(new) A Sunday at church.

It’s fitting that football matches are played on a Sunday because in most parts of the world they are a religion and nowhere more so than Bs.As. The team around here is Boca Jr. where Diego “hand of God” Maradona played as well as many of the players that have made Argentina a World Cup contender. For the past 8 months I had been denying Adrian the opportunity to see a football game, telling him to save it for Argentina or Brasil. Now we were here and today we were going to the church called La Bombonera to see Boca play Gimnasia.

With so much to look forward to, it would have been nice to wake up fully refreshed but nature was against us. Well not nature since I don’t think mother nature was responsible for the loud dance music blaring from the bar below. It began at 1am and didn’t stop until, actually it didn’t stop before we left at 11am. Although the kind folks did turn it down to a dull roar around 6am. However, mother nature was to blame for the bites that now speckled my body. That’s right, I had about a dozen or so bites that looked rather suspicious. I think they might be bed bugs but considering that it was just a handful of bites maybe they were just flea bites. Whichever they were, they were itchy and grossed me out so I was glad we were getting the heck out of that place. It was probably the fastest we’ve ever packed and eaten breakfast. But can you blame us.

We took the subway to the new hostel and walking through the doors we felt a hundred times better. They’d fixed our reservation so now we had the same room for all three nights we were here. It was quiet. The bedroom was clean and bright and the bed comfy. They even had a kitchen with stuff in it and a bunch of munchies for sale. So we bought some empanadas munched on those and enjoyed the silence. We even bumped into a familiar face, John who we’d met in Baños. He was on an extended holiday from his job as a tv presenter in China. Nope he wasn’t Asian just an English guy fluent in Chinese who’d stumbled into the job while doing translation work in China. We weren’t able to catch up as he was heading to bed after partying all night (hopefully not at the bar below the old hostel) and then off on the night bus. There were also new faces. Mintaut a girl from Lithuania was at the tail end of 6 months on the road. We chatted with her while waiting for our pick up.

The mini bus picked us up around five. It was a small group of just 15 plus our guide Hernan. Since we were the closest to the stadium we were the last ones onboard and it was a short drive to the stadium. Although the game didn’t start for another 2 hours the streets of La Boca were already full of people all proudly wearing their Sunday best – the team colours of blue and gold. If we were so close to the stadium you’re probably wondering why we didn’t just go on our own. Well, La Boca wasn’t the best area after dark (or in the light) and with 60,000 rabid fans in attendance we paid the (super high) premium to avoid sitting in the wrong section wearing the wrong colours and to make sure we got back in one piece. Overly cautious I’m sure but since I’d just heard how a fellow traveler had to walk 6km back to his hostel after missing the last subway, I wanted to make sure.

Okay, so back to the game. The bus let us off a few blocks from the actual stadium – the streets were actually barricaded and only ticket holders could enter on foot. So we showed our tickets to the police and were allowed to pass. Inside it was a giant street party. Crafty locals had set up bbq grills and were selling food to hungry fans. Hernan guided us into one of the store fronts were we were seated in a temporary street café. We were fed tasty choripans – sausages on French bread and given beer. When we were stuffed Hernan got us all together and led us through the packed streets to the final barricade just before the stadium entrance. He helped us stash away contraband items like lighters (banned because they can be thrown) and throw out drinks that we weren’t allowed to bring in. This barricade involved a pat down (for the guys) and search of our bags. The girls should have gotten the same treatment but the female officer had disappeared so we got through easily.

Then it was through the actual ticket gate and up the stairs and up and up to the terraces – general admission concrete stairs. I thought for the price we had paid (A$230) we’d at least get seats so I was momentarily disappointed until I realized we were sitting in the locals area. Here were the real fans. And directly across from us was the super crazy area know as La doce, the twelveth player (photo above). Hernan told us to sit anywhere we wanted but suggested staying away from the front rows which were in throwing distance of the stands above us. Over the next hour both our section and the one on the other side filled with more people than I thought possible and then when I thought that was it even more packed in. I have a feeling there is no fire code capacity up here.

Hernan stopped by to visit us (although I’m clueless how he found us in the crowd) and told us a few fun facts about the team. Although blue and gold are the team colours they weren’t always. Supposedly they were once the same as another teams but neither wanted to change. To settle the dispute, the two teams played a game to decide the issue. Boca lost and decided that their new colours would be those of the flag of the next boat that came into the harbour. It was a Swedish ship. Just a little history there.

While we waited for kick off, we saw lots of plastic bags of liquid being thrown down on the people in the first row. In retaliation the people in our section taunted those above with gestures that looked a lot like eating a popsicle (if you know what I mean) and chants that questioned the sexuality of those above. But compared to what was happening over in La Doce it was nothing. The other section was nothing but a sea of banners. A band was somewhere in the crowd – we could hear it but couldn’t see it. They were leading the chants which everyone in the stadium (except the gringos sprinkled throughout) sang along with. Or tried to sing - unfortunately we happened to be sitting in front of the one tone deaf person in the whole crowd, who of course was also the loudest. The songs only stopped when the refs and the visiting team took the field and then it was just a cacophony of whistles. But when the hometown boys came out it was back to the chants.

Since we don’t have anything that takes videos I looked up someone else’s to give you an idea of what it sounded like and to a certain extent what it looked like. There were no fireworks on our day. Probably because they had no lighters to light them with.

Here's one song and a good view of the crowd.

There's another song here.

