That Face of a Half Sucked Mango, Panama City

Mother nature has a habit of coming to our aid in the most unlikely of circumstances, often in our greatest time of need. Taps run dry and the heavens open above us, drenching a parched land with life giving water. Find yourself starved, deprived of essential yet regularly neglected vitamins, and plump, juicy mangoes shall fall from the sky. So then why, must my basic animal instincts always adopt a way of failing me?? Where hides such justice? All night long I'd been kept awake in my tent by the heavy crashing sound of fruit, plummeting onto the corrugated iron roof of the adjoining kitchen. The next day I find myself resting in the shade, reading a new book in the comfort & relative safety of a hammock. Never let your guard down I tell you. I hear a rustle, far up in the highest reaches of my shelter tree, and obviously without thinking lift my face upwards to enquire. I don't even have time to grimace at the gullibleness of this split-second mistake...SMACK!! I'm being beaten up by a tree. Could I be anymore pathetic? Actually, I believe I've been down this road once before - I'm just grateful it wasn't another orange.

Bocas had been a wild ride. That was indisputable. The days had soon whizzed by in one chaotic haze of beach, babes & booze. I was ready for another break; to get my head back in check and hopefully regain that drive to restore at least some of my bodies former integrity. The crisp smell of the air excited me as the bus chugged its way uphill, steadily approaching the mountain hideaway of Boquete, tucked picturesquely between the steep slopes of the luscious Caldera River Valley. This was just what I had been after - a few days dedicated solely to hiking about the surrounding countryside. Save a little cash, save a whole lot'a self. Darting off the bus & into the rain, I soon found a quaint little hostel called Nomba's, ran by a hilariously energetic El Salvadorian woman. It had the feel of what hostels once might have been, before the dawn of the Lonely Planet led dictatorship, or the emergence of those purpose built flashpackers. This place was cosy & basic, yet full of charm & authentic character.

Looking down over Boquete

An early rise had me on the move as the sun began to poke its beaming cap over the distant hills. I knew I was in for a long day on the trail. The plan was to hike the nearby Volcan Baru, the highest point in the whole of Panama, where reputedly on a clear day one can attain a view of both the Caribbean & the Pacific in a single panorama. Locals kindly welcomed in my morning, as they passed me by on their way to work, tending the farmlands which hugged the roadside leading into the park. Colourful traditional dresses hung drying from fences as woman prepared meals and waited for their smartly dressed children to be collected by the bus for school.

By the time I was halfway up the volcano I was already feeling the burn, and I began cursing myself for allowing my once unstoppable stamina to fall into this state of disrepute. To be fair however, it was quite the climb. By the time the atmospheric cloud forest had given way to a metallic tangle of TV antennas marking the 3475m high summit, I'd already walked around 21kms and gained over 2000 meters in elevation, all of which I was yet to attack in reverse. I slumped down against the cross trig around midday and smashed into some jam rolls & a large can of chili tuna. I wasn't looking forward to the return journey. More often I prefer the climb. Descents kill your weary bones & joints at the end of a long day. On reaching the park entrance I felt totally wrecked, and my boots had surely shrunk and decided to cut my poor toes to shreds. I was longing for a lift back to town, but the odds turned against me as thunderous black clouds rolled in and dumped all of Gods bursting bladder in one mighty calculated downpour. Within minutes I was soaked, and figured it was best just to keep on trudging back to Boquete. Finally, about half way there, I managed to snare a ride in the back of a pick-up. As grateful as I was, you know how you get twice as wet when you start running in the rain compared with walking?? Well, picture zipping down a hill at 70kph with a full-wall force of these mammoth bullets of liquid-pain puncturing you repetitively like angry hands at a typewriter. My boots became gutters that could have filled a sink. It seemed more likely that I'd been out whitewater rafting on a fishing buoy. By the time I made it back to the hostel I'd come close to hiking a marathon; that day I covered about 39kms, with over 4000 meters worth of ascent & descent in a little under 8 hours. The mountain goat was back! I couldn't have felt better.

