All Aboard the Bluefields Express, León

Tranquilo Café. There's not a better place to sit back and wallow away the hours. I've finally started reading a new book; and interesting milestone?? It only took me two months & six countries to finish  the last. So begins The Life of Pi, I have to giggle at the irony as I glimpse over the first few pages - statistical characteristics of a sloth. On average, a sloth may sleep for up to 20 hours a day, has an 'unmotivated' land speed of 4-5 metres an hour, and in retrospect to other animals, appears blatantly oblivious to the outside surrounding world. The more I read, the more it seems like I've just been handed a behavioural study chart outlining my own pathetic movements over the past week or so. For a hyperactive little shit much like myself, doing nothing (to the point sometimes of literally doing nothing at all), eats away at the very definitive texture of ones soul; turning an inspired, healthy brain into little more than un-buttered mashed potato. Hmmm...but I do terribly enjoy the mashed up patata, so I guess it's not such a bad thing every now and then. After all, between chasing Danish tail & devouring loaf upon loaf of Pan de Coco smothered in long-lost strawberry jam, Nicaragua's Corn Islands have served the "chill the fuck out" stigma perfectly. I have been conquered & mellowed. The baddest of the maddest of dawgs has learnt to sit & stay put...Oh boy. Watch out.

In Guatemala I mastered the Chicken Bus. Even though I'm pretty certain I could get a direct shuttle from place to place for a similar price, this defied all precautionary logic obviously. On the way to Xela we had passed on by one upturned on a dead straight section of good road, and now here I was packed in like a sardine, unable to make a conscious decision on where my body & limbs were to become fixed into place, winding our way through perilous mountain country, high above Lake Atitlan. I love this kind of travel. No good stories ever came from taking the easy option. The boat trip across the lake earlier that day had been mesmerising. Having cleared out nice and early to avoid any obligatory morning small talk, I'd found myself doing the bolt, fleeing the much too pleasant evil forces that could entrap me in San Pedro for weeks. Reaching Panacajel, I was now well on my way back to Antigua, having wisely stayed away until after all the Semana Santa mayhem had filtered down. Returning to Jungle Party, there were many familiar welcoming faces, and as always, some I wish I could have avoided. I hate to make assumptions and generalise, but as a result of this night I now deem Israelis the bane of all drinking nations. After little more than a few shots, washed down with chunks of fresh pineapple chaser, this one guy had chucked up all over the top loft bedding area. He then passed out while his upheaval was being mopped clean by staff, only to then wake back up spluttering & choking as he chucked his guts up all over again in the exact same spot.

Thankfully it was a short night. I didn't get much sleep. By 3 o'clock I was already up getting ready for the shuttle to Guatemala City, from where I'd be powering on through to Managua by long distance bus. This decision had been rash, possibly regrettable, but in hindsight all I had planned to do in El Salvador & Honduras was surf and dive, both of which is reputedly cheaper and better in Nicaragua anyway. I was on a pilgrimage, beelining back to the Caribbean, where my two Danish goddesses would be waiting beneath huge coconut trees, drinking schnapps & chillaxing in the late afternoon sun, desperately hanging out for the privilege to give this blinded buffoon countless, un-measurable pleaze-eure. Obviously I had to get there first, and that meant 18 hours on the road, complimented by three servings of stale, greasy Burger King, just what my stomach was screaming out for...It was a long trip, but proved little hassle apart from the border formalities. When crossing over into Honduras, the entire bus was emptied then searched while we all stood outside; confused and vulnerable in the late night air, hovering about like misguided penguins, lost & alienated in the abyss. I arrived into Managua around 2 o'clock at night, and caught a cab for a short distance to my accommodation which I was praying hadn't forgot about me. I had planned to walk there until some guy began hinting tourists have been known to have their heads hacked off around here for the mere contents of their backpacks, role playing this charade for me with a hand cutting neck motion. Safely locked away in my awaited sweaty dump, in spite of the heat, it didn't take me long to crash out.

