point kept the competition lively. Suitably refreshed, 'twas onwards to Pom Pui Italian restaurant where the lurch-esque Italiano manager both enthralled and scared us in equal measures. The Insalata Caprese had about 8 tomatoes worth of slices whilst the Risotto contained the contents of 11 paddy fields. Matters were concluded with a round of Limoncellos which further boosted the spirits. After a couple of pit-stops, we ended up in a night-club which agreed to show the Ireland-France game - the only place to do so because the Thai vice-prime minister was in town and something of a temperance queen! Got extraordinarily inebriated to get over the shocking disappointment of the result.
Day 29 - Saturday 22nd September 2007
Rose at the very respectable hour of 1pm and vegetated excessively until it was time to catch our Night Bus to Bangkok. Departing at 7pm, we arrived in the Cock-Banging Metropolis at 5am, following an hour-long midnight stopo for some revolting cuisine.
Day 30 - Sunday 23rd September 2007
Just finished some quality tannage on the rooftop of our Hotel.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
CentrAmp 2008 - Days 10-13 - Nicaragua
Read the CentrAmp blogs for Panama & Costa Rica before proceeding, or else you will be beaten senseless........
Days 10 -13 - Granada, Nicaragua
Rather than do a day-by-day blog for these days, I am going to write a general reportage on Granada, as my days here weren't too eventful, and deliberately so, as I anointed it as one of my chill-out zones. I breakfasted each morning at length and at leisure on the hotel patio which had the Lake (pictured) and its long promenade in full view. The food in the hotel was excellent, with each breakfast consisting of a big plate of ultra-fresh pineapple watermelon and melon, a juicy ham and cheese omelette, toast and coffee, all for 50 Cordobas ($2.50/€1.75). Companionship was usually provided by my Teach-Yourself-Spanish book, which continued to be useful as Nicaraguans, like their Panamaniacal and Costly Rican counterparts, aren't big on English either.
Afternoons were spent walking or jogging along the promenade, with some chilled reading or surfing back in the hotel room. Sounds boring but it was bliss! Whilst sitting at the lakeside on one of the afternoons, I was approached by a local boatsman, who after some standard Spanglish small-talk wanted to know if I was interested in a trip on the lake. Not really, I said truthfully, and due to my genuine disinterest, the price for an hour-long trip dived from $30 to $7, and before I knew it, I was being transported (rather painfully) on the back of his 70-year-old bicycle to his boat. I asked a few times if we were near our destination, as my arse was killing me, and the reply was always a lie-filled "Si".
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
CentrAmp 2008 - Days 6-9 - Costa Rica
Make sure you've read the first instalment of my blog (Days 1-5) further below before reading this!
Day 6 - Thursday, September 4th, 2008 - Bocas Del Toro / Guabito / Sixaola / Puerto Viejo
There was a massive temptation to stick around the Bocas for a day or two more as it was such a cool place, but in the interest of getting to the target destination of Cancun on time without going through anywhere too quickly, it was time to move onto Costa Rica. I packed up, thanked Dennis for his hospitality and made the arduous 5 minute journey to the jetty, where a speedboat to the border was leaving in 30 minutes, at 11am. I bought my ticket for $7 (€5) and headed to a nearby caff to grab a spot of breakfast.
Heading back to the pier, a capacity cargo of 40 passengers piled into the speedboat, which was mercifully canopied as the sun was strong as ever. Before the off, the driver told a corpulent American girl to move to the other side of the boat in order to balance it, causing inward evil mirth amongst her fellow passengers and mortification for the Beast herself. The hour-long journey was most pleasant, as it went through a series of lagoons that ran parallel to the sea. In many places the water was entirely covered by plants, causing the engine to intermittently consider cutting out. The Beast feigned illness from practically the outset of the journey, and she was consoled by weary members of her travelling party, who seemed to have seen it all before.
Upon landing, we were all set upon by begging locals, so I quickly headed to a gaggle of mini-bus drivers who were waiting to drive us the 10 miles or so to the border for $5 each. The journey, on horrendously pot-holed roads/tracks, went through banana plantations on either side - and indeed, the area truly seemed to be a Banana Republic or, if you will, a kip. The kippishness augmented when we reached the border town of Guabito so I sprinted up steps to the bridge which had Costa Rica on its other side. Firstly, Panamaniacal Passport Control needed to be negotiated, although the queue was mercifully short.
The next step in the procedure was to walk over the 200-metre long rickety bridge which had clearly seen better days. Next up was Costa Rican Passport Control, which took a while as I needed to rummage in my rucksack for the aeroplane ticket home that they demanded to see. The heat was absolutely sweltering at this stage, so everything took that little bit longer.
Predictably, upon clearing passport control, there was a welcoming party of Costa Rican shysters upon hand ready to offer rip-off transport services. Their generous offer of a $90 taxi to Puerto Limon was gruffly rebuked, although I wasn't sure what the alternative was. I walked the 50 metres onward to the even-kippier border town of Sixaola and thought to myself, "I have to get out of here quickly!" This sentiment was strengthened as an old fat prostitute emerged from a dilapidated hostelry and began literally hissing at me as I consulted my Lonely Planet, desperate for an escape route. Luckily a couple of local youths pointed at what looked like a dead-end alley but was actually a street, leading to the bus station. The bus to Limon - a functional but filthy vehicle - was about to leave so I hopped aboard and paid the $5 fare.
Dennis had forewarned that Costa Rican busses stopped at every hole in the road, but it still didn't prepare me for the extent to which it did exactly that. Bus stops simply don't exist, allowing locals to emerge from their house, stick out their hand, and hop aboard at 50 metre intervals. This is truly a marvellous service if you're a local, but if you are travelling the 150 miles to Limon, it quickly turns into the journey from hell. To add to the fun, the entire bus entourage and its contents were ordered off the bus at a police checkpoint after about 20 miles, to have our passports/ID cards and luggage examined.
When the road deteriorated into a bumpy gravel path, I decided that enough was enough and got off the bus at the seaside town of Puerto Viejo, resolving to continue my arduous journey to TurtleVille (Tortuguero) tomorrow.
I walked the short distance to Hotel Pura Vida which was recommended in the Lonely Planet. There were no single rooms left but there was one double room left for $30 (only $5 more) so I instantly went for that. The Chilean co-owner seemed able to read the blog of my day thusfar from my face and gave me one of the most delicious glasses of iced-water of all time, bless 'im. While the place was nice, I had been spoiled by Casa Amarillo and it wasn't a patch on it, with no air-con, wi-fi, TV or fridge, a curious shower which had a cobble-stoned base (high novelty value but none too comfortable on the Shank's Mares) and a Greek-style toilet where one needed to dispense one's faeces-smeared bog-roll in a nearby bin, rather than the lavatory itself, for fear of blocking the pipes. The room was bright and spacious though, and the bed was big and comfortable, and that was all I needed.
I headed the short distance into town, and whilst briefly surfing the net (as the $4 per hour charge was rather saucy), I discovered that Costa Rica is one hour behind Panama rather than ahead, so it was 3.30pm instead of 5.30pm! I walked around the town but wasn't enamoured with it - it had a seedy feel to it and the nearby beach again couldn't match the pristine sands of Bocas del Toro, so I wouldn't be extending my stay here.
I dined in a colonial-style restaurant overlooking the sea and had really good tomato soup, a just about passable Creole leg of chicken with rice 'n beans (a Caribbean staple), washed down with water and a decent Imperial beer. Then it was back to the "hotel" and I do believe that I was sound asleep by 7pm - a personal world record, perhaps!
Day 7 - Friday, September 5th, 2008 - Puerto Viejo-Limon-Moin-Tortuguero
Wake-up time was 6.30am, as the kindly German co-owner had advised that I would need to be on the 7am bus to Limon in order to make the boat for Tortuguero. Having had 11 hours' sleep, I was fully steeled up if needed be for the most nightmarish day of travel, and when in that frame of mind, everything becomes more pleasant. Knowing in advance that the bus would stop every 50 metres but would get to Limon in 2 hours, all became groovy with the world again. The sun was shining, the roadside scenery was great, the people-watching had an endless cast (thanks to the 50 metre rule) and the iPod choons were great. One recent discovery that has been receiving much airplay is "Meet Glen Campbell" - an album of covers of contemporary choons such as Travis' "Sing", U2's "All I Want Is You" and Green Day's "Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)" by the legendary 72-year-old Country 'n Western crooner. Hugely recommended!
Arriving in Limon, gougers were once again on hand to meet the gringos with kindly offers of transport to Moin, from where the 5-hour boat-ride to Tortuguero departed. $7 (€5) for a 6 mile taxi ride was in all probabilty far too much, but my sunny disposition had curtailed my ability to negotiate in a cut-throat stylie. And splendidly, the driver was of West-Indian ancestry and had great English, which made a pleasant change from the almost-constant pidgin Spanish that I have needed to utter. He marvelled at my itinerary and remarked that it was funny that I came from 10,000 miles away and was visiting all these places, whereas he lived nearby to them all, and probably would never visit them in his lifetime!