From the summit of Volcan Baru

That night I was out like my father is after "half past nine, too much wine." I only wish it could have kept coming that way. Another scheduled treat of easy hiking to various lookouts & waterfalls, in the company of a friendly Polish girl (who I am yet to know the name of, even after a whole week travelling together...) became tarnished by the presence of a man waiting for an introduction on arrival as we returned to our hostel later that afternoon. You know when you meet someone, and for some reason you can just picture them stabbing you to death as you sleep?? You don't know what it is exactly - an itch you can't reach to scratch. Or more like that time I spontaneously sent myself to the doctor, only to find out I'd only ever been born with one kidney. I knew something wasn't right, something was missing. His name was Chris (look him up in the US child abductor register & I'm sure you'll find his picture! He's here in Panama!!). He told me that he'd just hung around "being" in Volcan for the past four months. No one just hangs around in Volcan! "So Chris, what brings you over this way to Boquete? How long you plan to stay here for?" It takes him a moment to flutter his eyes and collect his thoughts..."hmmm, well, there wasn't much happening in Volcan...so I thought I'd come stay here in Boquete for a while...maybe four or five months...might read some more books & watch some movies. Have you seen the collection of great movies they have here?? Boy...I think I've nearly watched them all!" Freak!! You meet some creepy people out on the road. That night I slept with my knife ready at arms under my pillow. I've never been sure if it truly came down to it, whether I would have the stomach to actually stab someone in my own self defence. With this guy...I couldn't register a strand of restraint in my conscience. For your own sake buddy, do not wake me up for a glass of milk in the early hours.

Lost Waterfall

I continued my little escapee jaunt, with a detour out to the quiet surf town of Santa Catalina on the Pacific Coast. That was a long day of buses, four in total, and I became ecstatic when I found myself a cheap place to pitch my tent for the night. Lucky for me, I'd only just got it all set up with my things  tucked inside before the heavens grumbled and the downpour began. What a show mother nature put on for us all this night! Never, ever, ever, ever had I seen a storm as awesome as that! It was like something out of a horror movie. The sky became luminescent, and the crack of thunder surged through us with an anticipated unexpectedness. The water was out, so we all showered under the overfill gutter-pipe outlet protruding from the side of the ramshackled building; and once the power shut off, childishly sat around the table reading books by candlelight. The reflex surprise of the roaring thunder was only outdone by the sudden crash of mangoes, falling onto the roof above us. After a big bowl of cornflakes & way too many Oreos, I retired back to my tent. Whether it's the malaria tablets playing tricks on me, or simply the unsettled playground of my own mental mind, but I'd been having some seriously wack dreams of late. That night was one of the worst. I dreamt up a smorgasbord of frightening scenarios, ranging anywhere from decapitation at the hands of a giant green lizard, to becoming locked in the depths of a dungeon by my high school teacher Mrs. White for not surpassing her growing expectations in my latest English assignment. I also thought I dreamt up an earthquake, shaking me from my sleep not once, but twice throughout the course of the night...only that turned out to be real! From where does one determine fact from fiction?? I imagine there is often only a fine line.

After my long night dancing with the devil, I decided it was time to hit up some waves. To prove the Australianess in me once and for all. That day flew by!! I forgot how much I enjoyed surfing in bathtub temperatured water. I was out there for close to six hours before the waves slowly disintegrated into nothing more than a frothing washing machine. I strolled on back to camp with my head held high, cooked up some scrambled eggs...then, this was when the mango smacked me square in the face & ruined my good fortunes. I became the Pied-Piper. Puppies by the half dozen started following be around, infecting me with their discarded flees. One got its fat head stuck in the panels of the kitchen window trying to get inside as I enjoyed my dinner. Then the rains returned, and never went away. I slept all day, but more nightmares of the Taliban stoning me to death like a Hazara, kept me from fully nodding off soundly. This was a sign. It was time to leave.

Yesterday I crossed over the canal, a breathtaking sight to behold, and arrived at the crossroads of Panama City. Looking out at the high rises across the water, there is a definite air of contrast here, a mix of the new world mingling with the old. Soon, my world will also be making a sharp U-Turn, signalling the beginning of a fresh new adventure. The first chapter of my long awaited journey is coming to an abrupt end; closing shut great curtains in front of an enlightened face. Gallivanting across Central America is done for. It's time I found a sail boat to Columbia...

