Playgrounds of Paradise, Lanquín

Welcome to Lanquín, the lost mountain village of jiggy-jig. The ultimate playground of paradise. I must sound like a bit of a toss by now, claiming each new place surpasses the perfection of the last; but somehow what began as a long awaited holiday, has rapidly evolved into a way of life. My awsome new life. If you were here, you might begin to understand. I no longer crave those ridiculous, unnecessary comforts of my former existence, and I've long ago ceased to question why I'm even out here, traversing unfamiliar tracts of The Americas all (but never) alone. There are always worthy substitutes. I've done more cool shit in the past week than most can manage in an entire year. So, I guess we might say I've made the right decision. Thumbs up, happy times. Lets roll.

I just flogged this chair from the hostel bar, and now I'm busy killing time outside my tent. In an hour or so we'll all be heading out tubing; and here from my panoramic vantage point atop a high, steep sided hill, I can already see the churning river valley far below. It's the first time I've managed to find a spare moment since leaving San Ignacio back in Belize, about a week ago. Rico's neighbour had seen me off in a wild wail of abuse - an 'old school' bitch from hell, not warming to the current influx of cashed up tourists whom now frequent her sweaty little town. Although this most likely occurs more often than I realise; when hanging about in English speaking Belize, that awkward language barrier, which in hindsight actually allows an awkward confrontation to pass by in a much less awkward fashion, simply does not exist. Squashed between books and school bags, I was soon booted off the school bus which had taken me to the border town of Benque Viejo. I decided it would be a great idea walking the remaining few miles to the Guatemalan border - my previously tight arsed nature finally making a resurgence, as the appeal of saving a pivol amount of small change prevailed over the comfortable, air conditioned taxi ride. I was an infamous wandering warrior. At one with the natives & the open road. Until of course I hit the borderline and run smack into the hoards of white trash all over again...

View from my Tent in Lanquín

Once stamped & official, the road through to Flores was much better than I had expected. The low vegetated flats of Belize had gradually given way to lush green, rolling hills, spiced with crop and livestock. A few times we were forced to slam on the brakes as a stray bull would wander out across our path. On arrival into Santa Elena (the large mother city which feeds the tiny, lake encircled island of Flores), we were cut short of our destination by a road block, where hundreds of elderly locals were sitting out in the middle of the highway on plastic chairs in some form of protest. Apparently the government had taken away a huge chunk of their pension entitlements quite unexpectedly. Cringing at my new found Texan laziness, I made a good thing out of a bad situation, and so it was...return of the Tuk-Tuk!! I hadn't seen these little bad boys since Thailand; itsy three-wheeled pocket rockets! Another item added to my list of must haves for when I return home - and soon my driver had us zipping through the colourful markets along dusty, potholed roads. On checking into my hostel I ran back into Chris & Ash, and we spent the rest of the afternoon catching up on all we'd been up to since Caye Caulker.

Now by this point of my trip, I'd evidently become all ruined out. The once mighty Mayan city of Tikal of course, would make an epic & obligatory last hurrah! Nodding off like bobble-heads on the pre-dawn shuttle out to the site, I was intrigued when we woke to find the jungle blanketed in thick morning fog. It only added to the already incredible atmosphere; some form of cicada created the background loops, while monkeys screeched out from the tree tops in a raping, ranting fashion. We climbed the tallest temple in Tikal, where we were granted with an astonishing view of the tangled forest, as far as the eye could see. To remind us of our location were the crumbling, surrounding summits of other mighty temples, poking up through the thick canopy.

Grand Plaza at Tikal

Back in Flores, the island was living up to its shapely resemblance to a massive frying pan. It was stinking hot, so Chris & I joined some locals jumping off wooden jetties into the lake. Our hopes of instant refreshment were abolished as soon as we hit the water, which felt as warm as the outside air temperature. Some of the local girls asked us to run & jump over them...and in the process Chris came frighteningly close to kneeing one smack in the face. That afternoon we drank so many Mango Locos (a vodka & mango juice cocktail) back at the hostel, that we had to clear the table 3 times before nightfall due to our embarrassing accumulation of empty glasses.Our last day in Flores was spent in a much more vegged out manner, crossing the causeway to visit the markets of Santa Elena; munching bananas & peanuts, while hunting around for some kind of pocket-knife. All we seemed to find were huge, fuck-off machetes or knives which could rip the guts out of all but the largest killer bear.