Limon is a major port in Costa Rica, and on the drive to Moin, you could see all the giant bunches of bananas being lined up for mass-shipment. Upon arrival at the canal, the taxi-driver introduced me to the "captain" of the boat that would take me to Tortuguero. The initial fare of $50 was slashed to $30 (what the Lonely Planet said it should be) after a little bargaining. After half an hour or so, we were on our way. There were 10 passengers in all, so there was plenty of room as the capacity was for about 20.
Within minutes we were in deep jungle, gliding smoothly up the canal at a leisurely pace. The captain stopped at virtually any sign of wildlife, so we got to see iguanas, caymans, sleeping bats, crocodiles, giant herons and pink flamingo-like birds. The journey was sensational - time had clearly forgotten this place, with no human habitation in sight for miles upon end. The boat generated a cooling breeze, and there was good shade from the blazing sun, so conditions were as comfortable as possible.
So after 4 hours, with a brief stop halfway-through, we reached Tortuguero - a beachside resort unreachable by road (because there were none), famous for being the site of the most important turtle-nesting beaches in the world. Upon landing, I walked the 400 metres or so to the recommended Miss Junies but upon inspection of the shabby $35 room that was available, decided to try my luck elsewhere. A wandering tour guide helped me find Miss Miriam's where a basic but clean room, offering views of the beach and sea, cost a reasonable $20. In gratitude, and to get rid of the pest, I booked a $15 turtle tour with his "travel firm" for that evening.
After settling in, I wandered down to the Buddha Bar for a very tasty pizza, a beer and some wireless surfing, at which stage the heavens opened to produce a thunder and lightning downpour spectacular. During a slight break in the proceedings, I dashed back to my Miss Miriam room. The weather deteriorated even further, so when the pestulent guide came a-calling, I told him that I would be deferring my tour patronage until the following night. There was nothing to do but relax and sleep, which I did with much gusto.
Day 8 - Saturday, September 6th, 2008 - Tortuguero
Having gone to sleep about 9pm, I was up with the lark at about 8am and was pleased to see that blue skies and sunshine were the new order of the day. I breakfasted in a local cafeteria called a "soda", and the omelette rice and beans were very good indeed. The soda had about 6 other customers - all locals, and all tucking into the local brew with early-morning relish.
A lazy enough day was then spent. Mr. Pestilence naturally appeared, and I confirmed that I would indeed be going to the 8pm turtle-tour. I decided that once the turtle-tour was over, there was not much else to do here, so I booked a flight online from the local airport (airstrip) to the Costa Rican capital San Jose for the following morning, for $70. Luckily enough, I checked the e-mail confirmation that I received aftr the booking, which revealed that Tortuguero airport was closed for repairs, and that the flight would be leaving from Barra De Colorado (40km up-river) instead! I headed down to the pierside and negotiated with a boat taxi-man that he would pick me up at 5.20am the following morning for the 90 minute trip to the airport.
Mr. Pestilence (who I met on the way, naturally) said that the trip would cost $200, so when a price of $50 was offered by the boatman, I snapped his hand off, as the alternative would be to miss the flight, head back down to Moin on a 5-hour boat ride and take a 10 hour bus ride to San Jose. Delighted with the outcome, I headed to the beach for an afternoon promenade and was soon startled by tiny turtles (less than the size of my hand) passing by my feet, heading from their nest at the back of the beach, into the sea, where they would embark on about 40 years of swimming. It was an amazing piece of luck - all-in-all there were about 70 turtles, and me and the 6 others present acted as security guards, guiding their path into the sea, as about 80% of them normally get eaten by vultures or hawks on their way in.
Soon it was time to head to the turtle-tour, and despite clear meet-up instructions, Mr. Pestilence insisted on collecting me from Miss Miriam's to walk the 70 metres to the meet-up point with Alex the tour guide and my 9 fellow tour group members. The tour began with a half-mile walk to the turtle sanctuary HQ. Along a 3-mile stretch, volunteers were scouring the beach with infra-red torches (turtles are distracted by ordinary torchlight) to see if any turtles were coming ashore. During the walk there, I casually told Alex that I had seen baby turtles on the beach a couple of hours earlier. During his excellent explanatory turtle-talk when we reached the sanctuary, he let the rest of the group know about my experience. After the talk ended, and whilst we waited for news of turtle sightings, I was approached in turn by each of the group's mini-contingents - 1 Dutch, 1 German and 1 Spanish - and was cross-examined throughly. Where had I seen them? At what time? How many were there? Thinly veiled beneath plastic smiles was absolute fury that they, who had all scoured the beach thoroughly that day for such a sighting, had been unsuccessful, whilst I had stumbled across them without any pre-meditated idea that it might happen! I must confess to a wicked sense of amusement at that point.
Turtles are fascinating creatures - they hatch out in bunches of 100 or so, 80 get eaten on their crawl into the sea, and 19 more get eaten by sharks within a few hours of swimming. The lucky survivor swims around the Caribbean for 40 years and, if female, then goes looking for a mate for some quick no-strings-attached nookie. The female then uses the magnetic field to head back to the exact spot where she was born. She digs a hole at the back of the beach, cowers over it, and drops 150 ping-pong ball sized eggs into it before covering it all up and heading back into the sea. She will head back exhausted into the sea, and if not attacked and eaten by a jaguar, will come back again every couple of weeks, laying 20 less eggs every time until the process is complete. Then it's back for a few years of swimming before the nookie and gestation process begins again.
Tortuguero is vitally important because so many turtles breed there, largely safe from the threat of vultures, jaguars and poachers (who steal eggs for sale mainly to the Chinese market, who believe that they give great strength to the consumer).
So after a 30 minute wait, word came through on the walkie-talkie that a turtle had landed 3 kilometres north of where we were, so we all took a $5 taxi on the parallel canal behind the beach to reach the nesting area. When we got there, the turtle had dug its nest and was just beginning to deposit its eggs. Because it is in a trance at this stage and oblivious to anything around it, we were able to gather around it as it lays its eggs. It was an amazing experience - the turtle was about 4 feet long and was a giant of a creature, and there it was grunting and puffing in the midst of childbirth. We were there as it began to move its giant flippers and cover up the nest, packing it firmly with sand to aid the incubation process. (the hotter the sand, the more females that are hatched - interesting!) After 30 minutes, it trudged wearily into the sea and we watched the return from a short distance. Apparently, jaguars lurch in the jungle behind the beach, but know not to pounce when humans are around.
It was an incredible night's viewing. We made it back to the village at about 11pm and I headed back to Miss Miriam's for a few hours sleep before an early start tomorrow.
Day 9 - Sunday, September 7th, 2008 - Tortuguero - Barra De Colorado - San Jose - Granada
After some fitful sleep (which always happens when there's an early start involved), I was awoken at 5.10am by the alarm clock (my mobile phone, which has served no other purpose in the trip thusfar, as the crappy 3 network has no roaming agreements in Panama or Costa Rica). I headed down to the pierside to wait for the boat-taxi, due to pick me up at 5.20am. There were a few souls around, waiting to be collected for various jungle boat trips, and about a dozen wild dogs who were busy fighting each other.
Alarm escalated when 5.20am and 5.30am passed by without sight of the taxi-man, but along he came at 5.40am which apparently was the time he was due to come. (In his pidgin English, 5.20 had replaced twenty-to-six.) The boat trip was an amazing experience - just me and the boat man, gliding up through deserted river and canal-way, which stretched to 1 mile wide in places, and 20 metres wide in others. We happened across the odd boatful of locals, but largely the trip was made with no other human life in sight.
At 7am we arrived at Barra De Colorado "airport" which was just a strip of runway and nothing else. I got off the boat, walked 100 metres to the top of the airstrip and waited alongside 3 other passengers in the bright sunshine. Ten minutes later, a plane arrived and 20 corpulent Americans disembarked. They seemed to be here for a spot of deep-sea fishing - the locality consisted of 2 lodges which seemed to specialise in hunting and fishing trips. One of the three crew members got out and said "McEvoy?", and when I confirmed agreement, he took my rucksack (it's Trevor's actually - cheers Trev!) and invited me aboard - this was the most magnificent airport security check ever! Incredibly, only 1 of the 3 other people waiting along the runway was destined for this flight, so there were 3 crew members and 2 passengers!
The safety demonstration before take-off was equally magnificent - "Read the leaflet in front of you, fasten your seatbelt, this flight will take an hour," and off we went. Soon we were treated to superb views of the sea, rivers and jungle below. All too soon, the flight came to an end at San Jose's secondary airport, which wasn't too much more sophisticated than Barra De Colorado's. A shyster taximan was waiting to take me to the bus station to catch a bus to Granada in Nicaragua. He tried to charge me $22 for a $4 ride but my tolerance for shysterism had long since dissipated, so I gave him $5 and told him as I got out that he should be very ashamed of himself.