Panama City from nearby Casco Viejo

Hope all is well back home...
Miss & love all you few each & everyday!
No fear...all shall become clear. 
Talk again soon after the San Blas!!
Love Schmorgasbord xxx

Dirty Laundry, Bocas del Toro

Ahhh Sunday...the prophesied day of rest. There is definitely something lingering adrift the air on mornings such as these, as if a whole town has been waiting for that vivid excuse to falter. Outside it's raining - even better; please don't wake the dead. I need to sit. In the heat of another momentous evening with the entire world seemingly at my feet, common sense has once again miraculously managed to prevail. I'm still drenched, have shallow cuts across my right hand from sharp barnacles which clung off the jetties we'd been jumping from; what's more I just pulled a chunk of glass out from the underside of my toe - but hey, at least I held some manner of restraint and didn't wake up with "When in Bocas..." tattooed across my forearm. That was the plan after all. Now I'm contemplating busting up Captain K. Rool. Why is there a coconut in my bed?? And whose things are these?? Oh well, this is sure no time to be un-resourceful. Goodbye shredded fish blanket, hello pink flower man-sarong!

I do believe in miracles. I've taught myself to cook. A systematically simple task for the hoards who populate this earth, I on the other hand thought it reasonable enough to boil onions in my rice water. Finding myself strung out on the expenses of Costa Rica, this charade had to stop. It was time this boy became a man. And so it was in the kitchen of Rocking J's hostel, where I taught myself the secrets of creating 'glorified bolognese', a dish better known to the kinder few merely as Chile con Carne, yet one that holds true in my mind as a celebrated new speciality, which will triumphantly come to surpass my former go-to masterpiece of microwaved eggs on toast. This was how to survive out here in the wilds - my detox had been fortified. With that one meal I fed myself for three days, until the cleaners got curious and threw the dregs to the dogs.

Beach near Puerto Viejo

If I found Puerto Viejo fun loving & sprightly, like a Black Sam Bellamy "Prince of the Pirates" sort, Bocas del Toro has left a mark on me like Henry Morgan must have all those years ago with the Spaniards. Ruthless. Notorious. Bad-fucking-ass. Like a washed up whale, I arrived into Panamaswept up in a titanic tailwind of excitement. I had been a destitute, then once again found myself in the mix of a brooding cocktail of comical flair, an infectious collective of extraordinary personalities. Sometimes it just works out that way; the right time, the right place, the right people. Hostel Heike. A bitchin' balcony filled with scumbags & dirty laundry. Magic. The Flying Dutchman had stolen a push bike off some local drug dealer, and here it was hibernating in my newly appointed bunkhouse. I got sucked into a foolhardy state happiness, and like the ameture I am, the one we've all come to hate and/or love, I soon found myself filtering through the frat, & passed out in the comfort of my distressfully uncomfortable bed. When I woke I had no recollection of my recent previous undertakings, and to be honest had no idea where I was. Great, only then to wind up locked outside my room without a key...I fumbled onto the balcony - and here is where I found our Dutchman, oblivious, alone, staring out into the pre-dawn darkness. "Best we get to bed hey?" Saved.

The next day was never going to be much fun. Free pancakes did little to resolve my persperating problems, nor did a trip across the island to Starfish Beach. That bus ride was like purgatory, one of the worst I am yet to suffer. Once there I ordered a platter of fried fish & made a right mess of the devouring situation. Later that night we hit up the Mondo Taitu Bar for happy hour schapps, but I was in such a state I was even turning down free shots. I necked two beers before stepping outside to chuck and grab myself a strawberry lollie-pop.