Jetty jumping in Flores

Fast-forward through a winding, jittery commute, along an ever diminishing in quality stretch of road, and we arrived here in Lanquin, the gateway to the natural wonderlands of Semuc Champey. There were times I swear our 'rally' driver had us up on two wheels, hanging precariously over 100% fatal drop-offs, and bouncing us off our seats like balls in a pinball machine. Disbelievingly it seemed, we survived the drive. Our posse all of a sudden seemed to multiply, and after pitching my tent in one of the most spectacular settings I have witnessed on this trip, we got stuck into playing a drinking game called fuck the dealer...and yes of course, I was the dealer who got fucked up! At some point during our drunken antics, I must have mentioned to Josh (my new energetic American pal with a military background) the circumstances of my earlier market quest in Flores. Problem solved. "Ohh dude! Hang on one second. I've got something you're gonna love!" Off he shot, up to his room, and before I could say anything else WHAM!! the fattest monster of a knife I had ever seen was slammed down on the table in front of me. "Man, I can't just take your knife! This things insane!" Haha...and with true steriotypical, American redneck stylin' "all good my friend, I've got another one!" and in one swift graceful movement, out pops this flick-knife staring me down across the table. My jaw dropped. This guy was nuts!

'The Lanquín Gang' smashin Brew!

I woke up in my tent the next day hungover as hell. Time to wash away those fluffy-mouth blues! I jogged on down to the river below, took off all my clothes and since it's the dry season, laid down flat on the pebbly bottom as the only way to fully submerge myself in the freezing water. As I was getting out, a local man with shovels thrown over his shoulder walked on by. I was still stark naked..."Buenos dias!" a wave & a smile was all I could let out! The man stops for moment, smiles, then waves back with his free hand "buenos dias! Muchas frio?!" He had me...laughing as he continued on to where ever the hell he was off to at this time of the morning...

All spruced up, it was time for Semuc Champey! After breakfast, our bustling group piled on into the back of a pickup truck. The ride was interesting to put it bluntly, and I was thrilled when the short ride was finally over. We had our faces smothered in war paint, and were then shown the ways of the most hectic rope swing in the world. What a way to start a morning! We all took turns hurling our bodies out into the river, before Josh's girlfriend almost killed herself missing the point of letting go! Man, that shit freaked me out...I pictured it all as it was happening; accepting her face splattering all over the rocks that lined the shore. But as all (thankfully) ended well, I can't say I did much better to be honest. On my third time up, I flipped backwards so much that I began to loop around again, smacking into the water hard on my stomach! For a moment I couldn't breathe, my hangover taking instant control all over again. By the time I got back to the shallows my body was throbbing all over, nowhere more so than the blood red tip of my poor old nob.

Rope Swing!

The rest of this incredible day was packed full, taking part in all kinds of other crazy heart-racing bullshit. We spent two hours caving along an underground river; our paths illuminated only by the faint flickering of the candles we carried. Next we got to jump 12 meters off the top ropes of a suspension bridge. Our guide Carlos, teeming with hyperactivity, pointed out the exact location where we wouldn't hit the bottom, by reassuringly performing a perfect swan dive! The astonishing thing was, this was just a warm up. The natural limestone bridge, which stretches 60 meters above an angry, whitewashed river gorge; decorated by dozens of piercing blue & green translucent pools, has to be one of the most picturesque & unexploited wonders of the world. I've never seen a place quite like it. There is a theme parks worth of tunnels, jumps & slides from which you could lose days enjoying the crystal clear waters, lazily splashing about at your own pace.

Semuc Champey

By the time we got back to the hostel, I was wrecked. My ribs ached from a stupid head first slide attempt, and the adrenaline buzz from all this excitement had finally worn thin. One of the Canadian girls had said to me earlier, "do something everyday that scares you, and everyday you'll be made to feel alive." I don't think I've ever felt so alive. Maybe this place really is freaking me the fuck out without me realising it, engaging this prophetic effect. But I guess maybe it's that same reason, why I know there is no way I'm ready to come home any time soon. This life is just too much fun.

