(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.

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.

Same ocean. Different beach.

If first impressions are everything, Peru was failing miserably. Combined with getting robbed in Ecuador just a few weeks previously our mood was understandably low. But we were hoping that getting out of Mancor and the change of scenery would help fix that. Plus who wants to read about our tales of woe and misery. So the next morning we checked out of the dodgy Sol y Mar hotel and trudged down the strip to catch our bus.

The bus ride was actually two. The first was a two hour ride to Piura where we transferred to another long distance bus that took us all the way to Trujillo. The ride was rather unremarkable and this was a good thing – we didn’t need any more excitement – and we arrived in Trujillo after dark. But we weren’t even staying there. We had decided to stay out in the beach suburb of Huanchaco and now had to figure out how to get there. Luckily there were plenty of Peruvian taxi drivers (now edging out the Hondurans as my least favourite species) to whisk us away. The bus station was nowhere near the one marked on our Lonely Planet map and we had no clue where we were in the city and therefore no clue how to catch the local bus to Huanchaco. So we grudgingly accepted what I knew was an overpriced taxi ride out to the beach town. But it was worth it. After roughing it in Mancora, the La Casa Suisse Hostel was a pleasant surprise. It was clean and comfortable and welcoming. And it was easy to finally exhale and get a good nights’ sleep.

The next morning it was time to find out if the rest of Huanchaco was as nice as the hostel. After catching up on some photo uploading and other boring stuff we headed out, ready to face whatever crap Peru decided to throw at us this time. Luckily Huanchaco was a lot like the hostel. The beach, while less beautiful than Mancora, stretched as far as we could see and was peaceful. There were no touts or hawkers and just a sprinkling of tourists, including a few learning to surf in the smaller waves. There was a large pier (photo above) dotted with locals all trying to catch tonight’s dinner. They were outnumbered by pelicans stalking the fishermen in an attempt to coax some of the fish bait into their mouths. One fisherman was playing with the pelicans – throwing one a large plastic fish-shaped lure and laughing as the greedy pelicans gobbled them up only to spit them out immediately then glaring at the fisherman until he threw him an actual fish.

Huanchaco’s beaches were so long and civilized that we actually wanted to spend time on them. We watched the surfers and then found a woman selling grilled kebabs for about a $1 each. We shared one as we watched the beginner surfers on one side of the pier and the pros in the bigger waves on the other. Adrian was inspired and announced that he wanted to give it a go. So we popped into the nearest surf school (recommended by our hostel) and signed him up for a lesson. Why not me too? Well if I went surfing who would be there to document Adrian’s attempt at getting up? Plus the water wasn’t exactly warm.

In keeping with the new surfing theme, we checked out the original Peruvian surfboards that Huanchaco is famous for. Made out of bundles of reeds they were more boat than board. Originally used by locals to fish off shore but now shuttle daring tourists into the waves for a wet ride. At one time they must have been made of nothing but reeds, but now we noticed a Styrofoam core peeking through the gaps in the reeds. We were offered a ride but passed and instead hit up the skewer lady for a cheap dinner. It was a day of doing nothing but it was just what we needed. Our mood had improved and as the sun set, our hatred of Peru was now more of a dislike.

Same sh*t. Different day.

The only reason we were in Mancora was to have some fun in the sun. of course waking up it was overcast. Well at least we didn’t need to worry about getting a bad burn like Simon’s in this weather. And before you remind me about the dangers of sunburns in overcast skies, I made sure to liberally apply sunscreen. But before we headed out, the Ecuadorian family in the room next to ours stopped us in the hall to warn us that their room had been robbed. Gone were 3 digital cameras, some cash and credit cards. We did our best to be sympathetic and went back into the room to double check that we’d locked all our bags tight. Then it was time to figure out how to get out of Peru as soon as possible. And as cheaply as possible. The first 18 hours of bad experiences in Peru, had us cutting down the amount of time to spend in the country. We decided to skip Chiclayo and head straight to Trujillo. All this and it we hadn’t even had breakfast.

Adrian was hoping that breakfast would be a turning point. Last night at the restaurant he had spotted eggs and sausage on the menu of the Swiss/German/Italian restaurant. Of course, once we were served, he discovered that sausages in this part of the world meant hot dogs. Oh well. It was tasty enough and not too expensive. Plus the owner and his family were really nice. So nice we decided against attempting to pass off our fake notes on them.

Hunger satisfied we walked down the strip in search of a bus out of town the next morning, shaving a day off our planned time here. Getting robbed has a way of speeding up time one wants to spends in a country. Unfortunately most buses were night buses and we weren’t in the mood for that or spending another day here. However, a few more blocks and we found one company that left in the morning. It was relatively cheap and only one transfer point. Adrian used his best Spanglish to grill the clerk about the state of the buses, specifically the availability of a toilet onboard. For the first bus no she replied but the second longer leg would have one on board. And remembering back to our time in Peru in 2005, I reminded him that the buses in Peru were much nicer than those we’d been on so far. I also reminded him that Peru was nicer than what we’d experienced yesterday too. He vaguely remembered those happier times and laid off the woman – much to her relief.

Now it was time to visit what we were here for – the beach. It was long and wide but still full of people and horses. The good news was now the sun was out. It was kind of like Tulum (but cheaper, finally one good thing to say about Peru). The water was beautiful and relaxing so we decided to treat ourselves to mojitos as we watched some surfers. We attempted to pay for our drinks with the fake bills but before the server had them in her hand she regretted to inform us that our money was fake. I wish I knew what it was that they could see all those from a mile away that identified them as fake because we’d certainly like those skills. Oh well, we’ll keep trying to get rid of them but maybe a little further away from the border.

Once we were suitably baked and the sun began to slip below the horizon we walked down the beach to check out the surfers and then back to the hotel to change before going out for dinner. Tomorrow we were leaving but it still didn’t feel soon enough. The further we got from the border area the happier we’d be.

New country. New scams.

Our new souvenirs. Fake money.

Today we were headed to the border - our 9th for those of you keeping count. It was going to be a 9+ hour trip so we got up bright and early hoping to arrive in Peru way before it got dark. The great thing about getting up early at a hostel that was also a bar was there was plenty of hot water in the showers. The bad thing? The staff was still sleeping so there was no breakfast until 9am. So we waited an hour until the kitchen opened and hoped that there was a later bus that got us where we needed to go.