I woke the next day nice and early, ambitiously hoping to score a same day flight to the Corn Islands. No one seemed to know what to do, so I was forced to catch a ride out to the airport with all my gear and try my luck. No chance!! It was hot. One step drip hot, and I pleaded with the agent to squeeze me on somehow so I wouldn't have to spend another night in this shithole. The best she could do was the early morning flight the following day, so for me, it was back to the city...to lie & rot in the four walls of my room. There is something devilish about a place when you are held there against your will. I'm not saying I could come to love Managua, but normally I manage to find a glimmer of hope somewhere amongst the chaos. At this time being however, I hated the fucking place. Between long siesta's I did happen to step out for a wander. I'd only taken a dozen strides or so down the street before I copped a fruit pip in the face! A combination of sticky juice and still fresh saliva beaded down into my fucking eye before I could fend it off. Some bum seemed bemused with his actions when I faced up to him in reflex retaliation, but he had that 'crazy eye' thing going on, so I sure wasn't keen to stick around and discuss the politics of the matter. My day in Managua reached it's pinnacle munching on deep fried something, I actually have no idea what it could have been, but it appeared slightly more enticing than the musty vegetable broth bubbling away in the corner. After I'd accomplished forcing that dinner down, I had second thoughts.

But HEY!! Today was the day! I excitedly rose to my alarm and chucked on my clothes. Sleeping draped in anything other than your birthday suit here would make for a lot of unnecessary laundry. It was 4 in the morning and already the temperature was creeping up on 30 'C - so as you can imagine, I was teeming to hit that cool, turquoise water I knew awaited me in a few hours. Another cab ride out to the airport and I was all but on my way. What more, here was Ole sitting at the cafe waiting to catch the same flight! I'd emailed him yesterday since I knew he'd be heading in this direction, but it's hard keeping track of the rest of the world when you don't have technology at your constant disposal; a disadvantage I actually take great pleasure in most of the time. Two Swiss & a couple of Swedish chicks later, and once again we had a posse. BOOM! Life is full of joy. And gratefully, I knew I wouldn't have to think about the rat race of Managua for a lonnnngggg time!

I could feel the shift in momentum the instant I stepped off that small, rickety plane. I could smell the salt on the breeze and the sky above projected a bright, piercing clarity, untainted by the carelessness of human development. The islands lie about fifty miles off the eastern coast of Nicaragua, which figuratively speaking, is practically deserted bar a few spaced out commercial hubs. The Toña's were already going down smoothly by 9 o'clock, as we sat about waiting for our panga boat ride out to the smaller, more idyllic island of Little Corn. For those seeking a true, untarnished Caribbean island getaway, this is the place to go. The surrounding waters are glazed like that of an undisturbed swimming pool, protected by reefs on the east & the distant mainland to the west. There are no cars, only a thin path that wraps around most of the shoreline, intertwined & connected by other minor routes that disperse out through the banana plantations for the more adventurous. I ripped off all my clothes and waisted no time jumping straight in. I was finally back at the beach, and how I'd missed it so.

North Beach, Little Corn

Walking back through the main village, I heard someone calling out from somewhere. Twirling around, out in the distance I could see my two Danish babes waving frantically, sun baking out on the floating platform. I felt like The Hoff. Man, life is good. I'd found the perfect antidote for my hectic lifestyle. I could sit and read, while they'd cook me curries. I'd go for a run & lift some concrete weights while they'd do my laundry. I did try to help, but I swear all I ever had to do was get the grog or groceries. Booyah!! Oh man, life is SO good! We met some other worldly figures and got busy to work having a hoot. Friday night was bonfire night at the beach front lodge known simply as Cool Spot, cool, where we downed many a dollar Toña and passed around bottles of cheap rum. During the day we would literally do nothing, I wasn't joking on that front. The pontoon (Mike you would froth) acted as the central focus point for our beaching about outside Tranquilo Café, where they happen to make the best strawberry & banana smoothies I've ever tasted. Due to my new found laziness, I missed the islands local version of a beauty pageant, where apparently the same girl wins every year. I heard this caused quite the cat-fight commotion this year as she won once again, and the runner-up ripped off her victory sash in a violent display of spite. Yet I got a taste of all this bitchy competitive flair, when later on we made our way to the only "club" in town. The girls were out in force. I felt like  I was part of a low budget, hip-hop music clip. I'd never seen chicks dance together with such aggressive bootie shakin' intensity. Some were lifting the others up, saddling them above the hips, and throwing back their heads until they nearly bounced back off the ground, seducing each other to the beat with rhythmic pelvic thrusts. It was a sweat box. I was dripping, and M&M was jammed in a black-bootie sandwich. I could only take so much before heading on home to find my Danish Princess.