Beach near Bocas

Back at the hostel for more pres, our balcony became a breeding ground. I'd never witnessed such a motley crew of kick-ass travellers. I seriously had my doubts about Panamanian engineering, and could see the statistical "how not to's" racking up in the world press. I don't know how, but I got sucked into the party once again. We lumbered on down to the Iguana Bar and spent a good part of the night jumping out into the Caribbean Sea directly from the dance floor. In the midst of my attempted break-dancing, I met this German girl who just happened to be an old mate of backflippin' BelLo!! This wondrous world is a crazily small place sometimes!! We swam above sting rays, got all gymnastic under the jetty & watched the stars flicker far off in a perfectly clear nights sky. Ole was a jolly mess, and asked me to provide some pivol means of cover as he undressed out of his wet clothes down to his bare white ass. It was more a case of David covers Goliath. I'm tiny, & Ole is the biggest Scandinavian man alive. The entire club could see everything out on display. Even better, he then just let his underpants float out into the ocean.

More pancakes...at this point I had already eaten sooo many pancakes. I got quite good at cooking them too I guess. Also, I must say I've got really good at making chopped-up ventilated clothing out of expensive unwanted garments. It's become quite common for people to realise halfway through their travels that they're moving about with too much shit. For me it's quite the opposite - I hardly have a thing, and what I do have has tended to disintegrate. Actually, my clothes are wretchedly disgusting. Ole decided to give me a large shirt meant as a gift for his father. Gratefully of course I accepted this kind gesture & continued in my own way to cut the sleeves off. Little did I know that this brand of shirt can cost up to $150 back over there in Norway!! Whoops.

Viking man & my new shirt

Alas, this one fine day was spent at the beach, body surfing in the half decent shore break, and playing a mixed nation mash-up game of volleyball. Now...I've only just realised while writing this, that all you actually do in Bocas is hang out all day at the beach, and bust-up bustling parties. That is pretty much it. So, what to do after the beach on a Saturday?? Party at Aqua Lounge I guess!! This place is swell. Although the trampolines were broken for this time being, there were still these open portal like holes straight through the deck where you could leap down into the refreshingly cool water directly out from their guzzle bar. Across the landing and there are a bunch of swings where you can spin the night away doing the same thing - as it is, back-flipping will always impress the best!! Drinks were downed, a second wallet was almost lost (before a smokin' Norwegian chicka saved the day) & birthday cake seemed to be laying around the club everywhere when ever I needed it the most. So, so..."When in Bocas..."

Tata, with love from Panama. 
Captain K. Rool xx 

King of the Apes, Monteverde

TootToot!! What a difference a few good days can make! "Bienvenidos a Costa Rica!!" I've returned from the brink; my mischievous, monkey-like behaviour has once again made a grand comeback for itself. I've spent the last few days enjoying the refreshing mountain air around the small community of Monteverde, soaking up natures serenity & teaching myself to cook. It's the first chance I've had now in the past few weeks to spend some time on my own. As all my fellow comrades push on with their hasty travels in a multitude of various directions, I feel it's nice to get to know a place, and I've grown content with my self imposed manner of movement. I've noticed lots of people choose to skip straight on through Costa Rica; notorious for being much more upmarket & expensive than the rest of  Central America, with little to entice the budget conscious backpacker, I wasn't sure what to expect. But as I've come to discover, the rumoured word is no excuse to disregard the unknown as a bleak & characterless canvas before oneself is yet to lay eyes upon it. Sure things here are more pricey, but there are always ways around it. This morning for example, I spent half a day hiking to the summit of the jungle-clad Cerro Amigo; a free, worthy substitute to the nearby cloud forests, which charge a truck load for a similar animal-abounding rain forest experience. On a clear day you can apparently take in views of the distant Volcan Arenal. As a whole, this past week has proved itself as a valuable lesson in self sufficiency & sustainability - not to mention; as another reverent reminder on the theological confidence & stupidity of youth.

Rainforest in Monteverde

"Here comes the sun, doodem doodem..." The batteries are about to run flat on my Ipod, but I savour the moment as the mid-afternoon suns rays poke through a grim/grey yet clearing sky. I was finally on my way to Fortuna along with an increasing accumulation of French Canadians, passing customs with little worry bar getting thrown to the back of the line, one person off reaching the front desk for no apparent reason. Know your place. Simply don't ask questions. There was something completely different going on here in Costa Rica, I had noticed a change the moment I stepped off the boat, yet I still found it hard to pin down exactly. The streets were organised and sweeped clean, shops appeared as legit businesses, and the surrounding farm land vegetation was damp & hydrated like nowhere else I had seen since I'd left home. Life was simply abounding.

