Chapter 16

Central America

A surreal experience, an absolute first:

Scene: breakfast room in slightly seedy (you know, a lot of door banging at 4 am, what I used to call LPs – laid, paid) hotel. Waitress: “Room number?” Me: “118.” Waitress: “Breakfast not included.” Me: “Yes, it is.” Waitress: “Room number?” Me: “118.” She: “Not possible.” Me: “We slept there last night.” She: “Go to reception and sort it if you want breakfast.” I go.

Receptionist: “Room number?” Me: “118.” She: “Not possible. Name please?” Me: “Burton.” She: No one called Burton staying here." Me: “I am staying here, and my name is Burton. Why did you let me in then? I gave you my passport.” (Did I pick up someone else’s by mistake? Am I going insane?) I retrieve booking form. Receptionist: “You are in the wrong room. What name did you give?” Me: “My name.” She: “Not possible.” Ad infinitum. Result? I am in room 111 but holding out for using my own name. I really must learn Spanish or get sectioned. They say once you get to sixty, you become ‘invisible’ to the young. That must be it.

I find a local travel agent to change some dollars for local currency. Whole office breaks into uproarious laughter. And the joke is? The US dollar is the local currency. The ducat went out with the Spanish, ducky. A bit like a trip to Scotland asking for local currency.

The (1519) Panama City, Casco Viejo, a world heritage site feels like a Hollywood film set with one-dimensional buildings, all frontage and nothing behind: Decline and Falling down. Some restoration work is underway, but time is running out if there is not to be further loss. It is difficult to know whether to look up for falling masonry or down for massive potholes in the ‘pavement’. I have a feeling the council does not pay out compensation or it would already be bankrupt. The backdrop to this sorry state of affairs is a skyline like Singapore or Shanghai just across the bay, impressive if you don’t look too closely with a wonderful skyscraper like a giant corkscrew.

And so tomorrow: Panama Canal treatment. Makes a change from my usual trip to the dentist for root canal treatment I suppose. My wife and I are not seeing a lot of each other at present; the only place in the room with enough light to read is in the loo, so we have a rota. But I digress as the short part-way trip up (or is it down?) the canal is fascinating. In our modest craft, we are dwarfed by huge ocean-going liners and freighters gliding into the series of locks with only inches to spare on each side. Work is well advanced on widening the existing ninety-nine-year-old canal to accommodate the new generation of even larger liners coming on stream, due for completion on its centenary anniversary but likely to overrun. (ED: it did)

Time to head off for the (Panamanian) boondocks away from metropolitan city life to find out how the everyday country-folk live: in a nutshell, poor and angry.

We packed ourselves off on the first leg in a long-distance local bus to the ‘hottest (temperature-wise) place in Central America’ called David, where we transferred to what is affectionately known as a ‘chicken bus’, a converted American school bus with one gear: first. In any event it slugged it out up thousand metres into the highlands and the fashionable town of Boquete, famous for its coffee plantations and gardens of blazing reds and purples.

But the journey was not all sweetness and light and we had this ghastly sense of déja-vu (Bolivia – 2005) as the traffic ground to a halt and the riot police and army took over. Strangely similar circumstances too in that the indigenous folk, seemingly dirt poor, were up in arms about the government’s plans to start mining for copper. No doubt they were not likely to be the beneficiaries. I don’t know why the government does not do what was done in England in past times of need and just remove and melt down the fancy gates from the gated community properties, but it is probably because they are all owned by government officials. Our concern is not helped by the fact that the locals are not only armed with mobile phones but with machetes, allegedly to cut down bananas but machetes are, of course, multi-functional. Was there bloodshed at the Nell Gwynn tearooms today? Gladly not, as far as we could tell.