Then it was time for kick off. Immediately everyone packed into the stands stood up and any gaps in the crowd were filled by others who had been waiting for their chance to squeeze in. It was packed (I can’t say it enough) and I was glad we were in the back where there was a bit more breathing room. As for the game well it was just like any other football game and since I’m not a fan or a conneisseur I’ll skip commenting on it. I can say that the crowd went wild when Boca scored twice in the first half and that the refs were victims of a chant that involved both the word puta and puto (I’ll let you look them up) which didn’t seem appropriate for a Sunday. Adrian thoroughly enjoyed it even after discovering that no beer was sold in the stadium and technically wasn’t supposed to be sold inside the barricaded neighbourhood around the stadium.

At half time, everyone sat down and with triple the amount of people to the amount of sitting space packed in, to call us sardines would be the understatement of the year. In fact I didn’t even get a seat having hesitated just a little too long. I ended up leaning against a stadium support unable to even wiggle my toes between the bodies. It was amazing to watch people head to the washroom trying to navigate the crowd. People above would pull them up by the arms while they placed their hands on people’s heads for support. And nobody minded.

The second half was even more lively. Boca scored two more goals and I started to feel bad for the visitors. I secretly hoped Gimnasia would score just so we could see what would happen in the crowd. But it was not to be. The game ended and Boca won 4-0. I expected there to be a surge toward the exits but instead everyone sat down (this time I got a seat). For 45 minutes, our section and la doce were kept in while the rest of the stadium emptied. I guess it was an attempt at crowd control and also to ensure that the visiting fans didn’t mix with the home fans. Finally we were allowed out. And Adrian and I fought against the crowd and made it to the meeting point. The crowd thinned and Hernan led us back to the minivan and back to the hostel which was just heavenly after our evening at the church of La Boca.

(old) From Icky Iquique to Yay, Chile.

I felt rather bad waking up. No, not ill, just a bad conscience. I felt responsible for that Bastien and Anita had followed us to Iquique because on first impression it wasn’t anything special. After breakfast at the hotel (the one good thing about the place), we walked to the beach. The stretch the furthest away from the town was nice and there were lots of families and surfers already out. But the closer to the city we walked, it started to get not so nice starting with the appearance of lots of graffiti, then the drug addicts and/or homeless folks we had to step over and a stretch that smelt like human piss. Once we got through that and arrived in the old part of town (photo above), things improved but not enough to make me feel any better. Iquique was an old port full of old clapboard seaside buildings. It was a nice change after Bolivia but it wasn’t pretty. And I’m sure Bastien and Anita were wondering what they were doing here when they woke up this morning. We didn’t see them as we walked down the pedestrian promenade so I hoped that they’d taken the first bus out as they had planned.

But we were here for a few days trying to make something of our detour. We popped into a local tour company to see what there was to do, other than the beach. The owner was a lovely old guy who spoke very little English. He was happy to find out we were Canadian because according to him, Canadians were a lot more polite and orderly than other nationalities who he found very demanding. Luis started showing us some of the tours he offered, and trying his best to explain in English what we would see. I told him that Spanish was okay but he told me that he was trying to teach himself English because so most of the foreigners who come through speak better English than they do Spanish. He showed me the website he was using and said he’d been at it for 4 months. At the moment he was a little frustrated by his progress because not only does every English vowel have 5 different sounds but every verb seems to have 50+ meanings. He pulled up “do” as an example and showed me the list of meanings for it. I agreed that it was more difficult than Spanish but also told him that most of the meanings they had listed weren’t common and to just treat “do” like “hacer”. Adrian tried to convince him that English was so much easier than Spanish but wasn’t making much progress – mostly because it’s not true. In the end we ended up talking about languages for an hour before getting back to the tours. Another customer came in so we quickly signed up for a fairly comprehensive all day one for tomorrow. It was pricey but included lunch and we hoped it would be an improvement from our mine tour with Evil Julio.

The promenade ended at the town square and it was interesting only because there was no cathedral on it. Instead there was theatre and bunch of fancy schmancy dining clubs. I wonder if that means Chile is less Catholic than the other Latin American countries we’d been to. It probably had more to do with the English shipping company influence in this part of the continent because we eventually found the Cathedral it was beyond the main drag in the area we’d been in last night. Even in the daylight, the area was quite grotty and didn’t feel safe. So we embraced that feeling and walked towards the port area, which was deserted on the weekend. We popped into the naval museum that was dedicated to the Battle of the Pacific. You’d think that since there was a museum that Chile won this sea battle in their war with Peru but you’d be wrong. Nope this was a museum dedicated to the heroic sinking of a ship, heroic because the captain didn’t surrender, and used his ship as a really big battering ram killing everyone on board in the effort. I guess I’m just not a warmongerer since I’d have surrendered rather than drowned. The museum was full of ship-spotters eating up all the model ships and naval paraphernalia, however it wasn’t quite our thing so we did a quick and polite tour of the room and then left.

Continuing on with our embracing of the dodgy and seedy we continued on to the bus terminal. Like the beach, the neighbourhood smelt of piss both human and canine as it seemed like this is where all the stray dogs (as well as humans) hung out. The terminal was a small building with 10 tiny kiosks crammed inside. We walked down looking for any offering a trip to San Pedro the Chilean end of the salt flats. One of the clerks saw us searching and called us over to help us out. When I told her what I was looking for, she told me that they were the only company that went directly to San Pedro but that it was a night bus. She was very nice and took the time to tell us all the other companies’ schedules. They all involved changing buses in another town and due to the vagaries of the schedules we’d have to spend the night in that town before we could catch the bus to San Pedro. I told her I was going to ask one of these other companies and she encouraged me to. Of course, she was right (as well as being super nice) so we decided to buy two tickets. She told us we’d made a good choice since the bus would stop for 4 hours in the night so we could get a good sleep and we wouldn’t need to spend money on a hotel room. Actually, I’d have preferred that the bus just continued directly to San Pedro but at least we’d be getting into town at 10am rather than the middle of the night. As she handed our tickets to us she explained everything slowly and carefully one more time just to make sure we understood. I hope everyone in Chile is this nice.