We caught a taxi to the bus station. As we pulled in I noticed banners announcing a new direct service to Mancora, Peru. The bus company was having some sort of launch party with balloons and music and food. According to the sign, we’d just missed the 9am bus but the next one was at 10:45. A little late but at least it would be direct. Unfortunately, because of today’s festivities there was no 10:45 bus and the next one wasn’t until 3pm. So we set off to find another bus to take us to the border town where we could catch another bus from the Peruvian sides. That one was leaving in 15 minutes. Perfect – okay we wouldn’t have the luxury of getting all the way there but we’d get there much earlier.

We drove through the mountains from pine forests, to desert, and finally to the coast. The bus got to the border town and let us off just outside at the passport station about 4km outside of town. Unfortunately, the ayudante told us the bus couldn’t wait for us but he told us that when we were done we could catch transportation to the actual border here. Immediately, a guy pounced on us. He offered us a taxi ride to the border for $1.50. Sounded like a deal and much better than carrying our heavy bags in the sun. He walked with us across the highway to the immigration office where we were stamped out of Ecuador. And when we stepped out, our new friend was waiting with a taxi. A few minutes later we were let off in the middle of the town which appeared to be some sort of crazy black market. It was pure chaos and we were glad we had someone to help us navigate the chaotic stalls to the bridge to Peru which was hidden in the midst of it all.

But first we had to change our American dollars into Peruvian money. We stopped at one of the many money changers and he offered almost the actual exchange rate so we said goodbye to dollars and hello to soles. We thanked our friend and gave him a S10 tip for then walked across the bridge. We were unofficially in Peru – unofficially because just like on the Peruvian side the actual immigration office was a few kilometers outside of town and in between was another black market of all sorts of goods even crazier than the Ecuadorian side. Soon we were pounced on by another guy offering us a collectivo ride to Tumbes for S30 (that’s Soles not dollars), including a stop at the immigration office. Hmm. We stopped to consider it. On one hand it was more than we really wanted to pay. On the other, it was a whole lot easier than catching a moto taxi to the immigration office and then to the highway where we’d have to catch a collectivo to Tumbes to catch another collectivo to to our transfer to Mancora. So I asked 3 times about the price and made sure it was the price for both and then decided to go for it.

The man then directed us to his friend’s car. This wasn’t a collectivo but a man trying to make a few bucks on the side. No harm in that I guess. The three of us got in with the driver and were immediately whisked away to the Peruvian immigration post a small hut 2km out of town on the highway. That was over 6km between check points – no wonder there was a thriving black market around here. We hopped out of the car and were quickly stamped in. Now it was time to get back in the car. About 200 metres from the border

The man directed us to his friend’s car. Aha this was just a man trying to make a few bucks on the side. And we got in – first stop the Peruvian immigration about 2km. Peru and Ecuador have a very loose border apparently. We got stamped in without any trouble and then got back in the car. About 200 metres from the border post, the driver turned to us and told us that going to Tumbes was too far and he was going to drive us to the collectivo stop on the highway. Oh great, another scam. I told him (actually I may have yelled at him, being sick of getting scammed every time we got into a car). He told us no and emphasized that he was only going to the collectivo post. I told him to stop the car and jumped out intent on getting away from the scammer jammers. Adrian however wasn’t paying attention and stayed in the car thwarted my great escape plan. The original negotiator however took the chance to make his own escape. With Adrian and our bags still in the car, I was forced to get back in and continue arguing with the driver. Now he agreed to drive us to Tumbes but the price changed. It was no longer 30 for both but 30 for each. And he now said 30 dollars not 30 soles because the trip was 37km away. I told him no and called him a thief and a liar. I told him no, repeated the original price we had negotiated on and told him to stop asking for dollars because we had none. He eventually backed down from $60 to S60 to take us all the way to Tumbes. I was furious with being double crossed yet again. And spent the rest of the ride swearing at him in English and cursing Peru the entire way.

We arrived in Tumbes 20 minutes later (definitely not 37 km). Now that the car was stopped I told him we’d only pay him S50. He eagerly accepted that and gave us our bags – his easy agreement just highlighted the scam. There was no misunderstanding between the two men or between us – it was just the old bait and switch. Adrian handed him a bunch of small bills and then it was off to find our transportation to Mancora. We bypassed the bus stations and headed to the actual collectivos. A taxi driver told us it was going to be S27 and tried to convince us to go with him but I just ignored him. And when we got to the collectivo, indeed the price was only S6 – much better. We got on and enjoyed the ride down the coast.

Our first impressions of Mancora were not great. The town was really just a giant strip of shops and cafes along the Panamerican. – and all of them ugly. The driver let us off in front of the ugliest one – the Sol y Mar hotel that we had chosen to stay at. He then demanded an extra S2 for taking us down the strip. Grr. Sure it was only 60 cents but already this constant scamming was wearing thin. The hotel didn’t get better when we stepped in. It was cheap and cheerless although it was right on the beach. But after the taxi scam we needed to recoup some of our money. I checked out two rooms then chose the sunnier one which was S40/night and payment was demanded upfront. Adrian pulled out a S100 note to pay. The clerk shook his head and pointing to the note said “Es falso”. Adrian pulled out another S100 note. “Es falso tambien.” Then a S50 and another S50 and another S50. Yup that was right. With the exception of the 10s and 20s (most of which were now in the hands of the scammer jammer taxi driver), the money we’d gotten at the border was fake. So not only had the taxi driver ripped us off and the collectivo driver as well but the money changer had too probably in cahoots with our “friend” on the Ecuadorian side. In total, we lost almost $150 in the exchange (photo above). But it explained why the driver wanted American cash. I almost screamed in frustration. The clerk pulled out some real notes so we could feel and see the difference – I can’t say I noticed much – but he could tell a mile away. An old lady standing nearby asked what was wrong and the clerk told her that we had S300 in fake money she tutted and shook her head but was at least sympathetic. However the clerk wouldn’t even give us the room key until he had some money. Luckily there was a bank machine across the street, so Adrian got some real cash out and paid for the room. We were now thoroughly bummed and hating Peru.

Walking down the strip didn’t help much either. Mancora’s only redeeming feature was the beach. Everything else was dirty and dusty and aimed at the tourist pocket book. And let me stress once again that it was an ugly town. After checking out all the menus we ended up at an Italian restaurant run by a German-speaking Swiss guy for the S10 pasta and drink special and S12 for 3 large beers. The food was good even if the town and the country so far was shit. Oh yeah and it was our wedding anniversary.

