by Layla
We gravitated back to the cheery pedestrianised street for dinner, and settled at Don Luca for some very tasty pizza, though alas no mohitos. After a pleasant time watching some fire jugglers and break dancing teenagers, we thought we’d better head back to the hotel – after all, we were being picked up at 7am the next day for our tour to Zapatera Archipelago National Park.
Alas it turned out it was supposed to be 6:30, and we were devastated to hear that our lovely guide David was feeling unwell, so they’d sent some lesser model from the tour company with poor English, a less exuberant attitude, and a bizarre lack of knowledge of any of the places on the tour. We drove down to the pier and stepped aboard a motorboat. As we cruised smoothly through a picturesque and serene collection of ‘Isletas’, we initially didn’t even bother with the offered life jackets, gazing out at birds and plants.
It was only about 15 minutes after leaving the pier that we realised this might not be the pleasure trip we’d imagined. The boat started to rock. It started to pitch. Roz and I grabbed our lifejackets at triple speed as the boat slammed into a massive wave, flew through the air, and thudded painfully back onto the water. Thus commenced about half an hour or so of terror. Nothing but massive waves, and our boat being tossed around as it fought heroically through. Every time we hit the crest of a particularly big wave, Roz and I squealed, screwed our eyes shut, and clung onto each others’ hands, hoping not to die, and wondering why on earth the guidebooks or tour office hadn’t mentioned this adrenaline-fanning cruise. I genuinely thought we were going to be thrown into the water. Apparently there were sharks…
Eventually we made it, and sailed up to this very middle-of-nowhere island, where our aim was to see statues and petroglyphs from civilisations of 1000-1500 years ago (though in fact archaeologists and explorers had removed lots of them and put them in museums in Granada and the Smithsonian, USA). We were greeted by one of the 6000 people who live on the island (there was no sign of anyone else) and we stepped, grateful and entirely drenched, onto glorious dry land. We had a tour of the petroglyphs and statues, seeing some stones carved into the shape of animal gods (and the accompanying human and animal sacrificing places for them), a primitive calendar, and some places to mix shaman potions. It was fairly interesting, though not much seemed to remain on the island. We then walked past a sweet little village school and prepared for what we expected to be a couple of hours of hiking. Alas it was not to be – our guide didn’t know of any trails and so instead led us the short way back to the boat, trying to trick us into thinking it was a hike, then trying to persuade us to have lunch at 9:45. We declined, which alas meant back onto the boat and another 20 minute terror trip to Isla de los Muertos, a nearby island with some really interesting petroglyph carvings on a few giant stones, again for human and animal sacrificing. This was a small, cool little dessert island with palm trees, but we declined our guide’s suggestion that we swim, as we had just had clear evidence of the currents, and didn’t really want to swim under the gaze of the family who lived on the island… We declined lunch again (10:30), and pottered back to Granada. Yet another white-knuckle ride. We experimented with screwing our eyes shut to lessen the terror (and the water in the eyes) but both had a habit of glancing up just when the boat was on the crest of a particularly gargantuan wave. We returned via monkey island, a small island where scientists have marooned two types of monkey in order to study their behaviour. And then, hooray, it was back on dry land, and in the offices of Tierra Tours where we complained about the rubbish tour guide (and tour that lasted 4 hours instead of 9), got an appropriate discount, and (thus smug) walked back to the hotel in search of dry clothes and feeling that, all in all, it had been a good – if hair-raising – morning.
Afterwards, ravenous, we had a large and tasty lunch of nachos and hummous at Nectar, and retired to our hotel’s poolside, where I became entirely absorbed in a book called The Help, while Roz listened to her audiobook (The Woman in White) and went for a very chilly swim.
That evening Roz literally had to drag me from my book to have dinner; first a couple of mohitos, and then we tried the poshest place in Granada, a restaurant called Imagine. Certainly it was expensive, and the food was nicely presented, but it wasn’t as amazing as it might have been. And alas the atmosphere impeded by us being the only diners. But it was a very nice evening and I, for the first time this holiday, managed dessert: mango bread and ice cream (absolutely lovely). Hurrah. And about time too!