Tranquilo Cafe

Practically half a week passed on by before I again got up to anything else slightly noteworthy. We'd attempted to go snorkeling, but the weather had began to crack up, and it was hard to get out far enough to see anything worthwhile. I just had to go diving again, so Ole and I signed up for a whole day on the reefs. It was so nice to be back under. Despite not yet coming face to face with the islands infamous population of hammerhead sharks, we were lucky enough to spot a plethora of giant lobsters, nurse sharks and to snatch a peek at the elusive, evil eyed moray eel.

Underwater Caverns

Later that arvo, Boris (our Canadian karate kid wedding crasher) & I started kicking around the hacky sack, and Anthony, a little kid from across the street ran over with his soccer ball keen for a kick. As it turned out, Anthony took a fancy to my harmonica, and over the bet few days would come over especially to have a play (although I'm guessing he simply craved basic company). The more this kid appeared on our doorstep however, the more cocky, annoying & invading he became. A real pain in the arse. The situation peaked one night as M&M and I were cooking dinner, when he began demanding fruit and other possessions that belonged to us. Since he hadn't gone to school that day, we used this as our excuse to refuse, from which he replied with a disturbing formula for accumulating his fortunes in the future. When a 9 year old kid starts preaching the benefits of cocaine trafficking, you know there is a serious, fermenting problem. Kids don't lie. They don't yet know what should be kept to themselves, or what or not is considered to be "cool." They are a product of their surroundings, and obviously he'd bared witness & been encouraged into this kind of behaviour somewhere down the line. I kicked him out when he started mimicking beating up his woman and locking her in his bedroom to remain there at his own disposal...charming.

Days passed on by with constant rain, a procession of continuous downpours. I'd been lucky up until now with the weather, and this was the first time I had to actually sit and wait for the madness to subside. Everything became putrid to the senses. Clothes refused to dry. A mix of salt water and an endless, engulfing humidity turned clothes into rotten rags, flaky to the touch. When the sun finally broke free once again through the clouds, I took on a new appreciation of this magical place, revelling in the tranquillity I'd previously been taking for granted. I had to make the most of it. Back on the reef!! The diving around Little Corn just kept getting better. Hearing it was calm enough to dive over the eastern side, I jumped at the opportunity. And thank the Lord I did! Although brief, I got my hammerhead. Man, those things move! My lumberish motions again resembled that of a sloth in comparison to the sleek slicing manoeuvres of this menacing beast underwater. Next we took off south to a spot called yellowtail, possibly the prettiest of all sights I've now dived, with its fun tunnel resembling sand channels, breaking up the colourful corals. Above us swam hundreds of jack fish & barracuda, all entangled in one giant multi-specied school. Then out of no where came these two enormous loggerhead sea turtles! I kid you not, these things things were as big as a small car, and gracefully glided towards us without a worry in the world. To my absolute bewilderment, one just kept on coming, swimming so close I could have reached out to touch it. The animals size gave me the shudders, and I felt there was a shared moment of curiosity as he swam on past me, his own right eye transfixed to mine. Insignificant maybe for him, it's a moment I know I'll never forget.

Loggerhead Sea Turtle!!

I hung about back on the beach for the rest of that afternoon, enjoying time lounging around with my ladies who I know classed as close friends. It's amazing how well you get to know someone when you're spending every passing hour in each others face. There's not much chance for reprieve, and you can't hide the bullshit. That night I went out for a night dive; a daunting prospect in theory due to my obvious lack of experience, and it felt utterly wrong rolling over the back of the boat, returning to the warm waters as the sun set on another enthralling day. I couldn't see a thing. I think I may have got a dodgy light, and the first few minutes took some getting used to. You feel quite enclosed, weightless inside a small cardboard box, which completely blacks out all source of light and throws your sense of gravity and direction totally out of wack. It wasn't until we sat on the bottom and switched off our flashlights that the spectacular even truly began. After a few minutes, stars appeared out from the darkness. As I moved my hands, trails of fairy dust recorded my motions. I was surrounded by the heavens, an apparition of the night sky, or another dimension. I'm finding it hard to describe, but it almost felt like I was in some stage of limbo. Pre-death. Or maybe the best drug trip you will ever have. The "stars" we were seeing are actually bio-luminescent micro-organisms known as the string of pearls, and apparently they solely appear here in the Caribbean. What a treat. We began to swim through "the sky". Flipping onto my back and kicking wildly seemed to have the best effect, sparks shot out behind me trailing my progress. I let all these sensations take over and simply went with it. Then as if I were actually dreaming, BOOM! the lights came back on and the stars were gone, burning now only in that euphoric sub-level of my memory.