Toying about with Narks & Sharks, Caye Caulker

I'm drifting weightlessly between the verticals of a deep narrow canyon. Around us abounds an endless array of life, ranging from miniscule, easily bypassed micro-systems, to creatures much larger than I am...such as this sleek, thousand-toothed killing machine. What do you do - 80 ft down, surrounded by vast endless ocean, when you find yourself face to face with a shark? Well there's not much you actually can do, except keep on keeping on, eyes fixed on that trawling gaze; maybe clench one hell of a smile out from behind your regulator, and hope Mr. Man-Eater here winks back with a cheeky grin of recent satisfaction - "it's alright mate, never worry now. I've already had me my fair share of shredded flesh for one day. Let's hang out a while shall we??" To be honest, I'm slightly exaggerating the scenario; these little critters are apparently harmless nurse sharks, but it's not every day I get to boast such a feat, and someone did mention hammerhead!!

Staring down Mr. Shark in the depths

This is my third day out diving the famous barrier reefs off the coast of Belize, part of a chain that runs generally north-south from the Yucatan peninsula in Mexico, past the Bay Islands of Honduras, before petering out off Nicaragua. Learning to dive for me, has always been an unforeseeable aspiration; something I felt I would love to try, but being unsure where or when I would ever find the time or opportunity had simply remained a minimal priority. However, since rocking up here in Caye Caulker, where the pace is slow, the vibe is fresh, and island life understandably evolves around these tranquil waters - how could I dismiss the temptation?? So before I begin to delve anymore into my new found underwater philosophies, I should back this story up a little...

If only I could enter more countries with the same steeze & style I seemed to pull off here in Belize. I'll start with the boring bits...If you can float, catch the boat! Airports and buses suck. I found weaving in and out of the mangrove tangled shorelines a lot more entertaining than being constrained for another five hours watching crappy Hollywood hits, overdubbed in Spanish. So it was, that Dave (one of my new drug-loving Canadian pals) and I managed to escape the enslaving tentacles of Tulum, a place of too much fun; from where we made our way to Chetumal, a hot & busy port-side town from where we could wave our goodbyes to Mexico. On arrival, in a similar raping fashion that I hadn't encountered since Padangbai over a year ago, we were swarmed upon by prospecting 'representatives' of competing ferry companies. "Half price tickets sir! Here, here, come HERE!! Yes?? YES! Let's go!!" I couldn't help have a moment - "fuck off! We're catching a taxi..." One of them even chased our ride, sticking his head and tickets through the passenger window before the driver also told him to "piss off!" and pulled away. In my experience it's best to buy these things at the at the ports of departure, directly through the company, where you can see the vessel, chat with the operators and receive a receipt. We thanked our cabbie, brought round trip tickets to Belize City and finally got ourselves stamped out of the country...after a 'small' fee of course.

Now normally I don't freak about customs clearances, but normally I'm not traveling through customs with Dave - who only a few nights ago had been so juiced up on cocaine, that as a consequence he'd hardly slept since. Adding to this abnormality, it's not often I've been met by an array of army officials totting big, black machine guns and what I'm sure could be corrupt sniffer dogs. However, safely through our security check, we were on our way; often catching slight previews of an island fever perfection that awaited us.

Small sail boats at Caye Caulker

Docking in San Pedro, approximately 90 minutes later, we now had to pass through Belize border protection, which as you will soon discover, is obviously non existent. I was amazed by how quickly everything seemed to change. Less than two hours ago I'd been eating tacos, fumbling pesos with money handlers & officials in a stuttering display of broken language; and now here I was in San Pedro, flirting with the customs girl in perfect English! It blew me out. Back home in Tasmania, it takes a good seven hours or more by plane to get anywhere slightly different in culture, linguistics or ethics. Here the food was different, the beer was different, the money, the faces, the surroundings and most noticeably - the overall atmosphere. So much so, that Dave went for a little walk and came back 5 minutes later with a fat wad of sweet ol' Mary Jane. Picture this in any other country around the world - we're just past customs; no wait...we are still literally standing at customs, and here is Dave inspecting this stuff right in front of his face, hanging over the dock railings...Ahh fuck it. No one seemed to care. I could smell the stuff drifting on the breeze since I got off the boat anyway. "I'll grab some beers hey??"..."Alright dude, I'll go roll one up for us. Meet you over there on the beach in a second." So there we were, laying out on the white sands of San Pedro - as happy as Larry, passing spliff between Belikin beers; watching pelicans & our first Belizean sunset over the piers and 'customs shed,' hovering above the Caribbean.