Anyone know the way to San Jose without using roads? Well, there is a road, but it’s blockaded in five places, justifying the local Panamanian newspaper headline today: ‘String of protests paralyse the country’, mainly in the west where we are. So, plan B: the African Queen alternative. Securing a couple of speedboats, we head off north from our Boca del Toro island on the Caribbean coast of Panama via neighbouring islands and eventually locate the half-hidden mouth of an Amazonian type river winding through the dense jungle mile after mile. While the bird life is wonderful – herons, storks, kingfishers etc. – the river seems to be getting narrower and narrower with increasing quantities of water hyacinth clogging the diminishing navigation channel. Then the murky water level reduces to inches and I have visions of jumping in to do a Humphrey Bogart and pull the boat the last mile. But no; eventual success, reaching close to the Costa Rican border and motor transport on the other side of the roadblocks. Who said travelling isn’t exciting (as long as you survive), and I still need two more new countries to reach my 100^th country target, so it’s no use giving up when the going gets tough.

After such an eventful day, we look back to the relative tranquillity of our relaxed stay in Boca del Toro island yesterday and to Red Frog Beach, famous for, er, red frogs. Now these critters need not fear any passing hungry Frenchman as they measure barely half an inch (or less than 2 centimetres to a Frenchman) in toto, so the legs would not make even a small mouthful.

The six-hour journey from the Panama/Costa Rica border towards San Jose is a combination of Caribbean coast road, millions and millions of banana trees with their fruit wrapped in blue plastic bags to prevent premature ripening, thick jungle with exotic flowering trees and massive bamboos. It, unfortunately, also includes for much of the route heavy parked freight traffic and mountains of static freight containers parked along the road. I think people must live in some of them.

I know it’s not fair to judge so soon, but I don’t imagine Dionne Warwick had this San Jose in mind when she asked the question. And bearing in mind the history of earthquakes in this city, I suppose it is unreasonable to expect much in the way of architectural merit, but you have to break a journey somewhere, and at least, the peasants here aren’t revolting, and the Gold Museum interesting.

At last, we come upon the flora and fauna for which Costa Rica is justly famous as we leave San Jose behind and head for the hills, and what a road. A kaleidoscope of colour, jacaranda blues, bougainvillea reds, crimson flames of the forest trees, wild poinsettias, lush green coffee bushes amidst rolling hills. If life ever takes us this way again, we would happily drop the side trip we made to paddle in the Pacific near Punta Arenas: black volcanic ‘sand’ and seawater that looks like is just washed up from a nearby sewage farm.

After seemingly endless vertiginous dirt track roads (you can see why the horse is the preferred form of travel) winding up through stunning cattle country, we reach our destination for tonight: Monteverde, a mountain resort famed for its tarantulas, iguanas, the emblematic multi-coloured quetzal bird, humming birds, howler monkeys, sloths, butterflies and snakes. The town was first settled in the 1930s by loggers but was later populated by North American Quakers fleeing persecution for refusing to fight in the Korean War. So, this is not the place you expect to hear that six years ago, bank robbers killed nineteen bank staff and customers in a failed hold-up. You wouldn’t mind if it had been Butch and Sundance, but it wasn’t. I hope I’ve got enough reddies to see me through to Nicaragua.

What to do in the cloud and rainforests? The choice is zip-wire high-speed travel or slow canopy walk above the jungle. The climate is very odd and very localised, with blue skies and almost constant fine drizzle resulting in frequent rainbows. Of the available wildlife, we managed to witness two or three exotic quetzal birds, some howler monkeys (see below) flycatchers, an iguana, humming-birds and a sloth so it could have been worse, could have been better.

The star turn was the howler monkey which has a piercing cry a bit like a Great Dane (the dog, not a tall person from Denmark) being castrated. Hence the name, of course.

Next day, on to the frontier and let no one tell you that you will get a warm and efficient welcome here. The border with Nicaragua makes Heathrow in an inch of snow look super-efficient, but you can’t judge a country by its border Gestapo and things could and did only get better, eventually.