Adrian had already decided that they were all nice and convinced me that we should continue walking to Iquique’s other famous landmark, the Zofri Free Trade Area. It was located just north of us according to the map and looking in that direction it appeared to be the seediest part of town. I tried to convince him not to, but the promise of duty free products was too strong a pull for him so we plodded on. It was indeed even seedier and grittier. It was weird – although Chile (or at least Iquique) looks more civilized than Bolivia it felt more rundown and a whole lot less safe, so much so that I wouldn’t even take my camera out. It didn’t help that once we passed the entrance to the Zofri, we were immediately in an industrial area surrounded by shipping containers, fuel depots, car import lots and distribution centres. After 30 minutes of feeling uneasy I told Adrian we should turn around. I began searching for a bus or taxi to take us back but saw nothing. Then ahead on the horizon, Adrian spotted a mall, a gigantic mall. This was the Zofri and inside was a collection of small kiosks that looked more like a gigantic flea market than what I would call a mall. It was an Honest Ed’s the size of 5 football fields. We soon discovered that cheap was realitive. For Chileans the cost of the electronics and brand name items for sale may have been cheap but compared to back home they were the same or even more expensive. I find shopping about as enjoyable as drinking battery acid so after 30 minutes of wandering around, I had a mall headache. Luckily Adrian was prepared to walk away empty handed, finally convinced that there were no affordable PSP games in the giant complex.

Back outside in the daylight and fresh air far away from the glazed-eyed crowds of shopers and oxygen-poor air, we refreshed ourselves at a juice stand. Actually, stand is a stong word – it was a shopping cart full of oranges, and a cooler of ice under a scrawny tree just beside the ginormous parking lot. As we drank our juice, I asked her where we could catch a collectivo or bus back to Cavancha and she pointed to the corner. She also let us know that we shouldn’t pay more than $1 each and if they tried to charge us more not to give it to them. She was so adamant that I expected a hassle when we got on board but the driver asked us for about 80 cents, the same amount he asked from everyone else on board. The bus took off towards Cavancha but rather than travel along the beach road, it took a road further inland, letting us off about a kilometer or two in front of another large mall. Oh, the horror made worse by the fact that the mall was the main obstacle between us and the beach road. I took a deep breath and we stepped inside, attempting to walk through it to get to the hostel. Unforutnately after a month in Bolivia, we’ve lost all our mall navigation skills and we were unable to find an exit amongst the fast food chains, neon signs, and familiar brand names in every window. If it weren’t for the Spanish signs everywhere I’d have thought we had to some anonymous suburb in North America, not Chile. Eventually, we managed to retrace our steps to exit the same way we entered, still no closer to the beach than when we started. But we followed the steady stream of cars through the parking lot and on to the main road until we stumbled across the beach road once again.

Seeing the beach snapped us out of our mall daze. But didn’t help with our disorientation. This end of the beach was lined with modern condo buildings and the beach itself was filled with families, and scantily clad hardbodies enjoying the sun and the water. We could have been in Southern California. Since none of the people in the water had blue lips, icicles off their noses, or other obvious signs of hyporthermia we cut across the boardwalk to the water’s edge. But when we dipped our toes in the Pacific, we were shocked by the icy water. Nope we were definitely in Chile with the ocean bringing the cold Antarctic waters north. Further down the beach, the surfing competition was still on although the waves had died down leaving the young girls competing at the end of the day nothing to ride for more than a few seconds. Just beyond the beach was a rocky bit where the waves were bigger and where the real pros were having a go. At least I hoped they were pros as they were dangerously close to slamming into the rocks. We watched them until I couldn’t take the anxiety anymore and had to head back to the hostel.

I tried to get the hotel’s wifi to work but after an hour gave up. We headed out to find some food vaguely aware that there was a strip of restaurants and bars somewhere nearby but no clue in which direction they were. We didn’t find them but we did find a corner shop, run by a Pakistani family who were happy to speak English with us. They also had a tiny internet café inside so we logged on and tried to catch up with life back in Canada and UK until we were distracted by commotion out on the street. Cars were beeping their horns, people were yelling and chanting. The family explained to us that Chile was playing Colombia in a World Cup qualifier and at the moment Chile were ahead. Suddenly the commotion became chaos as everyone in the neighbourhood ran out to the streets. The game was over and Chile had won. It became impossible to concentrate in the internet café so we headed to the small greasy spoon next door for something to eat and to take in the celebrations. As we ate our chicken and chips we alternated between watching the tv coverage of celebrations in Santiago with the celebrations here in Iquique. Apparently every Chilean of every age was out in the streets turning the entire country into a giant street party. Although we were on a small street in a residential neighbourhood cars were trolling up in down in front of us, with the drivers’ palms firmly on the horns bleeting out a morse code of congratulations to one another.