We arrived into town late that afternoon, finding refuge in a cheap hostel close to the supermarkets, and cooked up a feast fit for ten to feed the five. 'Cheap living lesson number 1' - "Make friends & cook meals in enormous proportions." It also happened be Doms birthday, so unquestionably we had to celebrate by doing something super cool. This brings me to 'Cheap living lesson number 2' - "Talk to the locals." By talking smack to a few of the chums kicking about the hostel, we soon discovered a number of well known nearby hot-spots where you could enjoy the high life at little to nil exuberant out of pocket expense. Under the cover of darkness, we loaded up a cab with beers, coke & rum and took off 14 kilometres up the road towards Lago Arenal, where we parked by a bridge and clambered on down the bank into the warm, steaming Tabacon river below. A flowing hot springs river!! Attributed with waterfalls and a number of both calm & bubbling tranquil pools. We got drunk bathing in our amazement (even quicker once we'd ran out of coke), before ducking under the waterfall along with the taxi driver and his two whores, to sing happy birthday for Dom in an underground, pitch-black cavern. To top off an already memorable night, our driver dropped us back in town at the late night buffet restaurant, where Dom in his staggering state devoured everything possible up for grabs.

The following day I felt a little off; not due to the alcohol, but more from a lingering stomach bug which had probably been the cause of my recent fatigue. The other lads all went tubing while I spent the morning catching up on rest & delving into my disgusting buildup of dirty laundry. When they all returned, we decided to kill the rest of the day at another local river spot right on the outskirts of town. This place was perfect! Where every kid should dream about spending their childhood summer holidays. Hiding under another bridge was this thundering waterfall, plunging 4-5 meters into a deep pool below. The rocks perched on either side were ideal for long lunging cannon bombs or precariously daunting dives, and on the opposing bank hung a long knotted Tarzan rope from where you could fling yourself from an even greater height. The brave (or stupid in my case) could soon have themselves attempting back flips. I got myself tangled so many times, and to the growing amusement of my collection of onlookers, quickly become bruised & chaffed up entirely on one whole side of my body as a result of my persistency in failure. We were just about to leave when the stomach bug returned in a rising gush of unexpected urgency. Ohh boy...I was in trouble. There was no way I could hold it. I ran upstream before realising that could mean covering my amigos in an unpleasant coating of fecal grime, changing course and dashing over the slippery rocks, desperate to gain enough distance between the wallowing crowd enjoying the river & my foreseen torrential out-pour. Man, I tell you what; I only just made it. Just as I pulled my shorts down past my arse, simultaneously leaping forward over a small rapid to plonk hard into a shallow pool, my insides exploded like a trigger happy, rouge shotgun. Luckily the fast flowing water stopped my liquid stools from hanging out around me, and thankfully I'd picked up the necessary cleaning techniques required for this occasion when travelling through South-East Asia some years back. All was neutral once again. I later promised to let rip on the rope swing if I had the same surge the following day.

Diving into Waterfalls, Fortuna

That night we cooked an even tastier, mouth-watering extravaganza; MaximusAurelius gaining props & browny points as our talented resident master-chief. Later on we chewed tobacco, drank juice & got stoned. It was hilarious to watch the Frenchies slowly lose control of their normally proficient English vocabulary. We practically did the same shit the day after, returning to the rope swing (this time along with our front, side & back flipping German pal, Bel Lo) and revisiting the hot river later on that evening.