You step down from second to third world here, all bikes, bullock carts, emaciated horses ridden by emaciated riders, but at least the cost of beer and other essentials is lower. While Costa Rica buys US school buses when they have already clocked up 100k miles, Nicaragua buys them from Costa Rica when they have done 200k and uses them until they die and go to the big bus depot in the sky.

Due to the shenanigans at the border, we missed the main ferry for a choppy hour’s trip to Ometepe Island on Lake Nicaragua, so had to take the ‘banana’ boat, well, more like the furniture boat as we shared it with huge cupboards, and the usual assortment of crates, bikes, foodstuff and locals.

The island in Central America’s largest lake owes its existence to two volcanoes, one of which is still active. Nicaragua suffers from most of the world’s natural disasters, including earthquakes, although the last eruption was fifty years ago and so is now five years overdue. I have calculated it would probably take the clapped-out ferries about six months to evacuate the island, assuming they lasted that long. In 1957, the island’s crops were wiped out by volcanic ash, so all their beans became has-beans overnight.

The island is very laid back and has a Caribbean feel. No one moves too fast and the roads are frequently blocked by herds of cows steered by cowboys, ride-on domesticated bullocks carrying logs, vegetables and fruit. Family washing in the island’s rivers keeps women and their children busy. In fact, some of it looked remarkably like the laundry items we left in the hotel this morning.

Despite hurricane strength winds on Ometepe island as we departed, the old rust bucket ferry stayed successfully afloat all the way to the mainland where we moved on to Granada in Nicaragua, the oldest city in central America founded by the Spanish in 1524. Despite the terrible Contra war of the 1980s, money is being spent here on restoring the lovely old Spanish buildings in pastel colours, set off with Mediterranean tiles and cool, peaceful courtyards with palms, flowers and fountains. Another ten quid has been spent on repairing the pot-holed pavements. The shaded squares and streets are alive with the sound of children’s voices and clattering horse-drawn carriages, almost as if the Spanish had never left. Actually, about four haven’t: the kids make a few bob by dressing up as Spanish senoritas accompanied by children representing the locals, with a very large head shaped like a large birthday cake. Oh yes, the ‘women’, children stilt-walkers, are about eight feet tall with long red hair, masks and traditional Spanish traditional dress and are accompanied by frenetic drum play. Nicaragua is better suited to backpacker travel as prices are much cheaper than Costa Rica and Panama so there are more of them than in previous places, mostly Yankee gringos and gringo-ettes.

So, what to do here? Well, you’re never far from a volcano in Nic, so conveniently, there’s one just down the road in Masaya. Active still, but not too violent, at least since 1772, it has been the site of grizzly goings on over the years. While I was changing a camera battery and my wife was listening to the guide, she shouted in front of everyone: go to hell, quite uncalled for I thought. However, what she actually said was that it was known as the ‘gate of hell’ as the steaming crater was known to the natives in years gone by, who thought it was occupied by an angry hag of a witch who needed a steady stream of young virgins (who doesn’t?) to keep her quiescent. Apparently, it was considered an honour to be selected and tossed into the hissing steaming stinking sulphur cauldron, though, as ever, the role always went to the lower orders. That, of course was years ago but in more recent times, it is claimed that the right-wing USA-supported Contras were claimed to have flown over this volcano to dispose of Sandinista competition. Incredibly, there is today a particular parakeet that can survive in the sulphurous air of the crater and nests within it, knowing nothing will follow it in, so has no predators. They probably pong a bit too.

Granada like Ometepe also sits on the large Nicaragua Lake, but just off the coast near the city are about 300 little islands created by some past volcanic event. They provide a home for a wide selection of herons, vultures, kingfishers, flycatchers etc., and for the rich and famous locals who, in a socialist country, can afford something more elaborate than the shacks most rural folk live in. There are also a small number of monkeys all known by individual names to the locals: Lola, Pablo, Julio and Michael Jackson; Michael Jackson? Yes, a capuchin monkey, black but with a white face; very unkind.