The beach road was even worse. This appeared to be the main party drag and every vehicle in town was commandeered by happy partiers, from Municipal garbage trucks to Mercedes SUVs. From each one people were hanging out the windows and in some cases the trunks, waving flags. We even spotted a small dog wearing a small Chilean flag as a cape held on the roof of one car and numerous babies wearing red white and blue bandanas being dangled out of windows. As the party progressed, road flares, fireworks and even lighters were thrown into the mix next to the thrown rolls of toilet paper, shredded paper, broken bits of stryofoam and wedding confetti. It was just a party but a public service announcement about fire safety. A couple of flat bed delivery trucks were turned into portable stages and dance clubs with bands and dozens of dancers bouncing up and down. If this is how they celebrate just qualifying for the World Cup, I can’t imagine what would happen if they actually won. Despite having to dodge the occasional fireworks, we sat at the side of the making the side of the road to take in the spectacle. The atmosphere was infectious but at midnight we called it a night, although we could hear the party going on until almost dawn.

Wrestling with La Paz.

At over 3660 metres above sea level, La Paz is the highest capital city in the world. Now that was less than Copacabana and Isla del Sol but it was also a whole lot bigger which meant we would be huffing and puffing as we set out on foot to explore it today. We had hoped a big breakfast would help us out, but the hostel only provided bread and jam with coffee. Oh well, it was free so I shouldn’t complain too much. And we were able to add fresh squeezed orange and grapefruit juice to that just a few blocks away. For less than $1 we got two huge glasses from a street vendor who squeezed it while we waited. Yum. But we still weren’t ready to start our walking tour. We had to find a bank machine to replenish the funds we’d just about exhausted over the last 7 days, and preferably a bank machine that gave out more than $150 at a time to stop the bank fee bleeding we’d been suffering from lately. The best we could do was double that amount. It still wasn’t great but it would have to do. Now it was time to tackle the city.

Back in Copacabana I’d traced the walking tour from the hostel’s Bolivia guidebook into ours and the first stop was the San Francisco Church. Not part of the walking tour was the huge public health fare going on in the square out front. The government had set up dozens of booths to catch the locals on their way into church. So not only could they get a sermon, today they could also get their blood pressure checked, learn about food groups, and talk to a doctor if they needed to. It was a little weird to see at first but I realized that churches in Latin America are more popular than malls and probably the best way for the government to reach the largest amount of people. Since Sunday service was going on we skipped poking our noses in the church and instead decided to see the other half of the Bolivian religion in action at the witches’ market. That required a hike up and by hike I mean it felt like we were walking straight up. Of course when we got to the point on the map where the market was supposed to be, we discovered it had been replaced by a street of tourist stalls selling pan flutes, ponchos and Che Guevera t-shirts. We were disappointed, probably because our lungs were now burning but continued on with the walking tour nonetheless. As we turned up the next street we stumbled upon the new location of the witches’ market. The stalls were interesting but not as weird as I expected, perhaps because we’d seen many of the offerings (miniature objects, herbs, candy shaped like cars and houses) on sale on Calvary Hill in Copacabana, everything except for the gruesome llama fetuses that the market is famous for and which are considered the most special offering someone could burn or bury. After that we cut the tour short as it continued to take us up and into more markets rather than down to the city sights.

The other thing that La Paz (and Bolivia) is famous for is cocaine and La Paz has an entire museum dedicated to the Coca Plant it comes from. No, this is not some sort of druggie paradise. You see, coca is used everyday by almost all Bolivians. The leaves are chewed and consumed the same way North Americans drink coffee, as an appetite suppressant, a cure for altitude sickness and also to make tea. Unfortunately for Bolivians, the US doesn’t quite agree with the planting of Coca and had been trying to outlaw it – unable to separate the domestic use from the illegal production of cocaine. The museum was dedicated to educating folks about the thousand year old Bolivian tradition of consuming coca. But it was also closed that day. So our education was going to have to wait. Oh well. At least the building and the courtyard in front were pretty enough so it didn’t feel like a wasted journey.

On our way to the main square, we discovered the Museo del Arte and decided to pop in. It was well worth the $1.50 entrance fee. The buildings was a beautiful old colonial one and the collection of art was quite nice too, and included enough modern stuff to keep Adrian from getting bored. When we left, an old blind couple was sitting outside busking in the pedestrian mall. They were quite good and also very sweet so we listened to three of their songs and then put some money in their box. We once again headed to the Cathedral square only to be thwarted this time by a giant religious procession. Knights of Columbus, priests, altar boys and girls, women’s auxiliary, clouds of incense, and many virgins. And by virgins, I mean Virgins. Each group in the procession was holding a large statue of Virgin Mary over their heads. We couldn’t move any further so we watched it pass by the presidential palace where dignitaries (but not the president) paid their respects to the Virgins. When the process finally moved on into town and out of the square, Adrian rushed over to the palace and congress excited to see the bullet holes left over from a failed coup decades ago. However, either the Virgins or a handyman had miraculously patched them recently. But all was not lost. A quick search of the other buildings on the square turned up some still visible bullet holes, satisfying Adrian’s morbid curiosity. The square itself was the perfect place to stop for a break so we grabbed some saltenas (Bolivian empanadas). They were tasty and also about 50 cents each that made them even tastier. Then it was back to hostel for our afternoon tour which was either going to be one of the worst things we had ever done or the best. We were going to see some Bolivian wrestling.

In Latin America, wrestling is a favoured sport. You’ll find wrestlers painted on the side of buses or the pictures pinned up in local restaurants. If it’s on tv men, women and whole families will watch it, entranced. I am not a wrestling fan, in fact I kind of hate it. But having just watched The Wrestler while we were in Copacabana, I was kind of excited about seeing a match in action. And Adrian? While if it’s tacky, he wants to do it. And this wrestling looked like it was the tackiest thing we could do in town if not all of Bolivia. You see, this wasn’t just any wrestling, it was Cholita wresting and a Cholita is what they call any traditional Bolivian women, the women in the voluminous skirts and tiny little bowler hats. That’s right we had paid money to see women’s wrestling.