There was a chicken bus leaving for Managua (the capital of Nicaragua, an hour from Granada) in an hour, but a quicker, slightly more expensive ejecutivo (executive) bus that stopped at Granada was leaving in 3 hours, at 12 noon. Upon enquiry, it transpired that executive buses offered a meal, soft drinks and comfy seats, as well as being speedier, so I opted to continue pursuit of the executive lifestyle.
With time to kill, I braved a walk around the city, as the bus station was a shocking drab barn altogether. The city wasn't a whole lot better but I did manage to find the city centre shopping mall area, where I had a breakfast of some fresh pastries and orange juice, and then I found an internet cafe which offered cheap and cheerful surfing, at 500 colons (US0.90 €0.65) per hour.
Boarding had commenced by the time I got back to the station so I hopped aboard. The seats were indeed big, comfortable and reclinable. The bus had 3 TVs throughout the bus, allowing us to view quality movies such as Jumper (featuring Jamie Bell with a ridiculous Irish accent) and Inside Man (an enjoyable bank-heist romp which luckily I had seen before, as it was dubbed in Spanish). After a couple of hours we briefly stopped at a roadside cafe, allowing the bus hostess to pick up our lovingly-polystyrene-packaged dinners for serving to our seats. Dinner was a very tasty chicken stir fry with rice, and some mushy black beans which I skillfully avoided.
At the border crossing, the shysters were out in force, clutching giant wads of banknotes, ready for exchange at initially ludicrous rates. I only had about $60 worth of Colons to exchange and naturally the shyster that I selected attempted to offer me $25 worth of Nicaraguan cordobas. I let him know that I knew the exchange rate, and miraculously the offer was more than doubled - funny that. The bus hostess had gathered all of passports before the crossing, and now whisked them off to appropriate officials at both the Costa Rican and Nicaraguan passport control stations who gave them fast-track status, presumably in return for a couple of bankotes crossing their palms.
So, we were on our way again and were soon enjoying the sights of the Nicaraguan countryside. Our route hugged Lake Nicaragua - the largest lake in Central America - which houses the island of Ometepe which was formed by two volcanoes, resulting in very pleasant viewing indeed for several miles. It also became quickly apparent that the roadside serves as a major social meeting point for Nicaraguans, with groups gathered, literally at the edge of the road, chattering away.
We arrived in Granada at about 8pm and I grabbed a taxi to the place on the lakeside that I had booked - Hotel El Maltese, which is indeed owner by a Malteser (the nationality, not the chocolate). Refreshingly, all cab rides within Granada have a standard charge of 10 Cordobas (US$0.50, €0.35). I checked into my room - a modest affair with air-con, hot-and-cold shower, useless 1-channel TV but with free wi-fi, and a snip at $20 (€14) per night. I went for a walk along the lakeside and the locals were out in partying force, having car-picnics and packing out what seemed to be lakeside nightclubs. Public lighting was at a minimum so in the interest of safety I decided to retreat back to the hotel.
Day 6 - Thursday, September 4th, 2008 - Bocas Del Toro / Guabito / Sixaola / Puerto Viejo
There was a massive temptation to stick around the Bocas for a day or two more as it was such a cool place, but in the interest of getting to the target destination of Cancun on time without going through anywhere too quickly, it was time to move onto Costa Rica. I packed up, thanked Dennis for his hospitality and made the arduous 5 minute journey to the jetty, where a speedboat to the border was leaving in 30 minutes, at 11am. I bought my ticket for $7 (€5) and headed to a nearby caff to grab a spot of breakfast.
Heading back to the pier, a capacity cargo of 40 passengers piled into the speedboat, which was mercifully canopied as the sun was strong as ever. Before the off, the driver told a corpulent American girl to move to the other side of the boat in order to balance it, causing inward evil mirth amongst her fellow passengers and mortification for the Beast herself. The hour-long journey was most pleasant, as it went through a series of lagoons that ran parallel to the sea. In many places the water was entirely covered by plants, causing the engine to intermittently consider cutting out. The Beast feigned illness from practically the outset of the journey, and she was consoled by weary members of her travelling party, who seemed to have seen it all before.
Upon landing, we were all set upon by begging locals, so I quickly headed to a gaggle of mini-bus drivers who were waiting to drive us the 10 miles or so to the border for $5 each. The journey, on horrendously pot-holed roads/tracks, went through banana plantations on either side - and indeed, the area truly seemed to be a Banana Republic or, if you will, a kip. The kippishness augmented when we reached the border town of Guabito so I sprinted up steps to the bridge which had Costa Rica on its other side. Firstly, Panamaniacal Passport Control needed to be negotiated, although the queue was mercifully short.
The next step in the procedure was to walk over the 200-metre long rickety bridge which had clearly seen better days. Next up was Costa Rican Passport Control, which took a while as I needed to rummage in my rucksack for the aeroplane ticket home that they demanded to see. The heat was absolutely sweltering at this stage, so everything took that little bit longer.
Predictably, upon clearing passport control, there was a welcoming party of Costa Rican shysters upon hand ready to offer rip-off transport services. Their generous offer of a $90 taxi to Puerto Limon was gruffly rebuked, although I wasn't sure what the alternative was. I walked the 50 metres onward to the even-kippier border town of Sixaola and thought to myself, "I have to get out of here quickly!" This sentiment was strengthened as an old fat prostitute emerged from a dilapidated hostelry and began literally hissing at me as I consulted my Lonely Planet, desperate for an escape route. Luckily a couple of local youths pointed at what looked like a dead-end alley but was actually a street, leading to the bus station. The bus to Limon - a functional but filthy vehicle - was about to leave so I hopped aboard and paid the $5 fare.
Dennis had forewarned that Costa Rican busses stopped at every hole in the road, but it still didn't prepare me for the extent to which it did exactly that. Bus stops simply don't exist, allowing locals to emerge from their house, stick out their hand, and hop aboard at 50 metre intervals. This is truly a marvellous service if you're a local, but if you are travelling the 150 miles to Limon, it quickly turns into the journey from hell. To add to the fun, the entire bus entourage and its contents were ordered off the bus at a police checkpoint after about 20 miles, to have our passports/ID cards and luggage examined.
When the road deteriorated into a bumpy gravel path, I decided that enough was enough and got off the bus at the seaside town of Puerto Viejo, resolving to continue my arduous journey to TurtleVille (Tortuguero) tomorrow.
I walked the short distance to Hotel Pura Vida which was recommended in the Lonely Planet. There were no single rooms left but there was one double room left for $30 (only $5 more) so I instantly went for that. The Chilean co-owner seemed able to read the blog of my day thusfar from my face and gave me one of the most delicious glasses of iced-water of all time, bless 'im. While the place was nice, I had been spoiled by Casa Amarillo and it wasn't a patch on it, with no air-con, wi-fi, TV or fridge, a curious shower which had a cobble-stoned base (high novelty value but none too comfortable on the Shank's Mares) and a Greek-style toilet where one needed to dispense one's faeces-smeared bog-roll in a nearby bin, rather than the lavatory itself, for fear of blocking the pipes. The room was bright and spacious though, and the bed was big and comfortable, and that was all I needed.
I headed the short distance into town, and whilst briefly surfing the net (as the $4 per hour charge was rather saucy), I discovered that Costa Rica is one hour behind Panama rather than ahead, so it was 3.30pm instead of 5.30pm! I walked around the town but wasn't enamoured with it - it had a seedy feel to it and the nearby beach again couldn't match the pristine sands of Bocas del Toro, so I wouldn't be extending my stay here.
I dined in a colonial-style restaurant overlooking the sea and had really good tomato soup, a just about passable Creole leg of chicken with rice 'n beans (a Caribbean staple), washed down with water and a decent Imperial beer. Then it was back to the "hotel" and I do believe that I was sound asleep by 7pm - a personal world record, perhaps!
Day 7 - Friday, September 5th, 2008 - Puerto Viejo-Limon-Moin-Tortuguero
Wake-up time was 6.30am, as the kindly German co-owner had advised that I would need to be on the 7am bus to Limon in order to make the boat for Tortuguero. Having had 11 hours' sleep, I was fully steeled up if needed be for the most nightmarish day of travel, and when in that frame of mind, everything becomes more pleasant. Knowing in advance that the bus would stop every 50 metres but would get to Limon in 2 hours, all became groovy with the world again. The sun was shining, the roadside scenery was great, the people-watching had an endless cast (thanks to the 50 metre rule) and the iPod choons were great. One recent discovery that has been receiving much airplay is "Meet Glen Campbell" - an album of covers of contemporary choons such as Travis' "Sing", U2's "All I Want Is You" and Green Day's "Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)" by the legendary 72-year-old Country 'n Western crooner. Hugely recommended!
Arriving in Limon, gougers were once again on hand to meet the gringos with kindly offers of transport to Moin, from where the 5-hour boat-ride to Tortuguero departed. $7 (€5) for a 6 mile taxi ride was in all probabilty far too much, but my sunny disposition had curtailed my ability to negotiate in a cut-throat stylie. And splendidly, the driver was of West-Indian ancestry and had great English, which made a pleasant change from the almost-constant pidgin Spanish that I have needed to utter. He marvelled at my itinerary and remarked that it was funny that I came from 10,000 miles away and was visiting all these places, whereas he lived nearby to them all, and probably would never visit them in his lifetime!