An inclination told me it was time to venture on from Fortuna. The Frenchies having returned home, Bel Lo and I made our way along the bumpy road to Santa Elena/Monteverde. In contrast to the arid, barren flats of Nicaragua, this little town was much more pleasant in both temperature & appearance. It seemed as if a circus was in town, so that night we thought we'd head up the hill and check it all out. There was something truly charming about this setup; as if we'd gone back in time 50 years to when folk could find enough entertainment in basic, good-humoured family fun. We got groovy with these two German girls before this gang of crazy Swiss bitches crashed our party. Poor German girls...these fuckwits wouldn't leave them alone. As soon as we would be dancing with them instead, the Swiss chicks would push them out of the way and flick their cigarette butts into the girls faces. Even I wasn't immune to their madness. The worst of the Swiss rode up in my space, then turned full circle and grabbed me by the nuts, before changing her mind to twist both my fucking nipples!! We decided to bail, but the chicks wouldn't take a hint; the night reaching its anti-climax with these three annoying twats in our bed! Never before have I so badly not wanted to double-team three foreign lasses. We invited them out for a "cigarette," before darting back inside our room and locking the door. We were seemingly safe. The next morning, not surprisingly they missed their bus...and after doing so chose to catch a taxi all the way to San Jose!! Stupid, stupid bitches!

Having saved a lot of cash over the past few days, Bel Lo & I felt it was time we treated ourselves; so with that, we signed up for Extremo Canopy Zip-lining!! To be honest I thought this was going to be a little bit gay...imagining it to be one of those lame-arsed "adventure" tourist traps. Man, was I wrong! What a way to get a birds eye, 360 degree view of a lush mountain valley! In a way, it felt like I was flying; narrowly missing the trunks of ancient trees or disappearing into thick coverings of sitting cloud. The tour finished up with an exhilarating one kilometre long 'Superman' cable, powering you along head first 150 meters up in the air. It was all quite the rush, and very much worth the little extra money.

Zip lining in Monteverde

Later on we made our way back to the circus with some others from the tour; the reason being to finally get a chance to see my first real Latin American bullfight!! Now I believe confidence & stupidity go hand in hand...most of the time anyway. It doesn't take long to lose that confidence when you're being stared down by a 950 kilo horned beast. I had to do it. How could I pass up the opportunity. One minute I was enjoying a packet of potato chips safely stowed away in the stands, the next I was standing in a fucking bull ring holding the red cape!! The bull was going mental, kicking wildly in protest to this extravagant, unwanted attention, and he eventually fixed his eyes upon the cape in my hands. No fucking way! Within the first few meters of his charge I was on the bolt, sprinting back across the grass and up into the crowd. That was enough for me, my New Zealandbuddy wasn't quite as convinced. He went back out for one final duel, which would almost spell the end of his short time on this wonderful earth. I'm not sure if he forgot, but when he took up the red-cape I sure noticed his red shirt, and I'm guessing so did the big, black bull. As he dropped the cape, the bull didn't even flinch in its flight, instead directing his attention directly at our white, unfortunate  gringo warrior. For a moment they were locked in a sickly engagement of suspense. I thought he was done for. The bulls horns scrapped past his forearm before one dug into his left thigh, coming soooo close to depriving him forever of his man-hood. Somehow he managed to break away! I don't think I've ever seen someone run that fast, leaping up like a gazelle to join me there in the stands, shaking uncontrollably with adrenaline. Of course the crowd LOVED it!! The anticipated moment of dread, breaking into a monstrous hoard of applause. All props went to NZ that night. It's not every day you can say you've done battle with a bull, copped a horn blow and still managed to come out (kind of) on top.

Here is my bull!!!

So until next time my fellow thrill-seeking computer chair adventurers, I hope this serves as an example of how the ups & downs of life seem to pan out. Tomorrow only gets better. Amazing shit hides around every next corner. No seriously, what would I know...do not try this at home kids. You're just gonna have to come visit. Life is fucking wicked, that is all I have to say. Let's hope I survive until then. Happy, happy days!!!