At the hostel we met up with 20 other tack-hunters and set off in the bus back up out of the canyon of La Paz and into the altiplano suburbs. The bus stopped at the top of the hill so we could take a panoramic picture of the city down below and then we were back on board for the short drive into the working class suburbs. Outside a small and rustic arena we were let off, given our entry tickets, vouchers for a snack and souvenir as well as our tourist bathroom tickets before being hustled inside. The ticket taker handed us a program and we were disappointed to find more men then women listed for today’s fight and no midgets (yup midgets are just as popular competitors as the Cholitas). We were shown to our VIP seats which were plastic chairs lined up at ringside. I wasn’t sure if that was so much a privilege or a punishment – but I guess we’d soon find out as just as we were all seated the announcer came out to introduce the first match. Judging by the group’s reaction to his rapid-fire Spanish, there was some trash talk of some of the competitors but none of us gringos was able to figure out what we were about to see not that it would have mattered because I don’t think any of us would have been able to translate “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle”. You see, the first involved a guy dressed up as one of the TMNT but no Cholitas. It set the pattern for the rest of the matches: the crowd favourite would get beat up by the bad guy with a little help from the dirty ref followed by a comeback from the edge of defeat.

There were about 5 matches in total, or about 2 too many, of varying degrees of entertainment. Our refreshments were just a small cup of pop and another small bag of too salty popcorn which most of the gringos preferred to throw at the bad guys. Only half of the fights involved a Cholita. I assumed the Cholita would automatically be the crowd favourites whenever they fought but one of them was definitely not their favourite (although she was mine). Jenniferwas a bad ass and not afraid to fight dirty. At one point she was thrown into the protective railing in front of the gringos before being whacked over the head with a real wooden crate. I remembered The Wrestler and imagined she’d probably bruised her ribs and gotten a lump on the head and felt more than a little sorry for her even if the crowd was happy that she was injured. Although the wrestling was fake the moves were definitely not. But in the end evil Jennifer won her match. Adrian’s favourite was Mr. Atlas, the old-timer. But because of the age of both him and his opponent, the moves weren’t as scary or exciting, so much so that I don’t remember much except Mr. Atlas won. By the second last match most of the gringos had disappeared and I wondered if we were supposed to have left as well. But rather than leave we stayed right until the end mostly because Adrian was totally into the event now while I worried how we were going to get back to the hostel. My anxiety wasn’t helped by the last match. It wasn’t so much a match as a way to clear everyone out of the building and involved a wrestler called La Mumia de Africa (the mummy of Africa). He was the ultimate bad guy and after beating up both his opponent and the ref, the other wrestlers came out to try to control him. not even Jennifer could conquer him and he soon turned on the crowd, throwing the metal grates and plastic chairs forcing everyone out of the arena. It was a good thing many in the audience had already left because it meant less of a crowd in the small parking lot outside. Out of the original 20 who had arrived on our bus only 5 (including us) stuck it out until the end – it was the same story with the other tours so it was easy to find our ride back. Good thing because it was now dark outside.

The bus took us back down into the city bowl stopping briefly so we could take another shot of La Paz all lit up this time before dropping us off at the hostel. It was definitely Adrian’s day because the hostel was serving up a proper Sunday dinner. He chortled with glee as he gobbled up his first beef, roast potatoes, carrots, beans, broccoli, peas and lashings of gravy in the last 6 months. He even threatened to call home and tell his mum it was better than hers until I told him she might cut him off in the future. After all the fighting we’d seen in the ring we didn’t need to start any fights back in England.

Everybody’s goin’ surfin’, surfin’ U.K.

Today was Adrian’s big day. Today was his first surfing lesson. The school promised to get students up on the board the first time or their money back. So they must have been pretty confident but I’m not sure we were. Still he eagerly got up and was out the door as soon as we were done breakfast. Since his lesson was two hours long I took my time going down to the beach to watch and instead uploaded some blog entries and more photos and then grabbed my camera and headed out to document the big event.

Down at the beach Adrian was just making his way into the water having spent the first 45 minutes getting instructed on dry land. For the next hour, I watch and snapped photos as he tried to get up on the board – spending just as much time falling into the water as he did sitting on the board. I began to think that perhaps the school would have to make good on their promise when it happened. He got his butt up in the air and then his arms and soon he was standing riding the last wave of his lesson all the way into the beach. YAY!!!! He did it. I walked with him and the instructor back to the school where Adrian showered and changed back into his clothes and was congratulated by the staff on doing it. Adrian was now hooked on surfing and although we were leaving Huanchaco tonight, he vowed to get back on the board the next time he had the chance – even though that wouldn’t be until we were in Chile, a long way away.

We still had a whole afternoon to spend in Huanchaco before our bus out and considered going to visit the other ruins. But I didn’t feel like especially after the disappointment of the second ruins yesterday. Plus the last two sites were a long way from the hostel and equally as far from each other so seeing them would probably require a taxi ride which we hoped to avoid. Adrian was happy to enjoy the free internet at the hostel so we had a quiet afternoon kicking around the hostel. But both of us were looking forward to authentic curry from the place down the road. Of course, when we turned up, the hostel was in the midst of a power outage and the owner apologized that the curry was prepared but not cooked yet. He hoped to have it ready in a couple of hours though but unfortunately for us we had a bus to catch. He told us that there was a tasty place next door where we could get good cheap local food. And his description was bang on – we spent about $5 for the two of us and got huge bowls of veggie soup, a Peruvian chicken curry called pollo saltado, rice and fries. We were stuffed and satisfied and it was a nice feeling. As we were settling up our bill, a stray dog came sauntering into the café. The owners told us that the dog was lost and they were trying to find the owner but weren’t having any luck. And as we walked out, the dog followed us. We tried to send it back to the café but it wasn’t cooperating. A woman approached us asking us if we knew who’s dog it was and in Spanglish I tried to explain the situation. In the middle of our tortured conversation a couple appeared calling out the dog’s name. The puppy immediately ran to them and all over them – family and dog were reunited. It was the perfect way to end our time in Huanchaco and we hoped this would be the turning point for our Peruvian adventure.