Limon is a major port in Costa Rica, and on the drive to Moin, you could see all the giant bunches of bananas being lined up for mass-shipment. Upon arrival at the canal, the taxi-driver introduced me to the "captain" of the boat that would take me to Tortuguero. The initial fare of $50 was slashed to $30 (what the Lonely Planet said it should be) after a little bargaining. After half an hour or so, we were on our way. There were 10 passengers in all, so there was plenty of room as the capacity was for about 20.
Within minutes we were in deep jungle, gliding smoothly up the canal at a leisurely pace. The captain stopped at virtually any sign of wildlife, so we got to see iguanas, caymans, sleeping bats, crocodiles, giant herons and pink flamingo-like birds. The journey was sensational - time had clearly forgotten this place, with no human habitation in sight for miles upon end. The boat generated a cooling breeze, and there was good shade from the blazing sun, so conditions were as comfortable as possible.
So after 4 hours, with a brief stop halfway-through, we reached Tortuguero - a beachside resort unreachable by road (because there were none), famous for being the site of the most important turtle-nesting beaches in the world. Upon landing, I walked the 400 metres or so to the recommended Miss Junies but upon inspection of the shabby $35 room that was available, decided to try my luck elsewhere. A wandering tour guide helped me find Miss Miriam's where a basic but clean room, offering views of the beach and sea, cost a reasonable $20. In gratitude, and to get rid of the pest, I booked a $15 turtle tour with his "travel firm" for that evening.
After settling in, I wandered down to the Buddha Bar for a very tasty pizza, a beer and some wireless surfing, at which stage the heavens opened to produce a thunder and lightning downpour spectacular. During a slight break in the proceedings, I dashed back to my Miss Miriam room. The weather deteriorated even further, so when the pestulent guide came a-calling, I told him that I would be deferring my tour patronage until the following night. There was nothing to do but relax and sleep, which I did with much gusto.
Day 8 - Saturday, September 6th, 2008 - Tortuguero
Having gone to sleep about 9pm, I was up with the lark at about 8am and was pleased to see that blue skies and sunshine were the new order of the day. I breakfasted in a local cafeteria called a "soda", and the omelette rice and beans were very good indeed. The soda had about 6 other customers - all locals, and all tucking into the local brew with early-morning relish.
A lazy enough day was then spent. Mr. Pestilence naturally appeared, and I confirmed that I would indeed be going to the 8pm turtle-tour. I decided that once the turtle-tour was over, there was not much else to do here, so I booked a flight online from the local airport (airstrip) to the Costa Rican capital San Jose for the following morning, for $70. Luckily enough, I checked the e-mail confirmation that I received aftr the booking, which revealed that Tortuguero airport was closed for repairs, and that the flight would be leaving from Barra De Colorado (40km up-river) instead! I headed down to the pierside and negotiated with a boat taxi-man that he would pick me up at 5.20am the following morning for the 90 minute trip to the airport.
Mr. Pestilence (who I met on the way, naturally) said that the trip would cost $200, so when a price of $50 was offered by the boatman, I snapped his hand off, as the alternative would be to miss the flight, head back down to Moin on a 5-hour boat ride and take a 10 hour bus ride to San Jose. Delighted with the outcome, I headed to the beach for an afternoon promenade and was soon startled by tiny turtles (less than the size of my hand) passing by my feet, heading from their nest at the back of the beach, into the sea, where they would embark on about 40 years of swimming. It was an amazing piece of luck - all-in-all there were about 70 turtles, and me and the 6 others present acted as security guards, guiding their path into the sea, as about 80% of them normally get eaten by vultures or hawks on their way in.
Soon it was time to head to the turtle-tour, and despite clear meet-up instructions, Mr. Pestilence insisted on collecting me from Miss Miriam's to walk the 70 metres to the meet-up point with Alex the tour guide and my 9 fellow tour group members. The tour began with a half-mile walk to the turtle sanctuary HQ. Along a 3-mile stretch, volunteers were scouring the beach with infra-red torches (turtles are distracted by ordinary torchlight) to see if any turtles were coming ashore. During the walk there, I casually told Alex that I had seen baby turtles on the beach a couple of hours earlier. During his excellent explanatory turtle-talk when we reached the sanctuary, he let the rest of the group know about my experience. After the talk ended, and whilst we waited for news of turtle sightings, I was approached in turn by each of the group's mini-contingents - 1 Dutch, 1 German and 1 Spanish - and was cross-examined throughly. Where had I seen them? At what time? How many were there? Thinly veiled beneath plastic smiles was absolute fury that they, who had all scoured the beach thoroughly that day for such a sighting, had been unsuccessful, whilst I had stumbled across them without any pre-meditated idea that it might happen! I must confess to a wicked sense of amusement at that point.
Turtles are fascinating creatures - they hatch out in bunches of 100 or so, 80 get eaten on their crawl into the sea, and 19 more get eaten by sharks within a few hours of swimming. The lucky survivor swims around the Caribbean for 40 years and, if female, then goes looking for a mate for some quick no-strings-attached nookie. The female then uses the magnetic field to head back to the exact spot where she was born. She digs a hole at the back of the beach, cowers over it, and drops 150 ping-pong ball sized eggs into it before covering it all up and heading back into the sea. She will head back exhausted into the sea, and if not attacked and eaten by a jaguar, will come back again every couple of weeks, laying 20 less eggs every time until the process is complete. Then it's back for a few years of swimming before the nookie and gestation process begins again.
Tortuguero is vitally important because so many turtles breed there, largely safe from the threat of vultures, jaguars and poachers (who steal eggs for sale mainly to the Chinese market, who believe that they give great strength to the consumer).
So after a 30 minute wait, word came through on the walkie-talkie that a turtle had landed 3 kilometres north of where we were, so we all took a $5 taxi on the parallel canal behind the beach to reach the nesting area. When we got there, the turtle had dug its nest and was just beginning to deposit its eggs. Because it is in a trance at this stage and oblivious to anything around it, we were able to gather around it as it lays its eggs. It was an amazing experience - the turtle was about 4 feet long and was a giant of a creature, and there it was grunting and puffing in the midst of childbirth. We were there as it began to move its giant flippers and cover up the nest, packing it firmly with sand to aid the incubation process. (the hotter the sand, the more females that are hatched - interesting!) After 30 minutes, it trudged wearily into the sea and we watched the return from a short distance. Apparently, jaguars lurch in the jungle behind the beach, but know not to pounce when humans are around.
It was an incredible night's viewing. We made it back to the village at about 11pm and I headed back to Miss Miriam's for a few hours sleep before an early start tomorrow.
Day 9 - Sunday, September 7th, 2008 - Tortuguero - Barra De Colorado - San Jose - Granada
After some fitful sleep (which always happens when there's an early start involved), I was awoken at 5.10am by the alarm clock (my mobile phone, which has served no other purpose in the trip thusfar, as the crappy 3 network has no roaming agreements in Panama or Costa Rica). I headed down to the pierside to wait for the boat-taxi, due to pick me up at 5.20am. There were a few souls around, waiting to be collected for various jungle boat trips, and about a dozen wild dogs who were busy fighting each other.
Alarm escalated when 5.20am and 5.30am passed by without sight of the taxi-man, but along he came at 5.40am which apparently was the time he was due to come. (In his pidgin English, 5.20 had replaced twenty-to-six.) The boat trip was an amazing experience - just me and the boat man, gliding up through deserted river and canal-way, which stretched to 1 mile wide in places, and 20 metres wide in others. We happened across the odd boatful of locals, but largely the trip was made with no other human life in sight.
At 7am we arrived at Barra De Colorado "airport" which was just a strip of runway and nothing else. I got off the boat, walked 100 metres to the top of the airstrip and waited alongside 3 other passengers in the bright sunshine. Ten minutes later, a plane arrived and 20 corpulent Americans disembarked. They seemed to be here for a spot of deep-sea fishing - the locality consisted of 2 lodges which seemed to specialise in hunting and fishing trips. One of the three crew members got out and said "McEvoy?", and when I confirmed agreement, he took my rucksack (it's Trevor's actually - cheers Trev!) and invited me aboard - this was the most magnificent airport security check ever! Incredibly, only 1 of the 3 other people waiting along the runway was destined for this flight, so there were 3 crew members and 2 passengers!
The safety demonstration before take-off was equally magnificent - "Read the leaflet in front of you, fasten your seatbelt, this flight will take an hour," and off we went. Soon we were treated to superb views of the sea, rivers and jungle below. All too soon, the flight came to an end at San Jose's secondary airport, which wasn't too much more sophisticated than Barra De Colorado's. A shyster taximan was waiting to take me to the bus station to catch a bus to Granada in Nicaragua. He tried to charge me $22 for a $4 ride but my tolerance for shysterism had long since dissipated, so I gave him $5 and told him as I got out that he should be very ashamed of himself.