Much dormant lovin' from Costa Rica!!
Rafiki xxx

Pissing on Iguanas, San Carlos

A'ight. So begins another chapter of my supersonic southern odyssey. A fresh start. The long road will often decide when to drift into repetitiveness, but only you can renew those revolutions with one refreshing revival. I'm sitting on the shores of the Rio San Juan, in the small town of San Carlos, waiting for immigration to do its thing. Hopefully I'll make it into Costa Rica later on today, sooner rather than later, but my temperament has come to accept the velocity in which shit moves along in this country. I'm burnt...utterly wrecked to be honest, and the overnight haul on the ferry from Isla de Ometepe hasn't boosted my moral in the slightest. Only recently have I began to feel the toll of these travels in the tropics, more so from leading the once enviable life of a typically reckless, wayward backpacker; but I feel like its time for a shift in direction. Is it possible to live off raspberry fanta & corn flakes, gallo pinto & Toña?? Somethings gotta give. I feel it's way too early to be already counting the costs & enveloping the mess.

Arriving into San Carlos on Sunrise

León got left behind in a manic flutter gust of disillusion. Had I even been there?? Maybe not. I'm sure it would be easy enough to invent such a place, creating a hybrid city concoction based around all the other hot, crumbling hovels I'd pushed on through. To be fair, it wasn't such a nasty place, more that I was in a horrible state of disrepair, still adjusting to being back on the mainland after my long stint of relaxation out in the Caribbean. It wasn't long before I was continuing onwards, sharing a lift to Granada with two Israeli lasses who taught me everything to know about the Lebanon war, the Lebanon war II, the south Lebanon conflict, the Palestinian uprising, the Palestinian Gaza conflict, the second Palestinian uprising and of course, all the good things to do when splashing about in natural springs on their days off. On arrival I treated myself to a hearty plate of rice & beans...Oooo baby I love a good staple.

More so, Granada actually proved itself worthwhile. Much more comfortable and easier on the eyes than León, it reminded me in a way of a BBQ'ed version of Antigua; swirling swarms of gnats thrown in at no extra cost. I wandered the central park, checked out the churches, and ambled on through the markets before slogging it down to the lakeside. Later at the hostel I ran back into my two Danish chickadees, bright-eyed & seemingly buzzed up from all the sporadic, senseless shopping they'd been ripping into. At once I was glad I'd done the gash-dash. I don't think I've ever seen two people accumulate so much shit over such a short period of time. What was worse, it took until late afternoon the next day to have it all sent back home across the Atlantic, while I sat patiently outside the post office, waiting around like the timid fool I was for this prophesied mish to the coast, which was looking more & more as if it would never eventuate. Would the golden gods, just this one time - "please, please answer my prayers..."

It's true, somehow we did make it out of that place; but where the fuck was my head at?? Had it lost its way alone somewhere back in Guatemala?? Or did I take one to many oranges to the head? I wasn't acting myself. Ever since Mexico, I'd been hearing whispers about this hostel in San Juan del Sur called the Naked Tiger, apparently a place so cool that travellers had been known to divert their entire trips solely to hang out at this place. On first impressions it's hard to dismiss their reasoning. Perched high in the hills overlooking the entire town & rugged surrounding coastline, this 'hostel' feels more like your best mates place - or what would happen if your best mate owned a mansion, let everyone move in & run a muck, then let the wild & wackness of the drunken imagination create the ultimate house-party paradise. Its hard to say no to a free beer on arrival. It sure sucked me in and got me a little too excited, and it now seemed as though not much surfing was to be had in this town after all.

Boris @ The Naked Tiger, San Juan del Sur

Friday night was party night!! Actually, every night at the Naked Tiger was party night. I had to give that, if anything to the owners - I have no idea how they sustain themselves or stay motivated; they live one hell of a destructive lifestyle in that place. After way too many pre-dusk schnapps, we still felt it was a great idea (isn't it always) to make the late journey into town. The hostels shuttle dropped us off & we got boot scootin'. The Iguana Bar was pumping!! I vaguely remember meeting up with the two Israeli girls & Boris, who I hadn't seen since the Corn Islands, and at one point it looked like the whole second floor was about to cave in from the collective mass of party-goers leaping about in all kinds of revelling mannerisms - I was to become one of those statistics written about briefly in the side column of the world news. I can read the tiny headline now: "165 Killed in Nicaraguan Nightclub Disaster." Would anyone even be talking about it past dinner time?? I highly doubt it. Tut, tut people...