Taxi off to Taganaga

We were in no rush to leave the air conditioned comfort of La Brisa Loca. Perhaps because I was a little apprehensive about doing more dive lessons, not surprising considering how round one had gone. However, for the advanced diving certification there were no mask skills, which should have eased my nerves. But Adrian really wanted to do the night dive option.

As I mentioned before Jaws really scared (and scarred) me. And what is the first scene in Jaws? A randy couple goes for a night swim in the ocean and are attacked by Jaws. So perhaps you’ll understand why the ocean at night is one of my fear factors and why I was in no hurry to head over to the dive school to begin facing that fear. So we hung around La Brisa swimming in the pool and taking advantage of the wifi. I even tried to close the gap on this blog, because I knew once we were in school I’d fall behind again.

Melissa and Graham were also taking it easy – perhaps because they’d had no sleep since they’d arrived. They were some of the unfortunate souls in the dorm room next to the bar – the dorm room with a big open wall that faced the bar’s speakers. And they couldn’t even complain to the owners, because the owners had taken off with the single girls in the hostel to go party in Taganga. It was the Independence Day party weekend and Taganga was the party town and the hostel guys were partiers. For the old fart in me that was another reason to stay in Santa Marta until the last minute – navigating through throngs of drunk gringos is not my thing. Instead hung out with Melissa and Graham and chatted to the ever chipper Ollie. Ollie was by far more awesome than any of the yahoos running the place. Not only was he super helpful but he made a point to remember every guests name and their story so he felt like an immediate friend. Even anti-social Adrian liked hanging out with him.

But alas it was time to go. So we settled the bill and headed to the main street to catch a taxi. While the bus would have been cheaper, there would have been no room for our backpacks. The taxi also gave us better view of Taganga as we came down the mountain road (photo above). It actually reminded me of pictures of Greece, y’know that famous island where everything is white and blue and on a cliff over looking the sea. But with the cacti on the hillsides there was a little bit of Mexico thrown in. Whatever, it looked pretty darn beautiful from up above (too bad it was a bit less attractive at eye level).

At the dive school we were met and shown our rooms and given our books. The accommodations were nice and not just because they were free. There was a spotless kitchen with free bags of water (oh ya, I forgot to talk about the bags of water. In Colombia and other Latin American countries, you don’t buy a bottle of water you buy a bag. Less plastic used so I’m hoping they are better for the environment). Gerd was out diving with another group so we settled in and began reading all about our advanced dives. And once again, the listing of the worst case scenarios (this time all about the bends and exploding lungs) did nothing for my nerves. There were about 5 other students staying at the dive school and all were very friendly. As the advanced students, we were the diving veterans (I know, it made me laugh too) although rather than allay any fears I think Adrian may have freaked out a couple of girls by telling them about my mask skill disaster. Good thing, Rona, the Irish girlfriend of one of the divemasters was there to ease their nerves – and mine too. Having lived in Taganga for the last 2 years she also had some great suggestions for dinner. So we slipped out, had a bite and then called it a night because tomorrow morning we were diving at 8am.

Getting used to new maps.

It was now time to move on from Cartagena and since our guidebook was pretty useless we were basing our next destination on what other travelers had suggested. So we were heading towards the beach town of Taganga and the Tayrona National Park. Matt recommended we do our advanced diving there and Geoff said he loved Taganga. However, when we went to look for a place to stay, we weren’t having any luck and there were a few mixed reviews about the town itself – describing it as a dirty, dusty, gringo village. So we decided to stay just 5 kms away in the bigger city of Santa Marta. The hostel we found there had just opened a couple of months ago and looked pretty fancy. Plus they responded almost immediately and were very helpful with how to get to Santa Marta.

The hostel had recommended the express shuttle rather than the public bus so that morning we were off. Adrian thought he had a read that the trip took only 2 hours. But 3 hours in and we were barely halfway there according to our map. And it became apparent that he still had to work on his Spanish. It also became apparent that we needed to learn some new map reading skills. We had moved from the Lonely Planet Central America on a Shoestring guide to Central America to the Lonely Planet South America on Shoestring guide. And although the maps looked the same the scale was much different. Santa Marta looked just next door but this was South America and just next door on the map ended up meaning over 5 hours away on the dusty sea side highway. Gulp. What did this mean for those places that looked a lot further away? I guess we’d find out soon enough.

The shuttle let us off two blocks away from the hostel but it might as well have been miles away in the heat. Santa Marta was just as hot as Cartagena. And like Cartagena, the landscape was desert despite being right on the sea – there was obviously no rainy season here. Yet it was also very humid. And by the time we arrived at the door of the hostel we were drenched with sweat. It was an oasis after the some of the places we’d been in over the last 4 months. Clean and new and our room had air conditioning. The rooms on the lower floor were still being built but the top floor with rooms and bathrooms as well as the swimming pool (yes swimming pool) were up and running. The hostel was run by a bunch of young American and Aussie guys. I didn’t really see or meet them because they were too busy chatting up and partying with the single girls in the hostel - not totally cool.

Thankfully, there were a couple of workers who were friendlier and happy to help us out. One guy heavily suggested that we do our advanced diving in Taganga especially if we wanted to dive in the Galapagos. “Plus,” he said, “there’s not much else to do in Taganga except party with other gringos”.

The other guy had even more tips. Ollie, was a Brit who’d been traveling around Colombia for the last couple of months, and hadn’t even made it to Cartagena or Medellin. But he had lots to share about the south. We learned the bus crossing into Ecuador was easy and safe and he gave us a couple of other places to check out when we got closer to the border. Of course, we still had to figure out how we were going to get to the border. It was a long, long way as we were quickly learning.

Although the night in Santa Marta felt cooler and breezier than Cartagena we were still glad to have paid the extra $5 for the air conditioning. Not only did it cool us down it helped block out the music from the bar that kept going way past 12. The next day I discovered it was the party animal owners who kept the music going – oblivious to the door rooms located within ear shot. The hostel was really nice – but I wasn’t sure it was going to last with these frat boys running it. So we took full advantage of it, using the wifi to do some blog updates and research our route through Colombia.

In the afternoon, we decided to head to Taganga to look into diving prices and check out the town to see if it’s as bad as the one guy lead us to believe. The local bus was easy and just a 15 minute ride up over the mountain that separates the two towns. Although there’s a lot more that separates them. Santa Marta is a city and Tagaga is a tiny village. As we got off the bus, we were facing three dive shops. The rest of the town looked like a mixture of hostels and cafes with no evidence that any Colombians actually lived there. It really was a town full of gringos. Interesting.