There was a chicken bus leaving for Managua (the capital of Nicaragua, an hour from Granada) in an hour, but a quicker, slightly more expensive ejecutivo (executive) bus that stopped at Granada was leaving in 3 hours, at 12 noon. Upon enquiry, it transpired that executive buses offered a meal, soft drinks and comfy seats, as well as being speedier, so I opted to continue pursuit of the executive lifestyle.
With time to kill, I braved a walk around the city, as the bus station was a shocking drab barn altogether. The city wasn't a whole lot better but I did manage to find the city centre shopping mall area, where I had a breakfast of some fresh pastries and orange juice, and then I found an internet cafe which offered cheap and cheerful surfing, at 500 colons (US0.90 €0.65) per hour.
Boarding had commenced by the time I got back to the station so I hopped aboard. The seats were indeed big, comfortable and reclinable. The bus had 3 TVs throughout the bus, allowing us to view quality movies such as Jumper (featuring Jamie Bell with a ridiculous Irish accent) and Inside Man (an enjoyable bank-heist romp which luckily I had seen before, as it was dubbed in Spanish). After a couple of hours we briefly stopped at a roadside cafe, allowing the bus hostess to pick up our lovingly-polystyrene-packaged dinners for serving to our seats. Dinner was a very tasty chicken stir fry with rice, and some mushy black beans which I skillfully avoided.
At the border crossing, the shysters were out in force, clutching giant wads of banknotes, ready for exchange at initially ludicrous rates. I only had about $60 worth of Colons to exchange and naturally the shyster that I selected attempted to offer me $25 worth of Nicaraguan cordobas. I let him know that I knew the exchange rate, and miraculously the offer was more than doubled - funny that. The bus hostess had gathered all of passports before the crossing, and now whisked them off to appropriate officials at both the Costa Rican and Nicaraguan passport control stations who gave them fast-track status, presumably in return for a couple of bankotes crossing their palms.
So, we were on our way again and were soon enjoying the sights of the Nicaraguan countryside. Our route hugged Lake Nicaragua - the largest lake in Central America - which houses the island of Ometepe which was formed by two volcanoes, resulting in very pleasant viewing indeed for several miles. It also became quickly apparent that the roadside serves as a major social meeting point for Nicaraguans, with groups gathered, literally at the edge of the road, chattering away.
We arrived in Granada at about 8pm and I grabbed a taxi to the place on the lakeside that I had booked - Hotel El Maltese, which is indeed owner by a Malteser (the nationality, not the chocolate). Refreshingly, all cab rides within Granada have a standard charge of 10 Cordobas (US$0.50, €0.35). I checked into my room - a modest affair with air-con, hot-and-cold shower, useless 1-channel TV but with free wi-fi, and a snip at $20 (€14) per night. I went for a walk along the lakeside and the locals were out in partying force, having car-picnics and packing out what seemed to be lakeside nightclubs. Public lighting was at a minimum so in the interest of safety I decided to retreat back to the hotel.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
CentrAmp 2008 - Days 1-5 - Panama
Day 1 - Saturday August 30th 2008 - Dublin to Newark to Panama City
After what seemed like months of post-booking anticipation and waiting, the CentrAmp got under way at 7.15am with a taxi-drive from the Lighthouse Apartmental Complex in Dublin's leafy and verdant Eastern Wall. I have had many trips tainted by obnoxious taxi-drivers huffing about themselves, the state of the nation, foreigners and such-and-such, but mercifully today's chauffeur was a perfectly pleasant gentleman. I recalled about 3 hours later that he said he had 2 daughters, aged 18 and 21, yet he looked about 28 and I most probably should have afforded him a compliment in this regard, but the mind was desperately slow, due to 3 previous nights on the town and work stressings. Such slowness combined with sleepiness saw that it took me 3 attempts to fill out the U.S. Immigration Form, delighting the sadistic bitch-operative. "You only work in a shop, darling, you can spare me the attitude", I said, confining my speech to the inner-mind for fear of deportation before arrival.
The first leg of the journey was a 7 and a half hour flight with Continental Airlines to Newark, and a highly pleasant affair it was too. The ContAir crew are a quirksome bunch and delivered quips like, "The destination of this plane is Newark - those who are not intending on heading there should probably make themselves known to a member of the cabin crew right now." Hilarious! Delightfully, I had a window seat with no middle-seat companion, and the aisle seat was occupied by a student-lady whose frazzled hair suggested neurotic-tendancies that mercifully remained suppressed during the flight, possibly due to the thorough lack of dramatic incidents. My usual tendancy to drink like a fish during long-haul flights was curtailed, partly due to the early hour but mainly because of the €4 per drink tariff - pththththth! None-the-less the time flew by, through readings of The (super Soaraway) Sun, the Irish Times, the Daily Moan (nee Mail) and The Guardian, coupled with bouts of Sudoku and Solitaire on the in-flight games console.
The first person to greet us upon disembarcation in Newark was a "customer service" official whose seemingly-simple task was to guide Dublin and Shannon passengers to the immigration-cleared aisle on the left, and all others to the aisle on the right. Naturally, she decided to fuck the task up royally by barking rabidly at anyone in her path, thus forgetting to provide the very simple 50-50 choice of direction.
Alas, a 6-hour stopover was required before the connecting flight to Panama City, and this time was spent wandering aimlessly around the concourses. The food choices on offer were less than award-winning, and I ended up awarding the franchise for my meal to the Golden Arches Brasserie, and sampled the succulent third-pounder Angus (even the quarter-pounders are bigger in America), honey n mustard chicken wrap, fries and refreshing lemon and lime cordial - all for the low, low price of $9 (€6.50). I ordered my meal from what initially appeared to be a portly African-American lady but who was in fact a mass-manufactured automaton, designed to emit standardized utterances but with no ability to interact with the customer.
After further interminable wanderage, the clarion call came to board the five hour Copa Airlines (which seems to be just another name for Continental Airlines) flight to Panama City. Delightfully, the plane was just half-full (I'm not a half-empty guy), meaning that I had the three seats all to my very self. To celebrate, I broke my solemn 45-hour period of alcohol abstinence and enjoyed a brace of thoroughly delightful $5 (€3.50) Gin and Tonics. The imbibements were highly effective in warding off the pangs of fear that could have accompanied the violent turbulence during our journey through Hurricane Gustav.
The "meal" was served towards the flight's end, and the air hostess, with whom I had been trading flirtatious yet intrinsically vacuous looks, offered two choices of sure-to-be mouth-watering sandwiches - turkey and beef brisket. "What's beef brisket?", I enquired with a cheekily flirtatious yet vacuous smile, for I genuinely had no inkling of its culinary nature, apart from the fact that is was highly likely to be beefy. "It's got a laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaadda cheese!" came the cheerily flirtatious yet vacuous reply. "I see," I rejoined, "Well in that case I'll try it." It was entirely vile, naturally.
Post-disembarcation and a lengthy walk, we arrived at passport control which had one aisle with no queue for Panamaniacs and one aisle with giant queues for bleedin' foreigners. Hilariously, a Panamaniac gentleman entered the wrong aisle and rather than quickly reversing, he grunted at his wife (in the correct queue) to come and join him, preferring to wait half-an-hour in the long queue rather than lose face. What a blissfully happy marraige that must be for both wedlocked parties!
Eventually I reached the end of the queue, where an unsmiling lady stared at my passport for a while, and then as she was handing it back, looked at my face, thrust the passport back towards her as if to say “that’s not you in the picture!” My lack of flinching seemed to reassure her and she handed the passport back.
Onwards to baggage claim and my rucksack was there to greet me, which was unsurprising, given the delay at Passport Control. Delightfully, I now needed to join an even lengthier queue to clear customs. Once negotiated, it was time to brave the slew of shysters that inevitably gather at the arrivals area of an airport, seeking to unmercifully rip off Johnny von Rich-Foreigner. My Central American Lonely Planet bible stated that taxis cost about $35 into Panama City, as the airport is some 40 kilometres away. Once outside, I asked an official-looking chappie with a clipboard how much to the Hotel Centroamericano and he said “$28”. This was most acceptable so I put my luggage in the boot of a Sedan, got into the back seat and waited for the off. A minute later, I was jolted by the sound of the boot reopening. I jumped out of the car to see a young lady’s mass of luggage being added to the boot’s contents, and voiced protest to the driver. “$28 por un colectivo? (shared taxi),” I questioned. “No problem, just $15 now,” he said, which was fine with me, although I got that distinct feeling that the discount would not have been offered to me had I not asked.
During the journey, the driver and young lady-passenger blathered away to each other, totally oblivious to me – the first of many instances during my visit that drew me to conclude that inhabitants of Panama City are on the whole, not particularly friendly.
On arrival at the hotel, which seemed situated in a ramshackle dilapidated area (one of many in the city), I was greeted at reception by a charmingly unsmiling employee – no particular harm, as I wasn’t in the mood for chit-chat at this stage (it was now 12.30am Panama time, 6.30am Dublin time). I handed her a sheet confirming I had pre-paid for 3 nights at €18 per night, and she handed over a key. I headed up the stairs to the 3rd Floor and got to my room – a spartan but functional affair, with bed, wardrobe, TV, air-con and bathroom with shower. Despite blaring traffic outside, I was asleep before hitting the mattress!