An hour later and we were dropped at Caye Caulker, and for what seemed like a fairly empty island at that time being - No Vacancy signs hung from pretty much every gate we wandered on up too. A local comes up trying to sell us his place (and who knows what else), before pointing us in the direction of Bellas hostel, "if you want somewhere cheap guys, and you like to party with the pretty ladies, Bellas is your stop tonight." Sounded good to me; Dave didn't really have a choice. I was bee-lining - but started getting second thoughts when this sunburnt Swedish toss stumbles on down the front steps and nearly pisses all over us. We managed to get him upright...his eyes were glazed, lost with that look of doped out insanity, and he was definitely not speaking Swedish! Upstairs was more of the same...yet before we were spotted, a few were busy serving up some kind of broth around the reception desk/dinner table. It felt like I'd just walked into Joe's Garage, everyone dropped what they were doing and gave us 'the look.' "Heya! How ya's all doin'?? Just wonderin' if you'd have a couple'a beds available for tonight?" One of the sombre bunch steps out from behind the table and chokes out a "yea...what's your names?" - "Well, I'm Nick Morgan from Austr-..." he sharply cut me off, "just your first names..." Alright then, we sure have one happy chap here! "I'm Nick and this is Dave." - "Downstairs, any bed without sheets. Pay me later on." I wish I did pay him later, later on - halfway through the night I fell straight through the bottom of my bed. The wooden ruts weren't bloody long enough for the side supports; and thinking I'd fixed it once, gently crawled back in...only to go SMACK!! to the floor all over again!

Dave must have had a rough night as well. He ditched on the first ferry out the following morning. You could tell by the look in his face that surprisingly, this was too much even for him. I felt I could give it another night or so - and after all, I'd only come this far with a single purpose in mind. I spent the day sussing out the different dive companies, hoping to snare a deal where accommodation was thrown in somehow; and after discussing course outlines with Arbel at Frenchies Diving, hooked up a 10% discount if I crashed at his sisters place. Settled. All I had to do now was sneak out of Bellas alive. I grabbed all my shit and forced it down into my backpack, sprinting out into the pounding rain - ironically the first rain I'd had since leaving Australia - and dodging golf buggies & mud puddles crossed the soccer field, bursting through the front door of my new home, a little pissed that no one actually gave a hoot just how quickly I'd pulled this miraculous relocation off!

Later that afternoon, once settled from my epic tropical struggle, I discovered the best thing about this island I wish I hadn't found...No I was yet to go diving at this point; that's still to come - but at this very moment my eyes laid upon Gods own creation. An explosion of excitement overwhelmed me at what I had here in my hot little hand. A wonder I hadn't had the privilege of tasting in many...too many years!! Ohh, glorious fig bars! I've munched through five packets of the things in the past four days, submitting to an uncontrollable urge of addiction, seeded early in childhood by my dear grandmother. It was lucky I ran back into Chris & Ash, who dragged me away to party across at the I & I "reggae" bar, which I am still yet to hear blast anything other than doof & trance.

Assuming I'd merely be stuck in a classroom for my first day of the dive course, I wasn't fussed by the lingering hangover I'd accumulated from last nights rum drinking antics. Turns out we were heading straight out...setting up our gear, before rolling off the side of the boat and taking my first breaths under water! Admittedly, I kind of freaked out to begin with...and shot back up to the surface to get my head together. But after a short reassurance from my instructor, I was down on the bottom again - soon feeling more comfortable with all this once alien equipment than without.

Heading back to the island

I've done some cool shit over the years, but this definitely knocked the rest for six. Maybe it's cause it was so different to anything else I'd tried previously and a little uncomfortable to begin with; but it's astonishing to think how a whole new world of possibilities has suddenly opened up around me. Over three days of diving, I got the chance to witness and interact with an amazing multitude of aquatic life; bright corals, small colourful fish, moray eels, barracudas, rays, lion fish, turtles, jellyfish and dozens of sharks! Add to this some spectacular ocean topography, a posse of fun fellow divers, the learning experience itself, and I've had myself some of the best days of my life.

Goofing around on the reef

After passing our final exams, a few of us went out for some celebrative beers up at the split. Discussing each others plans for the future, near and far, I found myself torn on what to do. I could quite easily never leave this place; I had even contemplated applying for a bar job I saw advertised down the road. But I know that this is just the beginning, and that at each corner of this journey, endless experiences await if I'm able and willing to take the plunge.