We popped into the dive shop with which we had an affiliation (i.e. discount). Not only was the price right but the dive centre looked awesome – lots of new equipment and facilities far better than anything we’d seen in Utilla. Even the room and shared bathroom was great and included in the price of the course. So we decided to come back tomorrow and start the next day. The only issue was which dives Adrian and I would do as part of our advanced dive. Me being the scaredy cat was not looking forward to some of the options. Gerd, the diving instructor, told us there was no rush and to think about it over night. With that out of the way, Adrian and I decided to hit Taganga’s beach.

Hmm, unlike the dive centre, the beach was far from impressive. It was packed with people and filthy rather than sandy and the water didn’t look much better. In fact the beach in Santa Marta (photo above) looked like paradise in comparison. Oh well, maybe we’d just read under a tree, except for the small fact that there were no trees or shady bits. We were just about ready to turn back to Santa Marta when someone said hello.

It was Tamara from the bus on Ometepe!

We headed to a beach side café for a beverage and to catch up. Her boyfriend had gone back to Australia and she was back to traveling by herself. Well not quite. Tamara met people wherever she went. Just walking to the table, she had to stop a couple of times to talk to people she knew. How does she do that socializing thing? She’ll have to give us some pointers. In the next couple of days she was off to do the Ciudad Perdida trek which was the same 6 days through the jungle that Geoff had done. Then she was going to check out Cartagena and San Gil. She had to go drop off her payment for the trek so she walked us to the bus stop but not before stopping to talk to a couple of other people she knew, one of whom was tending to a nasty gash in his foot that he got walking along the dirty beach. Told you it was gross. On the main street, the bus was waiting. Of course Tamara knew folks on the bus too. She’s unbelievable. So we said goodbye or more importantly hasta luego because we know we’ll see her again or at least people who know her.

Back at the hostel decided to cool off with a dip in the pool. Lovely and just what we needed. Talked with English couple Rory and Emma who are just here for a couple of weeks and an American couple Melissa and Graham who were on their way around the world. Rory and Emma were off for a night of fun and frivolity with friends at a salsa club. We decided to stay in and have some of the BBQ the Aussies were cooking up and hang out with the rest of the folks at the hostel. We weren’t seeing much of the town but we were having a great time.

Going to the dogs.

Grey skies – not exactly what you want when you’re hanging out on a deserted island in the Caribbean. Unfortunately, that was what we woke up to. But thankfully, the rain that poured down all night had stopped. Our mood wasn’t improved by breakfast which was a meager half of a hamburger bun with fried egg. Nick and Ariane had wisely brought a shopping bag full of groceries with them and shared their milk with us which at least made the instant coffee more palatable. Negro had said he’d come after breakfast to pick us up for our snorkeling tour but when he didn’t arrive in the hour after breakfast, we all began to think that the weather may have caused him to rethink it.

The sun threatened to come out so Adrian and I picked through the snorkel gear to find a couple of sets and headed out from the beach to see what the reef was like just off shore. We swam past the sea grass, and then the garbage and finally reached the coral and fish. It wasn’t bad for being only 20 metres from shore. And on the way back we had to navigate through a school of hundreds of thousands of tiny grey fish which was pretty neat. Back on shore I told Nick and Arianne to give it a go. Just as they were coming back, Negro arrived. We rounded up the rest of our snorkeling gear, as well as Britt and Gunn and headed out.

Negro dropped us off at Isla de Perro, a large sandy island (photo above) with a volleyball net, small snack shop and many tourists already there. We had to pay $1 to visit which none of us had, assuming we were just going snorkeling. Negro instead paid for us and told us we could pay him when we got back to our huts. He said he’d come back for us later and we’d be back in time for lunch. We stopped him and asked about the snorkeling and he pointed out to a dark shape in the water. That was the barco esconditio. The island was beautiful but not quite what we were expecting.

Oh well, Adrian and I grabbed our snorkel gear and swam towards the dark shadow. We weren’t expecting much and were shocked by what we saw. The boat was a 60-metre ship that had obviously been underwater for decades. It was thoroughly incrusted with beautiful coral and absolutely teeming with fish. It.was.awesome. We immediately called to the other 4 and told them get out here. After an hour of swimming around it we were all a little hungry and thirsty. Despite’s Negro’s assurance before he left that we could put things on a tab and then pay him back later, the little hut didn’t offer much. Nick and Arianne shared one of their stash of granola bars with all of us which helped stave off the hunger. To get my mind off of the lack of food and water, I went back out to the ship although by this time it was crawling with newly arrived visitors, some of whom were ignorantly walking and climbing on the coral. I couldn’t take that anymore and headed back to shore just as Negro appeared on the horizon. I informed the other 5 and before Negro had even pulled the boat up to the beach we were already in it, hungry and ready to go back. The beach was lovely but since none of us were prepared for it we were just as anxious to leave.

Back at Iron, we all ran to the picnic table and had our utensils in hand ready to eat. It was 2 and breakfast had been at 7:30 so we were starving. After last nights hot dogs and this mornings tiny sandwiches we weren’t hopeful. One of Oneida’s daughters brought out a plate of chicken and rice which we all dug into. There was complete silence as we gobbled it down – except for Adrian who decided to educate us all on the glory and versatility of the humble spud versus boring rice. I was glad the rest of the table was laughing because after 12 years of hearing it, it was old news to me. He continued his ruminations, proposing that while we were all roughing it out here, our host Kuna family was on the other side of the island with wifi, satellite tv and freezers full of ice cream and chocolate.

The rest of the afternoon was spent doing nothing. Reading. Lounging. Sunning. Although not in that order as the clouds came back later in the afternoon. Adrian and Nick bored the rest of us with their three hour conversation on music. Nick was a musician which meant Adrian was in heaven talking about the most underrated hits of the 80s. Thankfully, they stopped when dinner was brought out. Actually we all stopped. For our last dinner, they staff wowed us with two huge platters of crab. We tried to figure out what sort of crab produced claws as big as our fists but gave up and just dug in. There was even dessert, another platter but this one was full of pineapple. Finally we had a meal that left us truly stuffed. As the dishes were cleared away, Ricardo brought us back to reality reminded Adrian, Britt, Gunn and I that Negro would be picking us up tomorrow morning 7:30-ish to take us back to the mainland. But his wife stepped in and said “siete en punto” as she cleared away the dishes. Yikes. 7am sharp. That was an early start.