Oh yes, the love shacks. It seems that as many families live three or four generations to a house, it is quite difficult to, er, well, find a quiet moment to perpetuate the species, as it were. So, the answer is the love shack or mini motel, where you can drive in (or walk in if you don’t have a car) for a couple of hours peace and quiet for ten bucks, and a full service. This includes a bed of course, TV (?), towels and an amenity pack of essentials. It was made clear these are not to be confused with brothels, so I suppose some form of ID is required to establish your marital status. I am unable to confirm any of this first-hand as two hours seems a bit of an overkill and I could not find any reports on Tripadvisor, funnily enough.

I am delighted to report that despite the best efforts of several border control staff, I have now reached my goal visiting 100 countries, and expect to receive my letter from the queen shortly. In the meantime, I have to make do with a letter from my brother to Michael Winner in today’s Sunday Times on a different subject.

The event was nevertheless celebrated with a photo in blistering midday heat at the scruffy chaotic border between Nicaragua and Honduras. Complete with a witch-like figure straight from central casting, wielding a stick in order to extract a dollar. Now I know we only passed through Honduras for two hours before we reached El Salvador, but we will be going back in a day or so, so it does count. After a tiring eleven-hour journey, it was a relief to eventually reach the charming colonial town of Suchitoto, all cobbled streets and bougainvillea situated in northern El Salvador (country 101), pretty and peaceful now, but with a turbulent political past during the 1980s. Our well-travelled group was then able to share a more relaxed celebration of my ‘ton-up’ with a glass of champagne and a promise that many would be having their own similar such celebrations in the near future.

The trip that day had its moments, apart from the hassles of immigration at two border crossings. This is iguana country and almost every 50 yards on some stretches of the road, locals stand holding a clutch of iguanas by the tail, three for about 25 dollars with three lovebirds (feathered) thrown in. There are many who feel these iguanas belong to an endangered species and should not be seen as an alternative to chicken and chips. The campaign to stamp the business out is supported by the supermarkets which have a snazzy slogan: ‘Buy one, set one free’ but I don’t think it will catch on.

El Salvador has been a pleasant surprise, wonderful mountain scenery. We would have liked longer to enjoy our open-air breakfasts on the hotel balcony overlooking the lake and distant mountain ranges. Just the place to start Valentine’s Day, if not finish it.

El Salvadorians take the English language literally. For them a wedding breakfast takes place at, yes, that’s right, breakfast time of course. For the unsuspecting gringo still enjoying the final moments of morning slumber, the arrival of honking wedding guest vehicles at 5:30 am is no joke. Now don’t ask me when the bride has her hair done but it must be while it is still dark outside, and the timing still allows for guests to dress up to the nines and musicians to belt out Valentine ditties at full pelt.

Route planning in Central America is a tricky business. You cannot count on the crows. What looks like the obvious straight line may take twice as long as going via another country, even allowing for the border control hassle and costs because of the state and width of the roads and commercial vehicle traffic. For some unknown reason, the authorities in many of these countries seem very keen on speed bumps or ‘sleeping policemen’ on even the major roads and these, combined with huge juggernauts, reduce traffic to an average of only a few miles per hour. Mind you, with the alarming violent death rates, especially in top of the world-ratings Honduras, they probably use real policemen in concrete. Most officials sport weapons, even those not in any sort of uniform who may, or may not, therefore, be officials.

And so it is that we start in El Salvador, pop into Guatemala for two hours to get into Honduras, which in fact has a border with El Salvador. And then you have to juggle three currencies to pay the immigration fees and all this in the space of a few hours. However, getting hold of the right currency is ‘no hay problema’ at any border because there are always currency exchange merchants wielding great wads of notes, only too happy to get their hands-on Uncle Sam’s greenbacks, whatever their country’s attitude to their superpower neighbour. While most of these operatives are male, they are usually accompanied by women selling comestibles whose main feature is that at first glance they seem to be wearing their frilly underwear on the outside. These garments like Victorian corsets house their money and other tools of their trade but probably double up for a bit of evening overtime work, worn properly.