The Split

This Internets expensive guys, so suck it up! Wish you'all were here.

Much lovin' always...over & out from Caye Caulker! Nicko xx

Bubble O' Blue, Tulum

"Once you do crack, you'll never go back..." or shall we word this better - "after that first hit, you will forever chase that same unparalleled, euphoric wonder for the rest of your miserable days on this planet, and never manage to revisit that one initial, marvelous moment." There must be something in the water up north in the great land of the Canadian. Despite a 25 year age gap between these two 'reforming' junkies, they could pass as best mates; drug-brothers, bonded by a smorgasbord of illogically, deranged experiences that make my years of turmoil seem like an episode of The Baby-sitters Club. My days in Tulum proved highly informative; adding countless volumes to my bank of general knowledge - simply swinging away the hours effortlessly in my hammock. In addition to the many lessons in pharmaceutical composition, conversation could switch between stories of twisted ball sacks, primitive reasoning behind human body-odors, or the likely hood that somewhere down the line koalas happened to gift us the joys of chlamydia.

It was only a few years ago that Tulum was still a small, simple village catering for the tourists who zipped on through when visiting the beautiful, beach front Mayan ruins. But with the recent upgrade to the highway that runs through the center of town, the area has seen a boom in development, and is now a popular stop for travelers on the backpacking route. So here I was alone - and hence bored as bat shit since returning from Cuba. I decided to invade a large groups gabbling circle at The Weary Traveler, whom at once systematically welcomed me into their motley bunch of solo wanderers. It's always surprising how quickly your fortunes on the road can change; and three-quarters through a bottle of tequila later...I've sprang to life yet again, surrounded by captivating individuals, and on the verge of a public (and thankfully bailed on) flamenco performance.

Ruins at Tulum

The next day, conjuring up numerous ideas for killing these post tequila blues, we decided to grab some snorkels and make for the Dos Ojos Cenote, where we acquired our podgy little, dope-smoking guide who threw us in the back of his truck. Now, I've decided I love the water. Swimming in this cenote has been the final convincing factor. Unless you've experienced this yourself, it's hard to put into words; soooo many ridiculous, incomprehensible shades of blue reflect about the fresh, crystal clear water. In some sections you can see down at least 20 meters, where scuba divers explore the deep depths and complexities of these underground caverns. Armed with fins & flashlights we followed our guide through some tight, claustrophobic tunnels, which eventually opened up into huge, concealed chambers - elaborately decorated with drooping stalactites and sharp, eroded rock. At one point we all squeezed into this tiny little room where our heads could only just bob above the surface of the water, and with the likeliness to an iceberg; where the visible portion only represents the diminutive, tippy-top of what is actually there, below one could appreciate the immensity of this subterranean world I know little about. "...and here's where he busts out the spliff!" everyone bursts into laughter, concurring in Chris' unmistakable London humor; all picturing our guide chugging along like a steam train out the nozzle of his snorkel.

Chris & Ash at Dos Ojos cenote

After the cenote we all split up, some heading for the ruins - the others and I off to the beach. Making the most of our snorkel hire, we swam around following some large fish, and even spotted a turtle. Later that night we got into party mode for Chris' birthday, kicking off with dinner at a restaurant before delving straight back into another bottle of tequila. The night got messy, and after dancing for hours at the bar across the street & cartwheeling around looking for the mythical karaoke club, I passed out in a hammock...apparently out like a rock. When I finally woke from my self-induced death the next morning, I booked a ticket out of Tulum for the following day; coming to the conclusion I could easily end up here for months unless I made the move soon. So for now...bye, bye sweet Mexico, you've been good to me. Next stop - the famous barrier reefs of Belize! I'll leave you all with some pic's from Mexico to brighten your day...

Beach at Tulum

Our band of warriors in the truck

Grabbing snorkels

At Chichen Itza

¡Viva la Revolución! Havana

"tap, tap, tap, BANG!"..."tap, tap, tap, BANG!"

There's been this sourceless, irritatingly repetitive knocking sound going on down below the apartment for the better part of an hour now. Out on the street a bunch of kids are playing baseball barefoot in the dirt - buildings from a bygone era tower up around them forming long, continuous, crumbling walls. Tiny, protruding balconies draped in drying laundry brighten an otherwise flavourless image. For a brief, suspended moment of silence I'm sure I can hear someone somewhere practicing piano.