On my second last day, M&M and I climbed the lighthouse situated at the highest point of the island to watch the sunrise. The vista before us was majestic, and it felt like a fitting farewell to my long, spontaneous visit here to Little Corn. You always know when it's time to go, but it helps push you along when there's only one ferry out on the weekend for the next five days. It was "bye, bye" to the island, and "bye, bye" to my favourite foreign chickadees. I almost broke down with a moment of unusual emotional sensitivity. But it wasn't due to leaving the girls behind, since I knew I was bound to run back into them, even in as little as a few days - it was more the realisation that I'm always going to be that detached lonely soul, aimlessly wandering about without an actual purpose. These girls, like so many others I have met along the way, share something special and admirable in their impenetrable little duo, that I feel I've maybe never had and never will. It's my own fault. I myself hold the key to breaking this imposing impossibility, if only I was willing to let it happen. Companionship is the essence of life, and it took hanging out with these two dashing Danish lasses for two weeks in the middle of the Caribbean to realise it. What a dick I am.

My Danish Babes

Sunday came. "All aboard the Bluefields Express!!" I was gone. The ride between islands had left me with six hours to kill before the ferry, and I spent them finding cheap deals on bread and bananas...By the time I got back to the dock, the boat had been loaded up with three cars!! People's hammocks were slung out over the sides of the railings, dangling dangerously above the water. Luckily (or unluckily??), I had no such valuable possession, so I simply claimed my place like a king at the bow of the vessel. I even found a cardboard box which greatly improved my level of comfort. At precisely 9 o'clock we took off into the surrounding darkness, and to begin with the motions weren't all that bad. A group of us sat nearby to where I was sleeping and played some songs on guitar, before everyone grew weary and made it back to their beddings. Shit got hectic, and I got little sleep that night. I was constantly being thrown laterally from side to side, finding it necessary to hold on to any kind of fixed object at any one time to keep myself from bouncing up of the deck and landing hard back on my head. Occasionally spray would make its way over the front of the boat and drench me entirely, although the ocean breeze had a way of drying my sheets before it got too cold. The morning snuck up unexpectedly fast, and the cruise along the river proved quite pleasant in contrast to the violent open seas. The sunrise over the strange surrounding vegetation was a just reward, and we arrived into Rama after a tedious 12 hours on the water.

My Cargo Ship to Rama

More fun was yet to come. After some breaky, we jumped straight onto a crammed long distance bus back to Managua. Actually I nearly missed the bus when I went to take a piss! It just took off, with all my things on board, and I had to chase it on down the street, cursing and banging on its side to draw attention. That bus sucked. It was hot, with little air flow, and it seemed like we stopped at every village at least three or four times. Oh well, that was a nice little adventure. There was no way I was staying around in Managua for another night, so I took off to León, a much nicer destination. And now here I am, safe and sound after just clocking 70kph down the face of an active volcano on a piece of plywood. Our guide claimed to have reached up to 90kph once or twice before!!! But then again, he'd also once or twice broken his collar bone among other numerous stints in a Nicaraguan hospital. Insane.

Volcano Boarding!!

I look forward to chatting again soon my friends. Be safe, but keep your sanity.

Ta Ta & so long now!!
The Baddest of the Maddest Dawgs,
Captain Morgan. xx

Orange Annihilation, San Pedro La Laguna

It feels like I've been beaten repetitively with a sledgehammer. I should be out kayaking, enjoying our scenic lake-side habitation with everyone else; instead I'm here finding it difficult enough to type, that'll own clenching my messed up hands long enough to keep a paddle inside the boat for any more than half an hour. I should be grateful. I'd be in even worse shape had the cops not stormed all the clubs last night and forced us back to our beds. But despite the past nights prelude to my current state of epic dehydration, for once in my life there's another explanation for my misery.

Four days have now passed since we began our trek from Quetzaltenango (Xela), the second largest city in Guatemala, all the way to the small village of San Pedro, located on the shores of Lake Atitlán. I'd traveled from Antigua with a couple of Swedish girls to reach our starting point the night before, arriving at the Quetzaltrekkers office just as the guides were giving our group their pre-walk briefing. After we'd got all geared up, we took a wander into the city center to grab some cash, munch some grub, and find a few bottles of rum for the next few days. As I'll mention later, my time in Guatemala just happened to coincide with Semana Santa (Holy Week) celebrations, and we ran into another strange procession circling Xela's central plaza. Squeezing our way through the crowds, we managed to find an open ATM, where we found a guy curled up asleep on the floor, obviously trying to keep out of the rain. I sat outside while the girls reached over this broken man to get to their money.