It was now time to settle our bills. And even though Ariane and Nick have a decent understanding of Spanish, it was rather confusing. Particularly when Adrian reminded me that we paid a $10 deposit back at the hostel. Unfortunately Ricardo had no clue about that nor does he have change for the Norwegian girls and us. But he promises that tomorrow we’d get it from Negro when he brought us to the mainland. As for our deposit, that was beyond any of our translation capabilities. But it worked out okay because Ricardo had done the calculations wrong and undercharged us. So the $10 was their money anyway.

As we finished our drinks by candlelight again, we said goodbye to Nick and Arianne who begged off from the early wake up call. We also got a chance to say goodbye to Frank and one of his offspring when they made an appearance in our room. I said goodbye to them by tossing them out of the room.

What’s Spanish for brakes?

The alarm went off at stupid o’clock, unaffectionately known as 4am. Thanks to our trip to the grocery store we had some cereal for breakfast and then dragged our butts to reception carrying just our day packs with just enough stuff for our two night getaway. There was another couple waiting whom I recognized from a few days ago before they had had to relocate to a nearby hotel when they forgot to reserve their room for enough nights. There was also a group of Israelis ready to head out too. Downstairs there were two white 4x4s waiting for us one driven by a super energetic lady named Judy. She hustled Adrian and I into her jeep and then drove off with the other driver claiming that we were his.

We got about a block away when Judy got a phone call that made her do a crazy u-turn and head back to the hostel.
“I’m sorry I don’t what is going on. I’m the driver for your island but you have to go with the other guy.” She said to us via the rearview mirror, while talking in the cell phone, steering and shifting at the same time.

I was kind of glad we were going with the other driver as Judy scared me. But this didn’t bode well for the beginning of our journey (although I was too tired to care). In the new SUV I was lucky enough to get the front seat while Adrian was squeezed into the back with the gaggle of Israelis. My relief at being with a sane driver disappeared when he shot off and barreled down the dark streets of Panama then on to the expressway east in record time.

I was amazed that even at this stupid early hour there were long lineups of locals waiting for buses at the side of the road. The day really does begin and end with the sunrise and sunset for these folks. I drifted off to sleep and woke up about an hour later when we pulled up to a little fonda (no not bridget or jane, but a hole in the wall shack café on the side of the highway) for some coffee. Then it was back on the highway that soon dwindled into a pothole-ridded road. And by potholes, I mean giant pits, which our driver preferred to swerve around without slowing down. That meant a lot of flying back and forth inside the vehicle but amazingly none of us got car sick.

We turned off the highway onto a gravel road that slowly (well fastly, at the speed our driver was going) turned into a dirt road and then mud road as me headed up and over the mountains of Panama’s continental divide. The road was very twisty and treacherous but our driver’s preferred technique for handling it was going as fast as possible downhill so he could use the momentum to get up the next hill. At one point there was a truck in front of us that couldn’t make it up a hill and we almost rear-ended it. Our driver reversed at full speed to give the other driver room. It was just as scary as any roller coaster and I wished I knew how to ask “where are the brakes” in Spanish.

The road became worse the further we went. But we got to catch our breath when we stopped to pay our Kuna tax of $6 each as we entered the Kuna Yala territory. Then it was back on the death road through the jungle for another hour and half ride which even involved driving across a river. I was relieved when the road suddenly became paved only to realize we were now on a runway of a small airport that looked like it hadn’t been used in years, except perhaps by drug runners. We pulled up to the small terminal at the end of the runway where lots of other travelers were waiting all looking similarly green in the face after their ride in. The terminal apparently was now the dock for the boat transfers to the island.

As we waited for our boat to whisk us away to Iron (ee-rone), our driver told us that he had to take us to another port further in the jungle. So we reluctantly got back in the truck. The trek was a short one to the banks of a river where a few boats and about 15 other travelers were waiting including the American couple from this morning. Judy was also there yelling instructions – I don’t know what coffee she drinks in the morning, actually I do so I can avoid it. She came up to us and once again apologized for the confusion. Our boat was there but the Americans’ luggage wasn’t; it was still making the trek on another SUV. Eventually after an hour of farting about it arrived and we got on the small 12 person lancha with 10 other folks. Most got off at the stops along the way, leaving just us and the American couple who were also headed to Iron which apparently was the furthest west of all the islands.

We flew across the water, eventually slowing down as we approached a tiny palm tree covered island with a handful of huts dotted on the white sand. As the boat curved around to the other side, the Kuna family living on the island ran out to greet us. The women wore red skirts, and what looked like leg warmers until I realized that they were beaded leg wrappings. We learned that Iron was the name of the owner and the older woman greeting us was Oneida (spelling a guess)his wife. There were also countless kids and other members of the extended family who lived in the huts we had seen on the other side of the island. On this side was where they housed us visitors. There were four huts, all basic but with a comfy bed and wooden floor. Woohoo. The bathroom was a toilet in a hut that had to be flushed by pouring water down the bowl, and the shower, well the shower was something we didn’t get introduced to. No worries we changed into our bathing suits and jumped in the water just steps from our hut. From the water we got a clear view of the rest of island including another grouping of basic huts where we spotted Matt from the Canal bus stop. He told us the accommodation at that end was really basic – sand floors and no bedding. But he didn’t care it was cheap and the view (photo above) was priceless.

Soon we were called for lunch where Adrian and I met the other 4 people staying with us. The American couple were Nick and Arianne from Portland. And the two others already on the island were Britt and Gunn two girls from Norway. While chowing on our rice and fish, Ricardo introduced himself to us. He was Iron’s best friend (and brother-in-law) and looking after us while Iron was in Panama City. He also formally introduced us to our boat captain, Negro who told us he was going to take us out tomorrow on a boat tour to some other islands. We all asked for a good snorkeling place and he told us he know the best place that has a barco escondito – or sunken boat. It sounded amazing we just hoped we didn’t mean an old lancha on a sand bar.

After lunch we went back in the water but soon the weather changed and the clouds looked quite fierce so we decided to read. Well I decided to read. Adrian went nosing around the island and found out that Oneida’s daughters had two kittens in one of the hut which he immediately demanded that he play with. They were pretty darn cute and we cooed like idiots as we held them and posed for pictures with them until dinner.