"tap, tap, tap, BANG!!"

Man, this knocking's gotta be more confused than me! I go down - it goes up. I go up - it goes down. I go out the front door - it goes round the fucking street! Some sneaky chicken likes playing tricks on the white guy...Yet, sitting here beside my rusty old window, watching the sun set once again on another blissfully chaotic day in the Caribbean, the noise morphs into irrelevance; and the streets become englufed by a pleasantly different air of rythem...Now, never mind the bullocks. Technically I don't smoke - still I'm half way through the fattest cigar I've ever seen...and I won't normally drink alone - although it's not everyday one can buy a bottle of rum this good for less than 5 bucks. Some call it crass class, I'll say it's Cuba. In this coolest of cool cities you simply don't have a choice. Everything really is bigger & better in Havana. The cars, the music, whacked out politics & the big, black booties - it's all here; and the first few days can be a little overwhelming...

Cuba's famous cars

Our plane was delayed. I'd been told to get to the airport 3 hours early...why?! So I could sit and stare into space I guess. Airports shit me - especially after that incident on my way home from Indonesia when they wouldn't let me on the plane for not having shoes. We're plummeting 30,000 ft directly into the Bass Strait but a pair of flip-flops might make all the difference between life & death. Anyhow, we were soon aboard & departed on our crammed little plane, with the old ducky quite kindly chucking up behind me so i wouldn't have to smell it and see it.

By the time we hit the tarmac it was already well past dark, and I was suddenly struck by that same underprepared feeling I experienced on arrival in Mexico. What the hell was I doing?? This place looks insane! Completely running blind I had no map or guidebook, no confirmed accomidation or any idea how this country even worked. The customs 'official' laughed in my face when I took off my cap for the passport procession (lucky she was smokin' hot), but then I couldn't hold back my own hysterics facing up to the health and decloration personels' when I realised he was an actual doctor, decked out like a Looney Tune in his white lab coat; chest pocket packed with biros and other suspiciously ghastly gadgets. He managed to send me back four times for screwing up the form before he finally let me through, cursing me in abuse he knew I wouldn't understand. I exchanged 4000 Mexican peso's into 250 lousy Cuban Convertables and jumped into a massive 1950's taxi; in which Mario (the maestro himself) dropped me off at my lodgings...which as I expected, turned out not to be my lodgings, but down the street a bit, left & left again & "Oh!!" here we are at my hosts best friends house...great. Welcome to Cuba, boyo!

Despite the odd initial impressions, circumstances turned full circle, and I ended up here; in lovely Luisa's homestay casa, mirrored in by Wheelbag'esque mirrors and granted what felt like the biggest bed in the world.

The next day I was raring with anticipation to run rampaige on the city - firstly gaining my bearings, before becoming completely disorientated again when "this guy" took me by the hand, dragged me into a bar, fed me a cocktail of cigars & mojito's, forced me into a terrifyingly awkward salsa with his enormous wife, and at one point had me chanting "FUCK AMERICA!" to a bewildered congregation of hobos, minding their own business out on the corner. I felt it was best to pull the pin when he began edging me down alleys much too forcefully, offering to join him upstairs in his home. To "meet the family." Fuck that! Maybe I do have a slight case of travellers paranoia, but I can think of many better ways to bow out than getting stabbed in some Havanan scums back alley apartment.

Chillin' in a Havanan Pub

Slightly tipsy & roasting under the midday sun, off I shot to grab some Cuban munch; and although more expensive than Mexico, the street food is still dirt cheap. Ok, so generally it consists mainly of rice and beans. Lot's & lot's of rice and beans - and everyone seemed to be walking around with these icecream cones, so I wanted one. This drunk dressed as Che Guevara waddles up and hands me a bottle of vodka, then piles all his loose change onto my lap. When I hand it all back it's like he forgot it was his, and although my spanish has been improving, I can't imagine it would have helped in this situation.