The next day it was an early start. Refueled on pancakes and strong coffee, we took off through the streets of the city, hopping upon a chicken bus which took as high into the mountains, through bustling rural communities, all the way to where we would start our climb. The hiking in this area is breathtaking, and the long hours spent hauling our heavy packs up and down hills, sleeping cold on rock solid floors (since I stupidly chose not to bring a sleeping bag) and watching both guides and clients, one by one succumb to the curses of food poisoning, were pivol hardships easily overlooked due to the splendor of our surroundings. Our hike came to its conclusion as we sat enjoying our breakfast, hypnotized by the sun rising out over the lake, welcoming in what became an immensely memorable day.

Sunrise Over Lake Atitlán

One of the things I'd been most excited about since we started this hike, was the speculation about an orange fight happening in the town of Santa Clara after our El Mirador sunrise spectacle; a ritualistic battle which would finish off the local Good Friday festivities. I still have no idea about the origins of this strange event. I've heard about tomato wars in Spain, plate smashing in Greece, even greased-up piglet chases in the United States - but why the fuck would someone come up with this idea that hurling massive, painfully solid citrus fruit at each other is somehow fitting with the crucifixion of our Lord Jesus Christ?! Anyhow, madness should never be dissected too thoroughly. As we began to claim our places from where we could best watch the fight, Cooper and I began joking around about how cool it would be if we could join in. We'd been told earlier that it was restricted solely for locals, but on talking to someone in the crowd, a Guatemalan girl who had been trekking with us discovered that this was all a load of trash talk, aimed at keeping us in order. It began to piss down with rain, the skies became illuminated with the crackling of a lightning storm, and there was no way we were leaving this place without first getting dominated by oranges.

Talk about insanity...the towns Mayor greeted us "Americano's" with a huge glass of rancid tasting rum, before taking our photo allegedly for the local newspaper, and soon had us kitted up with our battle-bags, filled to capacity with deadly fruit. I was shitting myself. These short, little fuckers looked hardcore. We got divided up into two teams split across an outdoor basketball court, and for TWO WHOLE HOURS!!!! oranges were catapulted around in every thinkable direction. I copped one in the face in the first 10 seconds!! There was no way I thought I was going to last more than a few minutes. It wasn't long before one guy was quivering behind a signpost, spitting blood all over the gutter. I lobbed one up way too high, missing someones head and it smashed straight through the window of the only bank in town (and I'm sure the only window they forgot to cover up beforehand). Cooper and I were joined by a bunch of our other mates from the trek once they realized it was free for all, and we'd push forward on the flanks, sending our opposition into short lived retreats, before we'd run out of fruit and had to duck and weave back for cover to re-supply. Before we'd started I was freaking about getting clobbered in the left eye where it'd been broken only in December, also maybe a kidney shot (since I've only got the one) and of course my precious perfect chompers which once represented my livelihood. But something primal took over; the fear gave way to a kind of long lost battle instinct, and the adrenaline rush was like none I've ever experienced before. Energy levels dwindling, spitting blood from getting smacked hard in the face at least four times, taking a melon sized fruit to the gut which knocked the wind out of me as if it were a bowling ball, and both hands throbbing and close to malfunction from blocking or catching innumerable attacks from the opposition, the final whistle was blown signalling an end to one of the most stupid yet somehow enriching idiocracies of my life.

Orange Fight

Once the dust had settled, and the fruit ceased to block out the sun, we embraced our former enemies in the middle of the court, and a special kind bond was created. The huge crowd, which had piled up deep into the streets, cheered and laughed as we crawled back into the town hall. Despite feeling like absolute shit, I felt invincible. The towns people welcomed these strange, pasty white men into their inner circle, embracing us for a short while as one of their own, and the Mayor treated us all to celebratory beers and I'm pretty certain Cooper managed to get interviewed for the TV. Back on the bus, we descended down the winding Indian Nose Road into San Pedro, where we bid farewell to many of our comrades, and got wild & groovy late into the night with those that remained.

Post Domination Crew

I had to get that out before I forgot, so I've kind of got my times jumbled all over the place here - scooting back a week now, across Guatemala to fill in the gaps...