Indeed our taxi back to the bus station was half the cost we’d been charged on the way in. And at the bus station we met a nice man who kept Adrian amused while we waited for the bus. The man had been schooled by English speaking Jesuits and was happy to practice the English they’d taught him. And he was the kinesiologist for the Huaraz soccer team so he was just as happy to talk sports. Just as pleasant was our bus ride since we had managed to grab the first seats in the front of the bus – so we had plenty of leg room and a great view (until the attendant made me close the curtain for the night). The only bad thing about the bus was that the one dvd they had was Laura Pausini’s greatest hits. Laura who? Well, I’ll politely refer to her as the Italian/Latin Celine Dion and let you come to your own conclusions. Huanchaco had almost made up for our terrible border crossing. We hoped that Huaraz would be just as good to us.

Raise your arm if you like whitewater rafting, if you can.

the river was down in that valley somewhere

Previous to this trip, the closest Adrian and I had ever gotten to whitewater rafter was the Whitewater Canyon ride at Canada’s Wonderland. Our first actual experience had been kinda similar to that – a whole lot of yawn with a bit of a splash – and that was fine. Now Adrian had signed us up for our second experience which he said, with glee, would be in level 4+ rapids. Gulp. I am admittedly rather risk adverse (otherwise known as a complete chicken to all you readers) and Level 4+ meant a big risk of death, dismemberment and all that stuff I’m rather adverse too. After all the stress of the last couple of days, I wasn’t sure I was up for more. But Adrian promised me it would be fun, and since the poor guy hadn’t gotten his chance to paraglide in Colombia I guess I owed him one. My stress was soon relieved when we got to the agency – since we were the only ones going out in the boat we were going to a slightly calmer part of the river. Can you hear me saying phew wherever you are?

The van soon arrived to pick us up for the tour. Inside were the driver, our guide Roy and 3 other local guys who would be filling the spots in the raft. We drove about an hour out of Baños following the river valley to a remote spot. There we were all unloaded and Roy took Adrian and I through all the commands; however he went through them in Spanish. This didn’t help with my nervousness. I didn’t want to have to translate for Adrian in emergency. Sensing my apprehension, Roy switched to English. Much better and much more likely to be understood and obeyed in an emergency

And then we were off.

Adrian and I were sitting at the front of the raft which meant we could always see exactly what was coming up. And let me tell you these rapids were a huge leap from what we had experienced before. This time we were actually expected to pay attention to the instructions and not just row but row hard. The water was cold and as the rapids got bigger and bigger, the less I wanted to find myself in the midst of them. I admit that quite often I stopped paddling and just hung on to the rope for dear life. In the almost hour and a half we were on the river I saw my whole life flash before my eyes at least 5 times. About halfway done the route, the raft got stuck in the shallows on some rocks and although the water was only ankle deep it was still moving swift enough that there was no chance I was getting out to push. No need to worry though, as the boys jumped out and pushed us off and we continued along the way. I guess Roy saw the fear in my eyes because at one point he asked if I wanted more rapids or less. Although I was scared, I replied more of the same because it was actually fun – much better than the first time.

When we finally arrived back on dry land, I found out we were in the best possible hands. Roy was the captain of the national whitewater rafting team. And the three other guys? They were actually trying out for a place on his team. Pretty cool. The other benefit is that they loaded up all the gear for us too. Back on the road, I saw some road signs and realized that we had traveled almost 30km down the Rio Negro. No wonder my arms were aching. On the way back to Baños we stopped for lunch at a little restaurant – it was a typical almuerzo of soup, chicken, rice and salad and desert. But I was a little confused by the bowl of popcorn. Roy told us to try it in our soup. I looked at him skeptically and then noticed that’s what all the locals were doing. Once I got over the lack of crunch, it was quite tasty. I’m going to have to remember that. The soup and hot lunch was perfect because the sun had been replaced by clouds and drizzle. And it was cold, especially in our damp clothes. But back at the hostel that was fixed with a long hot shower.

We headed over to the hostel next door to take advantage of their wifi (it’s okay we were allowed). As I tried using my arms to type, I became aware of new muscles that I’d overexerted during our white water adventures – like seriously aware of. My right arm in particular was so sore that within an hour I couldn’t barely move it. I couldn’t decided if it was the paddling for dear life or the holding on for dear life, whatever it is I’m in severe pain. So I put the computer away and Adrian and I chatted to an older American guest. He told us his robbery. Just the month before he’d been mugged in Quito just outside the door to his hostel. The thieves hit him over the head with a lead pipe, nearly killing him. He was okay now. But his story made me realize just how lucky we actually were. We weren’t so lucky when he told us that he had his credit cards hand delivered to him the next day. Please Canadian credit card companies, do something about this. But the moral of his story, was keep on traveling. If you stop, then the thieves really have won.

Dipping our toes in the river.