Woah!! Stepping out from around a moving bus, a splattering, beaten-up old cadellac nearly wipes me off my feet! Idiot! I've made that mistake so many times already...remember to look left! Giving way to a horse & cart, contrasting quite humorously with the plume of black smoke to which it trails behind closely; I share in a moment laughing off my close call with a bystander. It's refreshing...To be honest, I've been looked upon with an intimidating sense of curiosity from most Cubans, unsure on the perspective slant of their judgements. Some almost appear ruthlessly hostile (again, I blame the shorts), until you catch them off guard with a friendly "buenos dias...cómo estás?"... from which they spring to life and greet you in an equally friendly exchange of short passing conversation. Still, as a consequence in part due to the recent globalisation of travel, the "white man" is often looked upon as a great money-making machine; a symbol of the privileged few. And it's true. There's no denying the fact that for most of the worlds population, the idea of a year long vacation is an impossibility - quite ludicrous and unfathomable. Sometimes I feel terribly guilty and almost ashamed to let on just how long I'll be travelling for, when everyday I'm confronted by hardships & inequalities in a country so famous for its apparent, theoretical equality.

A man selling newspapers & my new friend

I'm not 100% sure how the system in Cuba works; a lot of the time when I would ask I very rarely got definitive answers. What I did notice however, were the massive cues lining up for supplies at general stores; where eventually each person would be issued with their meagre supply of food, rationed out for however long the time period may be. I soon spent all of my Cuban Convertables (in Cuba there are two currencies - one for the locals & another for tourists) and was forced to wait in a similar cue at a local bank. This took close to two hours! One afternoon, while gouging down some cheap pizza in the Plaza de Armas, I met this older fellow who happened to be close to my age at the time of the Revolution back in 1959. We discussed the restrictions placed on Cuba by the USA and the resulting implications it has had on the country, his time spent fighting in the Angolan civil war, and the "wayward" attitudes of the Cuban youth towards a flailing government. He kind of resonated a view of pessimistic optimism, if one can imagine such a concept. That although times had been noticeably hard now for some years, and with no foreseeable solution to alter this current trajection - life continued on despite; and he took pleasure in the successes of his children, or the simple daily routine of feeding the pidgeons here in this plaza. Maybe you just get like that when you're old. This strapping young lad wouldn't know.

Buskers play in the Plaza de Armas

The next few days once again proved ever eventful - actually down right hectic; and generally I'd be exhausted come nightfall. In the evening I would sit out on the balcony drinking guava juice, chatting with Luisa in my hybrid español/inglés dialect, or more often simply waste the late hours pondering out my window, reading & writing over half a bottle of Havana Club before managing to crash out despite the heat and ever present outside commotion.

I took an excursion west to visit the spectacular Viñales valley (here I wish I spent more time), a lush green landscape boasting craggy table-topped mountains, spat vertically out off the valley floor. Beneath the mountains, a vast network of caves hide a secretive complex of ancient, underground rivers; and we got the chance to venture down one in a small boat. En route to the valley we passed through the town of Pinar del Rio where we stopped at a cigar factory. I dreaded to be in the shoes of a reforming ex-smoker, the smell almost hypnotic even for me. I had planned an overnight tour to the eastern cities of Santa Clara & Trinidad, but my bus decided to just not turn up...instead I made for the beach - and what a feeling it was finally bathing in the warm waters of the Caribbean! It felt like multiple days worth of city dirt & grime build-up was instantly washed clean from my sunburnt body. I splashed about in the waves for close to 3 hours before heading back to Havana; briefly pausing at the Castillo de los tres Reyes del Morro to take in the expansive, panoramic views over the city.

Viñales Valley

So now - many plaza's, museums, mojito's, phat cigars, salsa bands, sleazy salsaing women, busy streets, crazy cars, crazier people - Che & Fidel, hundreds of monuments, monumental buildings & one colossal cemetery later...it has come that time to reluctantly leave. What have I got to show from it? Not much. Except a craving for more fun in the sun & a tacky singlet profounding my love to my new favourite alcoholic beverage. No, in all seriousness; this spontaneous detour has been my best decision yet. In total I spent a week in Cuba, although it felt like much longer. Having my own room at night gave me way to much time to think, which is never healthy, and I'm looking forward on returning to my senseless, spastical gallivanting across Central America.

Man, that felt like a lot of words! My apologies...no one likes a rant!

Bye, bye now. Stay safe all my best of friends. Talk again very soon!

Love Nicko xx

Sun setting over a Havanan street...