Day 2 – Sunday, August 31st, 2008 – Panama City
Sleep was fitful, probably due to subconscious anxiety – I awoke at 4.20am, convinced that it was 4.20pm, and woke several more times before deciding to get up at 9.30am. For a duet of reasons, I decided to head to an English pub that was recommended in the Lonely Planet guidebook – to see the Aston Villa versus Liverpool match and to mix with the local ex-pats to gain pearls of tourist wisdom. Firstly, I nipped across to the 24-hour pharmacy across the road for some suncream and mosquito repellant. While doing so, it became clear that I should get a taxi everywhere, as the area was every bit as kippy in sunlight as it was at night. Thankfully taxis were plentiful though, and one stopped for me within a minute. Panama taxis don’t have meters so you need to establish the price before setting off, which should be between $1 and $2 if staying within city limits – using broken Spanish, a price of $1 was agreed. The driver needed to ask directions to the pub, but we got there within 10 minutes. Upon inspection, the pub was well and truly closed, so it became quickly clear that Central America did not cater for Premiership match-viewing in the way that Asia did.
I headed into a French cafe and had a very tasty mozzarella, tomato and basil bruschetta (the lack of Frenchness of the dish is duly noted) and a much needed water, all for a reasonable $3. The official currency of Panama is the US Dollar – although they call it the Balboa, the notes are exactly the same as those used in the US.
The guidebook recommended heading off the beaten track and going to Contractors’ Hill, 20 kilometres outside of the city, as it offered a magnificent view of the Panama Canal. An old taximan was stationed ouside the cafe and I bargained a $10 ride there and back with him. After a quiet start, we were soon engaging in a decent conversation, all in Spanish. Most of the time I was guessing what he was saying, but it seemed to work out. I learned the following :
Panama won its first gold medal in 60 years at the Beijing Olympics.
Petrol was $5 a gallon in Panama and Senor Taximan was most surprised to hear that it was $8 per gallon in Ireland.
Baseball is the national sport of Panama, with basketball quite popular too.
Senor Taximan wouldn’t be voting in the upcoming Presidential election (there were posters everywhere) – not because he thought, as I suggested, that they were all crooks, but because he couldn’t see any difference between them. The current President was doing an okay job, though.
With Contractors’ Hill in sight, the road turned into a dirt track and we eventually had to stop at an army checkpoint, where we were informed that the Hill was on Canal-Zone territory that couldn’t be accessed. I now recalled reading a comment online that the Panama Lonely Planet was hugely misleading on many counts but had dismissed it at the time as an isolated rant. Senor Taximan should probably have known the score too, but anyway, I negotiated that we head back into town, drive up the other side of the canal and go to the Pedro Miguel Locks, for a further $10. With only 1 bridge across the Canal on the Pacific Ocean side, there was no shortcut available, bar running into the Canal Zone and swimming across.
It was all worthwhile though, because as we pulled up to the Pedro Miguel Locks, a giant Chinese container ship was busily inching its way through. I watched fascinated as it was pulled along by a dozen tugboats before making it through to a wider stretch of the Canal, and heading onward to the Caribbean side.
After what seemed like months of post-booking anticipation and waiting, the CentrAmp got under way at 7.15am with a taxi-drive from the Lighthouse Apartmental Complex in Dublin's leafy and verdant Eastern Wall. I have had many trips tainted by obnoxious taxi-drivers huffing about themselves, the state of the nation, foreigners and such-and-such, but mercifully today's chauffeur was a perfectly pleasant gentleman. I recalled about 3 hours later that he said he had 2 daughters, aged 18 and 21, yet he looked about 28 and I most probably should have afforded him a compliment in this regard, but the mind was desperately slow, due to 3 previous nights on the town and work stressings. Such slowness combined with sleepiness saw that it took me 3 attempts to fill out the U.S. Immigration Form, delighting the sadistic bitch-operative. "You only work in a shop, darling, you can spare me the attitude", I said, confining my speech to the inner-mind for fear of deportation before arrival.
The first leg of the journey was a 7 and a half hour flight with Continental Airlines to Newark, and a highly pleasant affair it was too. The ContAir crew are a quirksome bunch and delivered quips like, "The destination of this plane is Newark - those who are not intending on heading there should probably make themselves known to a member of the cabin crew right now." Hilarious! Delightfully, I had a window seat with no middle-seat companion, and the aisle seat was occupied by a student-lady whose frazzled hair suggested neurotic-tendancies that mercifully remained suppressed during the flight, possibly due to the thorough lack of dramatic incidents. My usual tendancy to drink like a fish during long-haul flights was curtailed, partly due to the early hour but mainly because of the €4 per drink tariff - pththththth! None-the-less the time flew by, through readings of The (super Soaraway) Sun, the Irish Times, the Daily Moan (nee Mail) and The Guardian, coupled with bouts of Sudoku and Solitaire on the in-flight games console.
The first person to greet us upon disembarcation in Newark was a "customer service" official whose seemingly-simple task was to guide Dublin and Shannon passengers to the immigration-cleared aisle on the left, and all others to the aisle on the right. Naturally, she decided to fuck the task up royally by barking rabidly at anyone in her path, thus forgetting to provide the very simple 50-50 choice of direction.
Alas, a 6-hour stopover was required before the connecting flight to Panama City, and this time was spent wandering aimlessly around the concourses. The food choices on offer were less than award-winning, and I ended up awarding the franchise for my meal to the Golden Arches Brasserie, and sampled the succulent third-pounder Angus (even the quarter-pounders are bigger in America), honey n mustard chicken wrap, fries and refreshing lemon and lime cordial - all for the low, low price of $9 (€6.50). I ordered my meal from what initially appeared to be a portly African-American lady but who was in fact a mass-manufactured automaton, designed to emit standardized utterances but with no ability to interact with the customer.
After further interminable wanderage, the clarion call came to board the five hour Copa Airlines (which seems to be just another name for Continental Airlines) flight to Panama City. Delightfully, the plane was just half-full (I'm not a half-empty guy), meaning that I had the three seats all to my very self. To celebrate, I broke my solemn 45-hour period of alcohol abstinence and enjoyed a brace of thoroughly delightful $5 (€3.50) Gin and Tonics. The imbibements were highly effective in warding off the pangs of fear that could have accompanied the violent turbulence during our journey through Hurricane Gustav.
The "meal" was served towards the flight's end, and the air hostess, with whom I had been trading flirtatious yet intrinsically vacuous looks, offered two choices of sure-to-be mouth-watering sandwiches - turkey and beef brisket. "What's beef brisket?", I enquired with a cheekily flirtatious yet vacuous smile, for I genuinely had no inkling of its culinary nature, apart from the fact that is was highly likely to be beefy. "It's got a laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaadda cheese!" came the cheerily flirtatious yet vacuous reply. "I see," I rejoined, "Well in that case I'll try it." It was entirely vile, naturally.
Post-disembarcation and a lengthy walk, we arrived at passport control which had one aisle with no queue for Panamaniacs and one aisle with giant queues for bleedin' foreigners. Hilariously, a Panamaniac gentleman entered the wrong aisle and rather than quickly reversing, he grunted at his wife (in the correct queue) to come and join him, preferring to wait half-an-hour in the long queue rather than lose face. What a blissfully happy marraige that must be for both wedlocked parties!
Eventually I reached the end of the queue, where an unsmiling lady stared at my passport for a while, and then as she was handing it back, looked at my face, thrust the passport back towards her as if to say “that’s not you in the picture!” My lack of flinching seemed to reassure her and she handed the passport back.
Onwards to baggage claim and my rucksack was there to greet me, which was unsurprising, given the delay at Passport Control. Delightfully, I now needed to join an even lengthier queue to clear customs. Once negotiated, it was time to brave the slew of shysters that inevitably gather at the arrivals area of an airport, seeking to unmercifully rip off Johnny von Rich-Foreigner. My Central American Lonely Planet bible stated that taxis cost about $35 into Panama City, as the airport is some 40 kilometres away. Once outside, I asked an official-looking chappie with a clipboard how much to the Hotel Centroamericano and he said “$28”. This was most acceptable so I put my luggage in the boot of a Sedan, got into the back seat and waited for the off. A minute later, I was jolted by the sound of the boot reopening. I jumped out of the car to see a young lady’s mass of luggage being added to the boot’s contents, and voiced protest to the driver. “$28 por un colectivo? (shared taxi),” I questioned. “No problem, just $15 now,” he said, which was fine with me, although I got that distinct feeling that the discount would not have been offered to me had I not asked.
During the journey, the driver and young lady-passenger blathered away to each other, totally oblivious to me – the first of many instances during my visit that drew me to conclude that inhabitants of Panama City are on the whole, not particularly friendly.