At exactly 6:30 we were served dinner which was hot dogs and rice. Good thing we had a box of sangria with us. We shared it with the 4 others - it was my postponed birthday after all - and enjoyed the evening sitting at the table chatting by candlelight. Britt and Gunn had arrived the day before and assured us the food had been better. But they also warn us about the cockroaches that come out after dark. I wasn’t really bothered – unlike sand flies and mosquitos they don’t bite me. But Arianne was freaked out. To make her feel better, Nick decided to give the cockroaches a name. From now on we were to call all of them Frank. Well Frank (or one of his many children all named Frankie or Francesca) popped up on the thatch roof near the picnic table as well as in the toilets. However as it became pitch black we lost sight of Frank and every one chilled until 10pm when we decided to pack it all in for the night. After the crazy trip out here, we had finally found the brakes.

Rainy days in Bocas always get me down.

it never got better than this.

“Just when I thought I was out they pull me back in” that was the way I felt at the moment. I thought I’d cleared up the stomach bug after the visit to the hospital in Cahuita. But I was still suffering. And for those of you keeping count, it had been over a week – otherwise known a really long freaking time to be throwing up. I did a little investigation and found out that the antibiotics I was taking had the same side effects as the stomach virus. I also discovered that I had been given two rounds. So I stopped taking them once I finished the first round and crossed my fingers that the grossness would stop.

The good thing was that the lack of appetite was keeping our food budget way, way down. The bad thing is that it meant I couldn’t meet up with the friend of the friend who’d given us so many amazing tips about Bocas. It also meant we couldn’t enjoy most of the things she suggested we do. But even if I had been 100%, the weather was in on the conspiracy. It was absolute crap. Since we got off the boat three days ago it had been pouring constantly. Not the best thing when you’re in a beach town/Caribbean island. Grr.

All this icky stuff really hadn’t done much to improve my opinion about Bocas. And since the other islands were beach islands too there was no point in moving. But rather than dwell on the lemons, we decided to make lemonade. Since the weather was wet, we’d go scuba diving.

We headed out to the dive centre we’d visited previously and signed up to go out the next afternoon. Since it was my first time going out after certification so I was nervous. An email from the friend of the friend didn’t help. She let me know that the swell was coming in tomorrow morning. I had no idea what that meant but she explained that that was the reason for the crappy weather and meant that the sea was going to be quite rough tomorrow. Gulp.

Calling in sick.

Looking at the date on this post you may be thinking that you’ve missed a day here. Well actually four days to be exact. But you’re not – I am. I didn’t expect to miss those days. In fact when we woke up Saturday morning, we started to plan what to do. Another day trip to a indigenous chocolate farm or perhaps to the other beach. But almost as soon as those words came out of my mouth, I was rushing to the washroom where I was holed up off and on for the next four days (I’ll spare you details). At first I thought it was food poisoning and blamed the shrimp dish I’d had the night before. But after 12 hours, I still couldn’t hold water down. I was worried. Adrian was worried. And the owner of the little hotel was worried. So worried that he sent Adrian off to the pharmacy to get me some medication. The rehydration salts, keg of gaterade and horse pills he brought back stayed down for a bit. But that night was still rather unpleasant.

I’ve been struck suddenly before by these lovely stomach upsets on the road. Once in Tunisia and the other time in Gambia. And as violent and horrible as they are, I remember them clearing up in 24 hours. So the next morning, I assumed I was better. I had some bananas and crackers while Adrian went out for breakfast and to check out the music festival going on the park. When he returned I told him I felt well enough to go out. So we headed to the other beach. We had to walk quite a way down it to get to the green flags. Within 5 minutes of being out there, I realized perhaps I wasn’t well. While Adrian played in and got pummeled by the huge waves, I dug a small whole in the sand and promptly deposited those bananas and crackers in it. (ew gross, but it was a loooooooong walk back to the entrance of the national park so please forgive me). I tried to signal to Adrian it was time for me to leave, but he had lost his sunglasses in the last wave and was blind and too busy looking for them. Finally I got his attention and we went back to the hotel.

I wasn’t sure if my stomach was now off because I’d basically eaten nothing in three days or the bug. I thought I’d try some soup. But there was none on the menus nearby but the nicest man in the world (at the restaurant next to the hotel) let Adrian warm up a tin of soup for me. I tried to eat it but just the smell turned me off. So I went to bed at 6pm and slept for 12 hours.

The next day, I was still nauseous but able to hold down a banana milkshake and some toast. I was so optimistic I began making plans for us to get the heck out of lovely Cahuita. Of course that night it was back to abnormal. Very abnormal. I knew I was really sick but the kind people of Cahuita soon came to my rescue.

That morning the hotel owner told Adrian to take me to the clinic in the next town and even arranged a cab to come pick us up. The driver didn’t speak English and realized that we didn’t speak much Spanish. So when we got to the clinic (essentially a tiny hospital), he stood in line, talked to the admitting desk and nurse, and filled out the forms for us. He waited for an hour until I told him it was okay to leave. He said he’d come back in three hours to pick us up. After puking a few more times, I finally saw the doctor who thankfully spoke perfect English. She immediately sent me to get hooked up to an IV because I was badly dehydrated. But the good news is that it was just a really bad stomach bug made worse by the drugs the pharmacy gave Adrian.

When I looked around the hospital ward, I noticed that everyone else was in the same state and recognized the wife of the owner of the internet café in an adjacent bed. Apparently, this bad bug was going around the area. The IV also contained a heavy duty anti-nausea drug that knocks me out for the next four hours. When I woke up I felt better but a bit dead to the world. The super nice taxi driver had come back and Adrian paid him for his time and told him we’d call him when we were done. I had to get another IV and then it was time to settle the bill. As we paid the $40 for 6 hours of hospital care, I was also handed a baggie full of free drugs (photo above) to take for the next 8 days. I have to say that was the best $40 we’ve spent on the trip.

Once back in Cahuita both the hotel owner, the internet café guy and the restaurant owner asked how I was doing. They were all concerned and are relieved to hear that I feel like a new person. And it was true, I was still nauseous but I wasn’t throwing up, so we went out for the first meal I’ve had and held down in the last 4 days. I couldn’t eat much but I felt like my health had finally turned. Now I was looking forward to moving out. Cahuita was the best place I could have possibly gotten sick in but I thought a change of scenery and country would help as much as the drugs had.

Getting paradise all to ourselves.