While we were in Panama debating whether or not to go to Colombia, CNN international helped make up our mind. Colombia Tourism had made a heavy media buy. And every commercial break we were treating to the ad which declared “Colombia – the only risk is wanting to stay”. As you know, we decided to take that risk but with a hopelessly out-of-date guidebook that didn’t say much about Colombia (except not to go), we didn’t really know what to do or where to go. But with the help of fellow travelers and bloggers, we were slowly plotting our way south to Ecuador. In fact we were in San Gil on the advice of Jillian and Danny who gave it the big thumbs up. Of course, they’re completely crazy adreniline junkies, and San Gil is a hot bed for adventure sports. And Adrian and I? well, we’re a bit more ahem, risk-adverse, but here we were in the adventure sport capital so I guess we were going to have to try something.

After our late night, we weren’t in a hurry to get out of bed and then to leave the hostel, let alone do something wild and crazy. So we spent the rest of the morning chatting with the other guests and taking pictures of the view from our window (photo above). The hostel was one of the most social we’d stayed in so there were plenty of opportunities to get pointers from others. Of course most of these conversations involved talking about which wild and crazy activity they had done and which one they were doing next. It was enough to finally convince me to try one of the activities. I consulted the bookings board and book. Bungee jumping? Not a chance. Paragliding? I don’t think so. Waterfall repelling or canyoning? Rushing water and sharp rocks, I think I’ll pass. Which left white water rafting. Now most people do the Class IV-V rapids up here. But as a complete beginnger, I wanted to start off easy. Shaun, the owner, helped us book a Class II beginner’s outing at 3pm, letting us know that it would just be us.

That gave us some time to kill, so we went three doors down for some breakfast. And then spent the rest of the afternoon chatting to various folks. Two Aussie girls, Lauren and Jo, decided to join us on the whitewater rafting. They were old pros looking for a rush but they were too late for the trips to the bigger rapids. Plus the beginners’ trip was super cheap (about $10). At 3pm we piled into a taxi which took us on a crazy ride down the river to meet the raft and guide. I’m sure my knuckles made dents in the dashboard from where I gripped on for dear life. Not exactly, the calm I needed before the dip in the water. But we did arrive at the raft in one piece.

We met our guide Jaime and his friend who was going to follow along. We were given our safety gear and then Jaime gave us a quick lesson in the different strokes and the orders he’d be using. Luckily Lauren and Jo had done this before. And then it was time to get on the water which was really really cold. That gave me yet a good reason for wanting to stay in the boat, well that and not wanting to drown or break my head on the rocks. But I needn’t have worried, the river ride was really tame with the majority of the hour spent floating between rapids. It was still fun and just the right amount of excitement for nervous me (sorry no pictures). And thanks to Jo and Lauren it was fun too. Jo even jumped into the river to try hydrospeeding (essentially white water rafting without the raft) but was happy to get back in the boat and out of the cold water.

The trip ended when the raft stopped in the botanical gardens in town from where we walked back to the hostel, dripping through the streets of San Gil. Jo and Lauren said good bye and headed to their hostel and Adrian and I changed and headed out for 3 courses of food for $5 at El Maña. It was almost two much food which made walking back uphill to the hostel a little difficult. Rather than head out for a night of debauchery, Adrian and I stayed in (quel surprise) in preparation for our next day’s exciting activities.

Let’s play ball.

Leon was surrounded by volcanos and one of the popular things to do was sand boarding down the volcanic sand on one of those peaks. Big Foot was the place to book those tours but we weren’t in the mood to go hiking up a volcano nor sliding down it, particularly when we saw who was going on the tour that day. A group of young loud girls carrying matching Coach purses arrived at the hostel as we were eating breakfast. “So, like, do you speak English ” to co-owner Gemma (from Birmigham, England). They were too loud in that teenager sort of way – hoping people were listening to them, but having nothing interesting to say – as they waited for the tour van to arrive. They poked around the hostel gingerly, looking down their nose and saying “oh this is those places were those people who travel a long time stay.” And taking out a camera to document their experience. They touched things gingerly and stared at all the guests as if we were animals in the zoo. What these girls were doing in Nicaragua was a mystery.

We asked Gemma what else there was to do in the town. She understood our reluctance to go on the volcano tour with the designer princesses and suggested a baseball game instead.

“They’re crazy about baseball here,” Gemma continued, “it’s really fun.”

I was skeptical. Baseball is internationally ridiculed as one of the most boring sports. But for a Brit to suggest it would be fun day swayed me. When in Leon…

Out on the street I flagged down a cab. There was already a woman in it but it was normal for people to share cabs and it meant that the ride was only 15C each for us, or less than a dollar. When the driver found out we were going to the baseball game, he became very excited. He sang the praises of the Leon Leones team (that’s the Lion Lions, in English). And predicted that Leon was going to thrash the other team Norte Atlantica. His reasoning? Pacific teams were infinitely better than Caribbean ones. This rivalrly goes back hundreds of years when the Caribbean coast of Nicaragua was separate from the rest of the country. It was under British rule while the Pacific side was Spanish. Our cab driver was Spanish and apparently had not heard that Nicaragua had been a united country for a long time.

I guess rivalries die hard. Especially when they concern the country’s favourite sport. Our driver told us that Leon were the national champions and the best team in Central America. When he found out we were Canadian, he began going on about the Montreal Expos (I’m not sure he knew that they were RIP) and a local hero who played with them. He also began naming other Nicaraguan players that played in Big Leagues. Being a non-baseball fan I recognized none of them but didn’t have the heart to admit it. He let us off at the stadium and regretted he wasn’t able to join us, giving Adrian a thumbs up (how did he know about his signature pose) as he drove away. Nicaraguan taxi drivers sure are different from Honduran ones.