Of course AC/DC had to come on...and of course I was up on the table ranting & chanting 'TNT' in one giant, balls out rock-off with the rest of the club. Aussie pride?!? Nuts, I had to take a piss, but the line was backed up along the wall five drunks deep! Man, it's a horrible feeling. I'm about to conceive this as a metaphor like finding yourself strung out on heroin - sometimes you've just gotta do what you've gotta do; and I couldn't have cared a less about the consequences of my actions. I had my hit, and what a hit it was. THE BEST! I pissed straight over the roof from the second floor down onto the street below...little did I realise in my drunken state that this also happened to be the same side of the building where the front door is...where bouncers wait in meat-head anticipation - to stop respectable young patrons such as myself having all means of fun. It was an accident, but a big one. No bouncer likes getting rained upon from above, especially when it comes out from some drunken white gringo wearing an 'Elmo lost his pigmentation' shirt.  I was fucked. I tried to blend, but they got me. Of course they got me!! They always do. In hindsight I came out of this situation pretty well. They grabbed me violently, almost ripping poor Elmo in two & chucked me out onto the street. No more Iguana Bar for me tonight. Haha! I did try to walk back in though. It really is just a matter of time...

That is about as much as I remember first hand. Apparently from here I managed to run into someone else heading back up to the hostel, and they dragged me back to where the last shuttle was leaving. Clambering aboard, I was in the jolliest of moods, sitting precariously up on top of the trucks racks, dangling like a spider. I hadn't been able to do that sober earlier in the day. I was superman.

The next day sucked. Not so super now. I spent the day rotting on the couch, slamming BLT's & floating upside down in the pool trying to kill myself. This was the point when I realised the craziness had to stop. All is well and good when you start out on a trip - I mean before I left I was in the best shape of my life, so I had a buffer to mess with; but months have now passed and I haven't exactly been one outstanding representation of sustainable living. The next day I took off. I got out of that death trap - scribbled my farewells on the wall & made a pact with the resourcefulness of my mind. "I will protect you." What should I do?? I'll a climb volcano on the largest freshwater island in the world! Booyah!! Bring it on.

I made my way to Isla de Ometepe along with three Quebecan lads I'd met in San Juan. We could see the twin volcanic cones rising sharply up out from the encompassing waters as we sat around sucking mangoes on the beach, waiting for our boat ride. As we approached the island, the enormous, symmetrical massif of Volcán Concepción became intimidatingly apparent. It was definitely 'in your face', and dominated the scenery from every angle. After a few games of pool using a broom handle & two 8 balls, we crashed out for the night on the floor. I was woken early to an evacuation siren blaring about, having me think the volcano was exploding! I'd had a similar late night freak out once before in New Zealand, when I thought an earthquake was bringing down the town around me. It turned out to be no more than a late night arrival hopping up into the top bunk. Again this time, another false reason for panic, the 'siren' was simply the alternate alarm option on Dom's phone to make sure we woke up - the other 'bird call' option had failed to snap these blokes to attention on previous occasions, ever engulfed in the strange surroundings of animal clad jungle. Now awake, it was time to do things! We munched upon some tuna sandwiches and began our hike up the hill. Unfit or not, I don't know; either way it was a constant, sweaty climb! By the time we reached the centre crater lake I was dripping like a tap, the humidity was engrossing. But at least I'd been moving, and I felt better than I had in weeks! What more, the views across Ometepe were mesmerising. I love being in the mountains.

Sunset on Isla de Ometepe

So never fear, I'm not actually depressed. Things are always bound to go up & down, round & round, it's just a matter of how you handle the ride. Now I've got all that out of my system, I'm even feeling a lot less agitated about all this fucking waiting around. There has actually been some pretty funny shit going down behind all the chaos. Looking out across the river once again has me brimmed with a new excitement. Nicaragua has been a whirlwind; a combination of extreme highs and lows, but I'm about to cross into Costa Rica for Christs sake. How could I be pissed off?? Sure beats making teeth!!

Ciao, ciao chicos!!
Much love from this PocketRocket!!
xxxx