On arrival at the hotel, which seemed situated in a ramshackle dilapidated area (one of many in the city), I was greeted at reception by a charmingly unsmiling employee – no particular harm, as I wasn’t in the mood for chit-chat at this stage (it was now 12.30am Panama time, 6.30am Dublin time). I handed her a sheet confirming I had pre-paid for 3 nights at €18 per night, and she handed over a key. I headed up the stairs to the 3rd Floor and got to my room – a spartan but functional affair, with bed, wardrobe, TV, air-con and bathroom with shower. Despite blaring traffic outside, I was asleep before hitting the mattress!
Day 2 – Sunday, August 31st, 2008 – Panama City
Sleep was fitful, probably due to subconscious anxiety – I awoke at 4.20am, convinced that it was 4.20pm, and woke several more times before deciding to get up at 9.30am. For a duet of reasons, I decided to head to an English pub that was recommended in the Lonely Planet guidebook – to see the Aston Villa versus Liverpool match and to mix with the local ex-pats to gain pearls of tourist wisdom. Firstly, I nipped across to the 24-hour pharmacy across the road for some suncream and mosquito repellant. While doing so, it became clear that I should get a taxi everywhere, as the area was every bit as kippy in sunlight as it was at night. Thankfully taxis were plentiful though, and one stopped for me within a minute. Panama taxis don’t have meters so you need to establish the price before setting off, which should be between $1 and $2 if staying within city limits – using broken Spanish, a price of $1 was agreed. The driver needed to ask directions to the pub, but we got there within 10 minutes. Upon inspection, the pub was well and truly closed, so it became quickly clear that Central America did not cater for Premiership match-viewing in the way that Asia did.
I headed into a French cafe and had a very tasty mozzarella, tomato and basil bruschetta (the lack of Frenchness of the dish is duly noted) and a much needed water, all for a reasonable $3. The official currency of Panama is the US Dollar – although they call it the Balboa, the notes are exactly the same as those used in the US.
The guidebook recommended heading off the beaten track and going to Contractors’ Hill, 20 kilometres outside of the city, as it offered a magnificent view of the Panama Canal. An old taximan was stationed ouside the cafe and I bargained a $10 ride there and back with him. After a quiet start, we were soon engaging in a decent conversation, all in Spanish. Most of the time I was guessing what he was saying, but it seemed to work out. I learned the following :
Panama won its first gold medal in 60 years at the Beijing Olympics.
Petrol was $5 a gallon in Panama and Senor Taximan was most surprised to hear that it was $8 per gallon in Ireland.
Baseball is the national sport of Panama, with basketball quite popular too.
Senor Taximan wouldn’t be voting in the upcoming Presidential election (there were posters everywhere) – not because he thought, as I suggested, that they were all crooks, but because he couldn’t see any difference between them. The current President was doing an okay job, though.
With Contractors’ Hill in sight, the road turned into a dirt track and we eventually had to stop at an army checkpoint, where we were informed that the Hill was on Canal-Zone territory that couldn’t be accessed. I now recalled reading a comment online that the Panama Lonely Planet was hugely misleading on many counts but had dismissed it at the time as an isolated rant. Senor Taximan should probably have known the score too, but anyway, I negotiated that we head back into town, drive up the other side of the canal and go to the Pedro Miguel Locks, for a further $10. With only 1 bridge across the Canal on the Pacific Ocean side, there was no shortcut available, bar running into the Canal Zone and swimming across.
It was all worthwhile though, because as we pulled up to the Pedro Miguel Locks, a giant Chinese container ship was busily inching its way through. I watched fascinated as it was pulled along by a dozen tugboats before making it through to a wider stretch of the Canal, and heading onward to the Caribbean side.
After heading back to the Hotel (through some absolute slums) and having a wee surf (thanks to free wireless internet on offer), I took another taxi ($1.50 this time) to Plaza de Francia in the old colonial district of Casco Viejo, a small peninsula jutting out into the sea. There were very nice views of the skyscrapers of the business district across the bay, and of the many ships queueing for entry to the canal but the place itself was shabby and run-down. An old man came along and struck up Spanish conversation that started on the subject of my Brasilian soccer shirt and inevitably soon asked for a dollar for food. Disgusted at his masquerade, I flatly said No and bade him Good Day!
I walked a few blocks to Luna’s Castle, the back-packers hostel of choice in the city but upon arrival it was deserted. The quest for company and meeting people was not going particularly well! I walked a little further, seeking a restaurant, but entered a horrificly dilapidated ghetto. Luckily, a taxi manifested itself quickly and I directed him to bring me to the more fashionable El Cangrejo district. There I espied a decent-looking micro-brewery pub and said “That’ll do!” As forewarned, beers in Panama City aren’t as cheap as elsewhere, but the $4 pints of home-brewed “Colon” lager and “Chiriqui” ale were well worth it and they were well accompanied by a chicken burrito ($4). An election rally passed by, consisting of about 60 cars blaring their horns and waving Panamaniac flags, with a bored-looking candidate and his (presumed) wife at the head of the cortege standing and wearily waving, in the back of a pick-up truck.
I headed home at about 6pm via yet another $1.50 taxi-ride to freshen up and avail of the hotel´s free wi-fi, and headed back out at 9pm to check out the city´s famous casino scene. I got into a taxi and asked how much it would be to the InterContinental Hotel - when he said "$5", I said "No" and when he refused to accept the $2 that I was offering, I got him to stop the car. 15 seconds later, I hailed a taxi-driver who refreshingly was content not to try and rip me off. Once again, the Panama Lonely Planet was unmasked as a sham when I turned up at the InterContinental Hotel (which houses the city´s best casino, according to the guide) only to be told that they do not have a casino and never did. The kindly concierge directed me to a casino which was just a 10 minute walk away. The place was fairly big, with about 30 blackjack and roulette tables, and hundreds of slot machines. I played some blackjack, starting with $30 of chips, rising to $60 and falling back to $30 again. All tables seemed to be populated by local blokes who actually played, and obnoxiously loud fat young ladies who didn´t play but hoovered up free drinks. Their "good luck charm" (smacking the table and shouting "Yiiiiiiii" at top volume before the dealer dealt his cards) got on my wick pretty quickly, so I amused myself with some slot-machine action, losing a whopping $6 over the space of an hour. The taxi back to the hotel was with a guy who freely admitted to not really knowing where he was going but Hotel Centroamericano was finally reached.
Day 3 - Monday, September 1st, 2008 - Panama City to Bocas del Toro
This is always a special day - the first day of the holidays when you are normally at work. To celebrate, I had a leisurely but simple breakfast of Spanish Omelette and water in the restaurant beside the hotel, all for a splendid $3. I then booked a flight online to Bocas del Toro - islands in the Caribbean Sea off the coast of north-west Panama, which had received some rave reviews. Although I had booked 3 nights in Panama, I hadn´t the appetite to stay there any longer.
The taxi-driver was speedily smacked down from $5 to $2, and we were on our way to Albrook Airport, located near the city centre and servicing domestic flights. The terminal was not a grand affair, with check-in area and the 2 boarding gates all within 10 metres of each other. After a 30 minute delay, the Boarding Gate (a sliding door) was opened and we headed out onto the tarmac to board a 30 seater Shorts (made in Belfast) plane, whose age was belied by masking tape on the wings and visible bolts protruding from all its surfaces.
Despite initial apprehension, the hour-long flight was most pleasant, offering views of the Pacific Ocean, the lush Panamaniacal countryside, the Canal and the Caribbean. The landing was one of those affairs where you are convinced that you are going to crash into the sea until suddenly, with 4 metres left to ground, dry land appears. The disembarcation process was magnificent - open plane door, get out, grab bag, walk 20 metres to airport exit, walk a further 100 metres to the guesthouse.
After the slummery of Hotel Centroamericano, the Casa Amarillo was literally a breath of fresh air - cool owner Dennis from Denver, sizeable room with blastingly-cool air-con, cable TV, fridge, free wi-fi and safety deposit box - a snip at $30 (21 Euros) per night.
After much wallowing in this new-found luxury, I took a walk further into the town, which had the vibe of what I reckon Bali would have been like before it was ruined by hordes of greedy street-merchants/conmen. I awarded the night's dinner franchise to Om Cafe (an Indian restaurant which declared "there's no place like Om!") and it proved to be a magnificent choice. The starter was an interesting Raitu, with cinnamon-like naan, and spicy potatoes and chickpeas, and the main course of Chicken Vindaloo was flavoursome and spiced to perfection. Washed down with 3 bottles of Balboa beer, the total bill of $15/€11 imply couldn't be quibbled with.
After that, I headed back to the Casa to do a little surfing and watch CNN's highly over-dramatic coverage of Hurricane Gustav.
Day 4 - Tuesday, September 2nd, 2008 - Bocas Del Toro
As a fully paid-up member of the International Slumbering and Lie-In Association (ISLIA), I am truly amazing myself with my early risings thusfar, continuing today with a swift and chirpy bed-exit at 8am. Yes, the benefits of gaining 6 hours of time last Saturday have still not worn off.