We bought our general admission somber (shade) tickets (20C each = just over $1) and found seats behind first base. The fame had already started but the stands were still filling up. Although it was just after 10 there was plenty of beer for sale and many people were partaking. Many also had large bottles of rum that they were pouring into cups of ice. At first it was like any other baseball game, that is kind of boring. But as the stands filled up and more was drunk, it became a lot of fun.

The crowds were as enthusiastic as the cab driver. And we could see the rowdiest part behind the third base just beside the gated off visitors section. The two sections were trash talking each other but it all appeared good natured. The old English-Spanish division was apparent from the names on the back of the jersey’s (Delgado, Salgado, Muñoz vs. Fox, Campbell and Patterson) but didn’t factor into any of the insults thrown back and forth to each other. Instead, there were a lot of comments about people’s mothers and sexual orientation chanted with the help of a brass section and bass drum sitting in the stands.

After 7 innings, both teams left the field. The score was 3-1 for Leon. We assumed this was some sort of 7th inning stretch minus the cheesy half-time show. But when the players came out again wearing different uniforms and the scoreboard was cleared we realized that it was a doubleheader of two shortened games.

I developed a favourite Leon player, a scrawny guy that appeared to be 12 and just a titch over 5 feet. At first, pitches often went over his head and he was often walked. Adrian and I decided that he was the underdog to root for and imagined him frustrated by the pitches and just waiting to get a pitch he could swing at. Indeed when the pitcher finally threw something at his level, he almost hit a home run – the closest anyone got during the two games.

As the game went on, even the shade was 36 degrees. But the two incredibly drunk guys in front of us kept us super entertained. They alternated between play fighting and demanding sloppy kisses from each other.

When we started to get hungry, we eyed all the vendors trying to decide what to eat. Plantains with cole slaw? Tortillas filled with new cheese, sour cream and onions? Or long skinny deep fried bread? In the end Adrian came back with hot dogs. They were Nicaraguan favourites and went perfectly with the setting.

After 13 innings of baseball my interest began to wane, until a catcher caught a ball in the balls. C'mon that's always entertaining or else why would America's Funniest Home Videos still be on air. It also seemed to reinvigorate the crowd as they hoped one of the teams would score as they went into extra innings. At the top of the 9th, Leon scored for their second win of the morning and the crowd went wild.

We caught a taxi back into town. In the taxi’s rearview mirror I could see that Adrian and I were both burnt despite sitting in the shade. Stupid sun bouncing off the concrete. So we spent the rest of the day at the hostel trying to cool off under the fans with mojitos and giant beers. Luckily the annoying girls from this morning were long gone.

Second verse same as the first.

From everything I had read and heard about La Ceiba, I wasn’t looking forward to heading. Crime. Dirt. Drugs. And all sorts of general ickiness. But it’s a necessary stop to get to Utila so we had to do it. On a positive note, it was supposed to be the start of La Ceiba’s carnival, a week-long celebration and street party and that sounded like fun. So we set off in search of a good time.

A nice air conditioned taxi deposited us at the same gas station we had arrived at and 10 minutes later (and 15 minutes early) the bus pulled up. It was another non-airconditioned coach but with the windows open it was fine. Of course, we had to close the windows when it began to pour (photo above). But without the sun beating down it was still bearable inside. It was a short ride to La Ceiba where we were once again let off beside the highway. I guess they spent all their time and money on the giant bus station in San Pedro Sula and couldn’t afford any others in the rest of the country. And it required us to take a taxi which I might add was cheaper than the ones in Tela for a longer ride. We got out at the first cheap hotel on my list and they had plenty of room and two nights cost less than one night in Tela. Sure there was no air conditioning but we had a powerful fan, tv and private bathroom. Well at least we’re back on budget and that alone makes me like La Ceiba more than Tela. Yay we may be able to afford those scuba lessons after all.

Now it was time to find that street party. Our hotel was just a couple of blocks away from the central park. But since we’re in the English part of Honduras there was no cathedral or other municipal buildings. We found those around the corner. There were decorated for carnival but there didn’t appear to be any street party happening today. There wasn’t much of a beach so we looked at doing some nature tours or staying out of town but as the heat beat down the idea of being outside all day seemed less and less appealing. So we went for ice cream instead.

We headed over the bridge to the more backpacker part of town in search of a place to eat with lots of cooked vegetables. There was supposed to be a Chinese food place there but it was long gone (stupid 5 year old lonely planet). And our options looked limited. Most places were bars or looked really expensive which was weird because the area looked dodgy and not very inviting. After walkin as far on the strip as we dared, we ducked into one of the pricier places. I stuck with baldeas which are a Honduran bean and cheese quesadillas served with pickled veg – tasty. While Adrian went for the fajita and chips which interestingly enough came with a visit to the salad bar. Although, I find a salad bar in an open air restaurant in Central American in a town that has a certain stench, a little suspect. The best I could do was advise him to avoid the lettuce.

While we ate we noticed the bars across the street were suddenly very packed and very noisy not with music but with a football game. In fact every place with a tv was turned to the game including security guard in closed stores. Places without tvs had radios blaring out the play by play action. It was obviously an important match but it also meant that there was no evidence of the carnival that night. Actually, besides the bars everything was shut up tight. So we went back to our room where we watched the game. It was the Honduran championship - Olympia versus Real España. We didn’t know what cities they were from or even where the game was being played but when Olympia scored we could hear all of La Ceiba cheering. But there was to be no satisfaction tonight as the game ended in a 1-1 draw, a lot like our experience so far with La Ceiba.