Cahuita. Be still my beating heart. Within seconds of getting off the bus, I felt comfortable for the first time since arriving in Costa Rica. Although, our bed the night before hadn’t been incredibly comfortable. Taunted by our first choice, Cabinas Safari, across the street, we decided to splurge and move – provided they had room. The guy at the desk was cleaning the rooms so he told us to come back after breakfast. We went next door to get something to eat from the nicest man ever. We shoveled it down, anxious to get settled into new and comfier digs before everyone else filled up the rooms. The guy laughed at our quick return but had just finished cleaning our room. We checked it out and it was great. They had hot water and real mattresses. For $20 Cabinas Palmer was fine but Cabinas Safari was twice as nice for the same price. Now I was really in love with Cahuita. It felt a bit weird moving our stuff just across the street especially with the owner watching us. But Palmer didn’t seem to mind. I think he was now making his money from the internet business and that’s why he hadn’t upgraded his cabinas.

Once settled into our new room, we decided to head out to the beach. It was sunny and hot but we knew that by the afternoon that would change so we had to take advantage of the sun while we could. Luckily the beach was just a short walk east or west. We opted to go west to the black sand beach of Playa Negra, stopping along the way for refreshments and snacks. After a 15 minute walk we arrived at the beach. Unlike Tamarindo, we had the entire 2km beach all to ourselves, oh except for the workman catching some zzz’s in the shade. We found a palm tree to sit under and set up our towels. Then we spent the next three hours hopping in and out of the crystal clear water and under the blue sky, until the clouds rolled in and the sand flies came out in swarms. It was time to leave our little bit of paradise .

As we walked back to town, it began to spit and by the time we got to the hotel it was pouring. It hadn’t let up by the evening. But with a restaurant next door we got something to eat without getting wet. And it gave us a chance to talk to the nice man who ran it. He filled Adrian in on the latest Costa Rican soccer news and they made a date to watch the Brazil vs. USA game tomorrow. Despite the rain and the soccer talk, Cahuita was still paradise.

Early mornings are for the birds.

If you’ve ever had the pleasure, ahem, of trying to deal with me before 11am, you know I’m not a morning person. So you can imagine how I was on this the second day in a row of getting up at 5am. My ‘super’ mood was compounded by the shampoo explosion I discovered in my bag. Thankfully Adrian came to the rescue and washed everything and packed up. Probably out of fear more than anything (no, really, I am that miserable in the morning). After our breakfast of eggs, rice and beans, we headed off with our bags to meet Fran, Eddie and the boat. We were off for another birdwatching tour. Oh yay (yes that was sarcasm). Actually, the tour was better than the first one. Not only was the boat trip an hour shorter. But we also had binoculars and a bird chart this time so we could actually see what was being pointed out to us. And the route was more picturesque as we passed by the misty peak of an old volcano. This time we managed to see caymens, as well as sloths and birds and a troupe of capuchin monkeys jumping through the trees chasing a howler monkey or two. That was pretty cool, although impossible to photograph so you’ll just have to trust me. The closest we came to an animal was a bunch of river turtles (photo above) who swam right up to me in the boat. I felt like the turtle whisperer but made sure to keep my fingers far from the top of the water in case they liked to bite.

Once we were back in Moin, it was time to settle up our bill. We had to pay with a combination of cash and travelers cheques, reminding me just how over budget the tour was. Because we weren’t going back to San Jose, Fran did knock $40 off the total but it still hurt. We’d have to scrimp at our next stop to try and make up the huge deficit. But first we had to catch a taxi to Limon. I asked the driver how much and for a refreshing change, he put on the metre. He dropped us off at the bus station – wait bus station is a strong word – the cab driver dropped us off at the bus office. And once again we had a pleasant surprise, as the bus fare was only $3 for both of us. Maybe we will recoup our costs after all.

The bus was comfy and the ride along the Caribbean coast was quick. The sea wasn’t the azure colour of Mexico or Cuba due to the grey, almost black, sand but the sky was blue and there was a nice breeze. And soon we were in Cahuita, a small town 2 hours from the Panamanian border. It was another pleasant surprise. Unlike the rest of Costa Rica, it was chilled and laid back and for the first time we saw more locals than tourists. We walked to the middle of town and began our search for a room. Our first choice was booked so we started walking around town before coming full circle and ending up across the street from the first place. The room was basic with a cold shower and a bed with foam mattress but they had wifi and it was only $20.

With all that out of the way, my priority was calling home. With the wifi and no phone offices in view, I decided to finally join the modern era and download Skype. Then of course I felt stupid for not doing it earlier. It was easy and cheap. And it worked. I finally talked to my mom and found out the news was a bit better, not great, but better. At least we had talked which made us both feel good. I started out as grumpy guts but ended up a happy camper.

How to treat shock.

According to my St. John’s Ambulance training, when a person goes into shock you’re supposed to keep them warm, have them lie down and make them comfortable. Considering I was in deep reverse culture shock, I decided to put my training to test by doing nothing on our first full day in Tamarindo. It didn’t help (or rather it did help) that it rained all day. So I didn’t have to try and enjoy the pool or the beach. Instead I embraced the blog and caught up on emails. By dinner time, however it was time to go out. But rather than fight the location, we decided to embrace it by heading to a Pan-Asian restaurant so I could get sushi and Adrian could get a thai curry. It was more expensive than Toshi back home (but only half as good) but it felt good to eat something other than eggs, beans and rice, or chicken.

While we were eating, we got a chance to scope out the town. Despite Costa Rica having its own currency, the majority of prices in Tamarindo were quoted in US dollars. All signs were written in English. Most of the stores and fast food places were American and very mall like. And most of the tourists were American. We may have been in Central America but it felt more like the 51st state. My feelings were confirmed by an email from Cindi (diving pep talk Cindi) who noted that it was called Tamagringo because of all the Americans although she called it Tamashito because of the raw sewage pumped from the resorts on the coast straight into the ocean. Lovely. In fact an article she sent me revealed that fecal matter was 1,000,000 times higher than acceptable levels. Yet here we were in a beach town. We had to go to the beach.

The next morning the weather looked a bit better so we grabbed our suits and towels and picked up some snacks from the grocery store. It was grey but the drizzle stopped by the time we got to the sand. Tamarindo did have an awesome beach. The water appeared clear although with the big waves coming in on the dark sand it was hard to tell. We walked to a clearer stretch and rented umbrellas and lounge chairs for $2 and settled in for the day.