Caribbean Dreaming, Merida

Alas, here I loiter on down the traffic choked calle's of Merida, a Caribbean city lacking any distinguishable flair of the Caribbean, failing miserably on my quest to dig up a single piece of moderate standard, English translated literature other than pre-teen fantasy novels such as the 'Twilight' saga. Every bookstore seems to point me in opposing directions, and every bookstore which apparently keeps English stock seems to be "closed until further notice." But suddenly my search is rudely & unexpectedly interupted - as priorities ever persisit like a survival instinct...I need a toilet now! Round & round my pace quickens, circling the lively Zocalo, pleading for one of those appropriate WC or Baño signs which tend to stick out from grundgy alleyways, and nearly always indicate the exchange of a few lousy pesos (that you never seem to have when you need them the most) for the privilege. Times get desperate, Burger King on the corners gonna have to do. I'll even buy a flipping soft serve...

Body back at equilibrium, I head back to the hostel. A pretty sweet one at that - buffet breakfast, hammocks & a pool, just a bit of a mish from the centre of town. Flicking through the tattered collection of novels at the book exchange, I come across a small, bright red travel log by this British dude Geoff Dyer, called 'Yoga for people who can't be bothered to do it.' I'd like to say it appealed to me since admittedly, I once went to a yoga class trying to impress this chick I had a crush on, and could not have actually given the slightest hoot for what was going on, bar a childish notion towards something known as the downward-facing dog...But in reality - the rest of the books were simply shit.

I sat by the pool, popped the top off a corona with a butter knife (as I keep forgetting to buy myself a bottle opener or acquire the monstering manliness of this guy I met in Thailand who could crack them off between his posterior teeth), and delved into this world of words. By the second chapter it had me in hysterics, much to the weary bemusement of a large group of Danish girls. It was uncontrollable - like a time in high school when I'd pictured sticking chewing gum to the shiny, bald crown of my teachers head. If they had actually known what I'd lost it over I seriously doubt they'd still be sitting so close including me in their conversations.

This guy from the book had been travelling throughout Cambodia, and somewhere or other had ended up at this floating market busting for a piss. Looking around he was contemplating hanging one over the side of the boat, but as mothers dipped and scrubbed their laundry and new-borns in the filthy muck wouldn't this be like taking a piss on someones kitchen or bathroom floor?? He decides to hold out, until a huge, solid human crap floats past his boat in all its glory. How is it, he continues in bewildered amazment, that the body can manage to adapt to all kinds of crazy conditions - that despite the viral prevalence of dysentery, cholera & all kinds of innumerable waterborn diseases of such an environment, someone was able to produce an object such as that. I was envious. I havn't shit a brick for over a week. I wonder how long this period of adaptation takes?? Oh well...he got to piss in his river. I got to crap at Burger King.

Rewind a few days, I was still in San Cristobal. Actually I'd only just finished my last post when I hear a familiar voice shout out from off the street. Big Dawg had found me! It was a glorious moment, like a mother embracing her child after their first day of pre-school. It was made better by the fact he'd picked up two monkey girls on his adventures, and we spent the rest of the afternoon browsing lollie markets and playing pool with these two Argentinian guys. That evening we got super groovy at the Revoluçion bar, smashing massive tequila shots, nachos & dancing the the night away to this kick-ass local band. Big Dawg and I then recieved an agonising lesson in that we can't salsa for shit. The mexicans stole our mistresses, leaving us sinking cervezas all alone & sinking slowly into a deep, dark depression at our table...until the girls came screaming back of course, having had their way with those nasty mexican men. I'd have to say that was one of the best nights I think I've ever had.

Monkey girl & I kickin' it at Revoluçion

Big Dawg was soon on his way back to Tassie, and the girls had ditched me at Palenque to go study monkeys for 6 months or so - alone on the road once again, this time at some mental rave community hidden in the jungle. El Panchan can be found smack between the town of Palenque and the famous Mayan ruins of the same name, and if you like to party, this place is for you. I can't say I got too much sleep that night, and combine that with the worst of my stomach rumbles, I found the day exploring the ruins a little painful, despite it seeming of course very lovely indeed...I took off again, dreaming of the Caribbean. White sand and clear blue seas to sooth my soul. Hahaha...and I wound up in Merida?!! Silly, silly boy! No, it's actually ok for now...I just booked tickets to Havana, Cuba! Ooo baby, Mr. Castro I am coming for you...

Bye bye for now kids xx

Ruin at Palenque