And so, to Guatemala. This is not a place for the squeamish or faint-hearted or indeed those who depend on taxis to save their aching feet. A picture of a handgun with a red line through it above the ATM gives an early clue. To put it in a nutshell, this is the only country (out of 102 so far) in my travels where taxis are heavily outnumbered by police and military personnel and police vehicles (Burma is a paragon of virtue in comparison). There may be a connection, of course, in that even the taxi-drivers fear for their safety, so are unwilling to ply for hire, especially after dark. At the end of the day, it is difficult to say if all these police make you feel more, or less safe. I know it is hypocritical to complain about too many officers on the street here and not enough at home. In fact, the most common sound here is that of police car sirens.

Now I must make clear that I have no personal reason to express these views (though there was a ‘black Maria’, packed tight with suspects just picked up down the street) but there is plenty of hearsay on the matter, and it does detract from the possible enjoyment of the many bars and restaurants that exist and which are patronised by the young Guatemalan and gringo. I know most hotels lock the front door at night but here they’re locked all day too, and there are grills on all windows, attractive in wrought iron but still protective. Think Durban in spades.

On a more positive note, Antigua is undoubtedly picturesque, all jacaranda trees and palm trees, with dozens of dirt-poor country folk in traditional dress carrying huge bundles of colourful weaving and trinkets and all with a couple of sprogs in tow or on their backs. They all have their spiel off pat: your husband will pay etc. No one yet says ‘Your wife will pay’, I notice. With house fronts closed to passing scrutiny, life goes on in peaceful inner courtyards, often decorated with exotic plants and water features, private dwellings and many of the restaurants too.

The last stop before returning to the United States is Lake Atitlan, about three hours from Antigua and surrounded by three volcanoes. One has a sense of being on the inside a crater as the villages seem to cling, like Amalfi, to the steep slopes that soar upwards around the lake. It is not often one’s room is blessed with a view of a towering volcano. Divers will tell you that the rocks at the bottom of the lake are hot to the touch.

Almost every woman and female child wears local costume in multi-coloured woven material, and many have been selling their wares this Sunday at the busy weekly market in nearby Chichicastenango, where my dear wife had to be physically restrained from buying up the total stock. This proves to be a fitting end to a memorable if somewhat hectic trip through Central America which has gradually improved as we have travelled northwards ending in Guatemala.

Postscript: however, two events on the last day, one amazing, one very sad.

We were fortunate to have chanced upon a meeting of a confradia, a Maya religious brotherhood, at a kind of voodoo ceremony for people who have chosen to be excommunicated from the catholic church in order to worship their own pre-Christian deity: Maximon (St, Simeon to the Spanish), depicted by a wooden effigy to whom the mixed indigenous people make offerings of cigarettes, liquor and candles. The small dark private room in a member’s home contains what seems to be a glass coffin, the life-size wooden effigy of Maximon draped in colourful silk scarves and smoking a cigar, together with effigies of Jesus and Christian saints, candles and offerings. The ceiling is covered completely in balloons and paper decorations together with gaudy flashing Christmas tree lights. The room is thick with incense as the women gather seated on the floor and the men, many with a mouthful of gold teeth, seat themselves along the wall. One in dark glasses looks like Jimmy Savile in fancy pants. It seems that there are no black arts practised, at least not in the presence of gringos. This has got to be the weirdest experience of the trip, tucked away down the narrow alleys of Santiago Atitlan on the lake. The funny thing is that it was all very cheerful, especially when compared with a visit to the Catholic church nearby where the small congregation were overwhelmed with emotional wailing and sobbing over something (our guide did not speak nor understand their dialect), so maybe the Maya were right to hold to their original beliefs.

Our departure by boat was interrupted by great consternation at the harbour explained in due course by the fact that a leisure craft had smashed into a fisherman’s boat killing the owner, a sad end to the fascinating day.