We didn’t really need to worry about bringing stuff with us to the beach as an endless stream of sellers made their way up and down the sand. Most were selling jewelry and ceramics but there were also those selling beer, pop and snacks. At an appropriate hour we called over a lady selling beer. She insists we only buy from her. Not a problem. I assumed she was just trying to get some loyal customers. But she continued to tell me that most of the people selling things are Nicaraguan and they sell cheap things at very expensive prices. At first I wasn’t sure if she was disapproving of their markups but she proceeded to tell me that Nicaraguans were not good people because they only want money. I laughed and told her that the Nicas had told us that Ticos were lazy. Luckily she laughed too. Familiarity breeds contempt.

But Costa Rica had one thing that Nicaragua didn’t. The influx of all those Americans brought with it lots of US cash but also American size drug problems. We’re not talking a little pot for the surfers. But crack, cocaine and heroin. It wasn’t visible like in Vancouver for example, but it was definitely there. While we were lounging on the beach a couple of young American girls were talking to a couple of local guys. They seemed like harmless hustlers until they started (loudly) talking about how great heroin and crack were. Costa Rica was not making a good first impression on me.

We tuned out the hustlers and watched the surfers instead. Tamarindo was a surfing hot spot and there were all levels of surfers out on the waves. From absolute beginners who made it look like the hardest sport in the world to pros who made it look like a cake walk. It looked like fun but today was about doing nothing. The waves that made surfing fun made it hard to actually enjoy the water (well that and the fear of getting e. coli). So we decided to escape back to the hotel pool. We were paying for it after all.

The pool was lovely and the proximity to my computer made it easy to combine our lounging with research for our next leg. I easily found a place to stay in Monteverde but how to get there was proving a little more difficult. So I asked the woman at the front desk. She thought I was asking for driving instructions and quickly whipped out a map and started drawing a route. When I explained that we didn’t have a rental car she was momentarily confused. I repeated that we wanted the bus and she pulled out a pamphlet for a $35 tourist shuttle. No I mean the public bus. This seems to have stymied her. Her only suggestion is to take the 5:45 am bus to Liberia where we’re sure to find some connection to Monteverde which was my plan before I asked her. I checked out in advance and then we hurried off to dinner.

Adrian had found a place that advertised nachos as big as your ass so we set off to find it. It was on the beach road and was a huge surfing hangout, complete with board shop and surfing videos on all the big screen tvs. True to their word they had not just nachos as big as your ass but ass sized burritos and tacos as well. We eat as much as we possibly can before packing it in half way through. A couple of guys were playing jazzy guitar music and despite being quite good the college-aged crowd really wasn’t into it. We threw some money into their hat and then headed back to the hotel in the rain. We packed set the alarms and went to bed. It took us eleven and a half hours to get to the 51st state. I wonder how long it will take us to get out?

Under the weather.

Before we left Toronto, there were two things we were afraid of. One: getting robbed. And two: getting sick. You can't prevent either. But you can do your best. Back in the winter, we’d made the trip to the travel doctor and loaded up on malarial medications and other vaccines. But you can’t take anything for the dreaded traveller’s diarrhea. Alas, last night Adrian and I both felt some rumblings in our tummies. And this morning we were finally inducted in the traveller’s diarrhea club. Not that we wanted membership. And to complicate matters, I now had a cold too, most likely brought on by the stress of trying to get my diving certification.

While Adrian sat around trying to establish where we could have gotten this stomach bug – Was it the bbq street meat? The seafood at the fancier restaurant? All the ice cubes in all our cold drinks? Was the cutlery not clean? Is it contagious? – I lay in bed feeling weak and congested in the 34 degree heat (humidex of 41), hoping it wasn’t Swine Flu. No, not really. But sometimes it’s fun to be melodramatic. Just not when someone else is doing it.

And Adrian’s constant analysis of every thing we’d eaten and drank in the last week was driving me nuts so I told him to go jump in the water. I meant that literally since Rubi’s had a swimming dock right on the clear water. Yes, Rubi’s was a vast improvement over our accommodations at Cross Creek. There was really no better place to be sick. Clean, comfy, quiet and sand fly free.

An American girl arrived from Guatemala without any money and a bank card that stopped working. To make matters worse it was Memorial Day long weekend in the states so she couldn’t even phone to sort it out. She was super stressed and starving but Tony, the owner told her not to worry. He lent her some money and gave her some food and told her she could pay him back when she was able to get money. See, told you it was a great place.

Melissa was a cool chick and we chatted for a bit comparing travel stories. She’d been in Guatemala for the last month and a half mostly in Antigua where she’d gotten sucked into the vibe there. She’d been lucky to find a room with a family so she’d had a really interesting time in the town. One of the benefits of traveling alone – 0ut of necessity you have to meet people, unlike Adrian and I who always had each other. We’d met people but not in the way that many single travelers like Melissa had.

Melissa set out to explore the island leaving me with the resident cat who was desperate to get at the leftover salmon Adrian had in the fridge reminding me to finally throw it out. Adrian returned from his swim and came back with a bag full of crackers, bananas, gaterade, fried rice and Pepto Bismo to quell our stomachs. Not my favourite meal so far but it helped a bit and the next day our stomachs were somewhat better. My cold was out of my head although my lungs were starting to ache as I coughed. Luckily I have a year’s supply of inhalers in my bag and I began sucking on one to control the hacking.

I stayed in again while Adrian went out to explore the island. He went to the beach near the old airport strip while I spent the day struggling to upload the photos. In the last 24 hours I’d only gotten 80 photos to upload. Crazy. So I gave up and began to work on filling in the gaps in my diary. It had been over a month since I’d blogged new stuff. I knew it was a long time. Yet, it all seemed like it happened yesterday. Good thing because there were a lot of days that needed to be filled in. I couldn’t be bothered to put up a new post with the crappy internet but at least I’d be ready when we finally found good wifi. Whenever and wherever that would be.

Adrian came back from the beach with a red face (sun burn) and wet underwear (he’d forgotten his swimming trucks). And we joined Melissa in the water off the dock. When we came out, Tony was kicking two guys out of the hotel for punching a hole in the wall of their room (they had been wrestling while drunk). He didn’t want guests like that he said. Melissa checked out after that too and it all felt a little weird. She’d told Adrian she was going to start at a dive school. But it felt like there was something going on. I felt bad for Tony because we were leaving tomorrow too, provided that I didn’t feel worse in the morning.

Although I still wasn’t feeling great and our stomachs were still not cooperating we headed out for dinner. It was our last day in Utila and we needed to end with a better memory than crappy diving instructors, weird hotel guests and an assortment of illnesses. The food at Babalu wasn’t going to be that good memory. But the sunset from the bar was.