It is a scorchingly sunny day, so I decide to hire a bike and have a leisurely toddle around the locality to see what it has to offer. There are a row of bikes at a nearby corner with a "Se Aquilar"/"For Rent" sign, although no-one seems to be claiming ownership of them. After a trip to the nearby golf-cart-hire shop and the supermarket on its other side, I am directed to a house behind the bikes, under which two locals are hiding - possibly from the sun or from life in general. Having established that they are indeed the bike-hire operatives, a princely day-loan fee of $10/€7 is handed over, and I set about the task of deciding which bike to choose. The decision-making process is made easy by the fact that all 20 bikes are exactly the same model, though in varying colours. I choose navy blue, and head off down the road.
After about 100 yards, I notice that the bike has no brakes, just fairly high handlebars. Adopting the thoroughly laid-back attitude of the island, I decide that this is not a problem. I will simply go fairly slowly. However, after about half-a-mile I back-pedal and discover that to be the braking mechanism - Eureka! I have already reached the town limits and after hugging the turquoise-blue sea thusfar, the road takes a turn inland, accompanied by a sign saying "Boca Del Drago 18km". With no other pressing engagements on the day's agenda, I ditch the leisurely-toddle plan, and adopt the "40k King of the Mountains Tour" plan instead.
Getting some exercise for the first time in months was thoroughly exhilarating, and the cycle-breeze complemented the 90 degree heat wonderfully. The scenery was fantastic - unspoilt forest and jungle on either side. Traffic was very light, apart from the odd dumper truck which seemed to suggest that some construction development is afoot, and what prime location it is for a holiday dwelling. The road was fairly severly potholed, so concentration was required to avoid carnage, especially going down the hills.
Halfway across the island, there was a sign (the first to be encountered for 10 kilometres) inviting entrance to La Gruta (The Grotto) for a dollar, so I decided to have a gander. I walked up a longish path, locked the bike (for which there was really no need, as there was no-one else there) and came across what seemed to be an altar, with steps nearby leading down to a stream and a cave. I recalled reading about it in the Lonely Planet, saying that you could go into the cave and wade waist-deep through the river to see sleeping bats. I inspected the cave but decided against further penetration due to darkness and bat noises.
Coming back up the steps, along came the caretaker of La Gruta. He quickly brought up the subject of the $1 entry fee and I handed it over with a cheery "Absolumente!" He asked if I had been in the cave and I said (conversing all the while in ever-improving pidgin Spanish) that I hadn't, not elaborating why. He said that he had a flashlight, and he duly went off to get it. He returned and handed it over (all part of the hefty $1 entrance fee, it would seem) so off down the steps I went again, up the stream and into the cave. The water did indeed reach waist-deep at times - its cool temperature was most pleasant, and before long, bats were screeching and flying over my head in numbers, understandably displeased at the intrusion during their time of sleep. As light at the end of the cave came, I could see them fleeing towards me, flying overhead into the darker reaches of the cave. I knew where exactly they slept by the guano (bat-dung) on the ground beneath.
So that was that, mission accomplished. To dispel an old wives' tale, none of the bats got stuck in my hair. There was a short mucky path back to the grotto, where I handed back the torch to the caretaker, thanked him for his hospitality, and was on my cycling way again.
About half an hour later, I made it to The Other Side, and the beach and crystal clear sea made the trek utterly worthwhile. There wereabout 10 people in total on the entire stretch of beach, which winded around a couple of corners, so it looked even more deserted. I headed straight into the water, which was very warm, and just sat down in it and gazed at the beauty around. A shoal of small clear-pigmented fish gathered around me in curiosity, edging bravely ever-closer until I moved slightly, at which point they would retreat and begin the brave-edging process anew.
I could have stayed for longer but after a couple of hours I decided to head back, as all my drinking water was gone and the deserted beach was shopless - usually a refreshing trait but not in this instance. By the time I made it back to La Gruta (there was only one road across the island, so I returned via the same route) I was utterly parched, and luckily I remembered that there was a tap outside the house at the La Gruta entrance. It dispensed water at a rate of about 10 millilitres per minute but the hydration was precious! The lady of the house emerged to see me use her tap but she was less than enraged and I wouldn't have cared anyway! Freshly rejuvenated, I headed back to base before which there was time for one more incident, where I couldn't avoid a potholed area whilst hurtling down a hill and my hands slipped off the handlebars. Luckily I managed to cling onto the front-centre of the bike before coming to a stop and remarking to oneself that that was a close one.
The bicycle returned, I walked the short distance back to Casa Amarilla and headed straight to the shower. Entirely ravenous, I headed back to Cafe Om for some further Indian goodness, and it tasted even better the 2nd time, as did the Balboa beers. I had planned to then go to Mondu Taitu - the backpackers' hang-out, but approaching the front door, I was offered drugs by some natives, and it put me off, so I had a relaxing night back at the Casa instead.
Day 5 - Wednesday, September 3rd, 2008 - Bocas Del Toro
Another day, yet another early rise and yet another glorious sunny morning. For a sub-continent that is supposed to be in its rainy season (hurricane season, even), things are going extremely well on the meteorological front. Today's breakfast venue is Miss Lilli's Cafe which is on a harbour boardwalk in the town, to which speedboats (all of whom seem to be American-owned) call in. Judging by the very good Spanish omelette, fresh fruit platter, toast and coffee that was served up for $5 (€3.50), it was easy to see why.
Walking back to the Casa, a young local beseeched my attention by initially calling out "Brasil!", as dozens other have in the past few days whenever I'm wearing my Brasil soccer top - those seeking attention in Central America must get themselves one immediately. Pleasantries were exchanged and it transpired that his name was Jesus, which is nothing sacreligious in Latin America, it would seem. As usual, a sales pitch shortly followed, and Jesus was peddling boat trips (speed boats though, not pedal boats :-) ). As fortune would have it, I wanted to head to the well-acclaimed Red Frog beach on the nearby Isla de Bascimentos so I told him that I would return shortly. This I did after a leisrely foray back to the Casa to cream-up and assemble the few necessaries for the day.
I came back to Jesus (snigger) and disappointed him greatly by only being prepared to pay the standard $5 (€3.50) boat trip fee rather than a rip-off $20 fee. Lord help the trusting-soul tourist who visits Panama, for they get fiscally violated in the most alarming manner. I shared the short 15 minute high-speed ride with two couples, one of whom I chatted with. Liam from Jersey and Selda from France were here for a few days for a couple of reasons - they lived across the border in Costa Rica and needed to leave the country every 90 days in order to renew their visas, and coupled this need by playing a few gigs in the locality, for Liam was part of a rock-star sensation combo.
We docked at the entry pier to the beach, paid the $2 entry fee and walked through a forest in order to reach the beach, which was sensationally gorgeous - turquoise blue water and a mile-long stretch of golden beach, with a solitary shaded bar at its rear. After some flaking out and bronzage on the beach (pinkage is probably a better term in my case), I headed in for a cooling dip and before long I was playing frisbee with a gang of gringos including Sarah from Oz and Aidan Shaughnessy from Minnesota (he was African-American, naturally). Sarah in particular was having a splendid time, with a bottle of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other whilst in the water, although this did impede her frisbee prowess somewhat.
A retreat to the beach bar was eventually signalled, and $1.50 (€1.05) beers were ordered with aplomb and downed with gusto whilst rocking on the swings that served as seats around the bar. Hours later, sunset approached, so the bar shut down and we retraced our steps back through the jungle to the jetty, to get a boat back to the main island. On the journey back, we espied an army of leafcutter ants, each of whom was bringing back a leaf to its colony. An American gentleman was conveniently on his way back to the jetty at the same time as us, and kindly fielded several questions from us - among the pearls of wisdom garnered were that ant colonies have very intricate architecture, with rooms for mating, crechery and food cultivation. The leaves themselves are not eaten but are stored in the food room and become fungus that the ants chow down on. Fascinating stuff!
After a quick foray back to the Casa, it was finally time to head to the backpackers' hang-out Mondu Taitu without fear of assailment by drug pushers. I arrived in time for Happy Hour, where delicious bottles of Balboa beer were retailing at half-price - $0.35 (€0.22)! The place was full of gringos - Americans, Australians and Irish in the main, so the craic was excellent. Many people said that they saw me on Red Frog bach earlier and admitted to being very concerned (sniggering) at my lobster-pink bodice. Fuckers! After Happy Hour followed Cocktail Hour, where the cocktails were half-price (a whopping $1.50 each) and the alcoholic measures were insane. At 11pm, the clarion call came to head to the locality's most happening nighterie - The Aqua Club, which required a jovial mass-parade to a nearby jetty, and a speedy $1 boat over to the club. Despite it being a Wednesday, the place was hopping. The venue was an outdoors affair, with a swimming pool for those fancying a shark-uninfested nocturnal dip, and the music boomed across the bay. We were reunited with the mainland via speedboat at about 2.30am, and some rather tasty $1 kebab skewers were grabbed on the way back to the Casa.
For the next instalment, mosey along to the Costa Rica blog!
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