Piles of Purple Men - Antigua

Upholding a rightful reputation as a backpacker mecca, famous more so for its torrential influx of soul-searching gringos than its picturesque colonial cityscape; my days spent in Antigua must come across as a little mundane and out of character. Despite arriving encompassed in this environment buzzing with activity, I chose the city as a base from where I could slow the pace of travel down for a while. I hung about for a week, aimlessly wandering cobbled streets, browsing the plethora of vibrant local markets, and admiring ghostly skeletons of long discarded buildings, ruined so due to a string of unfortunate acts demonstrating the capricious wrath of mother nature.

Antigua is settled dramatically in the middle of an expansive, volcano rimmed valley - so it seemed only natural to knock a couple off. After some inspection, it worked out cheaper & easier to hook up an excursion to the most popular active volcano in the area, Pacaya, which towers intimidatingly above the Guatemalan capital. As the shuttle pulled into gates of the national park, packs of young kids could be seen chasing down our slowing vehicle carrying bundles of large sticks. I thought they were here to beat us once we hopped out, but instead they popped their heads straight through the windows, demanding we "buy stick?!" No one gave into buying their bits of tree, however that didn't stop the hoards following us up the hill as we began our climb, mounting small horses and offering this other alternative service for us apparent, strikingly unfit foreigners. I had heard that a few years ago you could actually see the flows of molten lava beading down the slopes of Pacaya; BlackSam Bellamy had even told me the ground was so hot her thongs melted, meaning she had to be carried all the way back down while the locals laughed at her burning feet (& stupidity). As a result of a recent eruption, from what I saw the lava flows no longer exist, leaving only a stark black, desolate landscape. It was far from a strenuous hike, and it left me stirring with unburnt energy reserves. The coolest part of the trip was had running down the loose scree, and submerging ourselves up to our necks in hot, thermal vents.

Volcano Rabbit Holes

Back at the hostel, I unleashed my unstable mind upon two poor Danish girls, who surprised me with an equally spirited display of refreshing randomness. We were invaded by a balding freak-show of a man known only as Neil, who insisted on administering us with his views of hatred towards the entire German race. M&M decided to take him on in Michael Jackson dance-a-thon, and soon the JungleParty was jigglin' - our diverse, developing posse indulging in the generosity's that come hand in hand with bar tabs. Rounds of tequila shots disappeared, washed down soothingly with way too many pints of Moza. As everyone began to shift in the direction of the local nightclubs, I gracefully chose to stay put, and talk Aussie knocker yin-yang with Danish Princess. Embarrassingly as it turned out, I was the sole intoxicated dope in this duo...but for some reason she still seemed to put up with my bullshit, and even talked to me the NEXT DAY...WOAH!?? It's either I'm obliviously super-steeze, or somewhere along the line I revealed my expertise as a dentist, one day to be worth a multi-million or so, and she completely failed to call my bluff. What ever the reason behind my baffling strike of luck, I had a blast the following day slinking about the city, able to have the same riveting conversations alllllll over again (much to poor Danish Princesses distaste), since I could hardly remember a fucking thing from the night before.

But as we all know by now, high on life's veil of wisdom; all good things must come to an end...and away %$! the coolest of the chickadees was gone, bumping along in a bus somewhere across the continent, while I went nowhere and cried myself to sleep - traumatized by nightly maulings from soulless, uninteresting critters. There was also an unavoidable prevalence of church related crap, for which I have never been able to relate. Actually, I think all the Catholicism was taking its toll. The streets were filled with purple men carrying truck-sized wooden floats, parading down aging streets, bringing some form of life at least to these aging beliefs & traditions. But I did have the Swedish girls I must say, to keep me semi-sane for the remainder of the shenanigans, and I finally ran back into Ash after we got split up leaving Lanquin, and we had some drinks on my last night there. For now, I think I'm going to kick about here at the lake for a few more days and then head on out of Guatemala. Although I've got no real time limit so to speak, I kind of want to push on. I was looking at a map the other day in a room of Don Pedro's house where we spent the second night of our hike, and it hit me how far I've actually still got to go. However, I've kind of stopped thinking about all that to be honest. It has been the people who have really made this trip as good as it's been, especially so here in GuatCountry. It's going to be hard to leave it all behind; still there are a bunch of awesome people I can't wait to meet back up & travel with, all over the place! So here's to more good times! VeryMerryHappyEaster.

Antigua Cross

Adios! Much big lovin' from a tiny man.
MaddoggyDog xx