I stayed up til after midnight finishing my book, and awoke sleepily this morning. After breakfast we walked down to the centre and hired bikes: we were off on a cycle, as described by the Lonely Planet, to Puerto Assese, and its adjacent peninsula. It was lovely (if a bit hot) cycling back through the beach area (the waves were quite vigorous and we felt smug for having decided to kayak when the water was calm), then up through pretty countryside first to a port, and then along a very long and bumpy track to what the Lonely Planet claimed was a lovely clean swimming hole; in fact since the book was written there seems to have been some construction and a great deal of litter… we decided not to swim, but had enjoyed the cycle; we returned to Puerto Assesse for beer in the posh restaurant overlooking a beautiful view of the lake, but they had no vegetarian food at all, so we went to the Hotel Mombacho restaurant instead, right on the water, and only occupied by locals, and had some tasty ‘queso tostadas’ which are cubes of fried salty cheese, and fried circles of plantain. We read our books (me dispiritedly – it’s all very well to read Salman Rushdie’s history of Nicaragua, but not after the compulsive The Help), sipped beer, and then cycled back to the centre.
We walked back to our hotel, eating ice creams, and jumped into the pool, where we had a fun afternoon teaching Roz to swim underwater (she’s still working on lesson 2: underwater handstands) and we are now reclining in hammocks, about to go to the opening of a photography exhibition, and in staunch denial about this being our last night on holiday. Our flight is at 1pm tomorrow (and arrives at 10am the following day) – nooooo!
Friday 14 January 2011
Thursday 13 January 2011
In which Roz and Layla meet the cheeriest man in Nicaragua, ride horses along a volcano and make glorious art
by Roz
We left you about to have dinner (and indeed I have this blog to type before dinner tonight!). We’d decided to head to a Mexican restaurant that gets very good reviews: Tequila Vallarta. The food was nice – particularly our starters (nachos, guacamole, beans, cheese and so forth), as were the mohitos. We ate outside and had a very jolly evening, watching passers-by, street theatre and so forth (pleasing to see a little play of one of the myths we read about in the Leon myth museum). We headed back to our room, having skipped dessert and contemplated bed (nervously anticipating an early start the next day) but instead opted to listen to a podcast or two from the Moth, which were very enjoyable.
The next day we were up early and all set for a trip up Volcano Mombacho. Our guide and driver picked us up at our hotel and there began an exceptionally fun day. Our guide was the happiest man I can ever remember coming across, and exceptionally keen to inform us about everything he could think of relating to Nicaragua, our tour, and anything else that came up, bursting with enthusiasm on every subject. On the short drive to our first stopping point, we received a potted history of Nicaragua (and, having read something of it myself before, it was fascinating to get his slant / perspective), and a brief description of culture now. And he was so jolly about everything: Granada invaded by an over-ambitious American – “ha ha, weren’t we crazy to let him”. He was very pleased to hear that we preferred Granada to Leon (the rivalry between the two cities is legendary) and looked as if he was personally responsible!
Our first stop, a third of the way up the volcano, (and greeted with much enthusiasm by our happy guide) was a coffee farm, Café Flores. It had been founded at the end of the 19th century by the family who still own it now, but developments have continued apace, most recently certification by the Rainforest Alliance. We learnt more than we had ever dreamt of learning about how coffee is made, the developments in the coffee trade over the years, requirements to be certified by said Rainforest Alliance, and then sampled some (even Layla, who is averse to the stuff).
Our next stop was at the top of the volcano (much to Layla’s glee, since she’s started to dread my great enthusiasm for hiking uphill). As we drove, it was amazing to see how the climate changed (indeed there were five different micro-climates on the volcano in total, apparently). We stepped out of the car into a cloud forest, and went for a hike, following trails which took us round some of the volcano’s craters. Our guide, in his keenness, ensured we got the full benefit of the hike: Layla told him that she had never seen a sloth and thus it was that a little later, and with great joy, he announced: “My lady, it’s a great day for you – look, there’s a sloth”. I mentioned that I’d never seen a puma, also reputed to be on the volcano. He showed less enthusiasm for finding one of those. I therefore looked wistful and said I’d like to see a white-faced monkey (also apparently on the volcano) and this became his mission – at various points he emitted monkey calls, to encourage them to show themselves. Alas, our luck had run out. Despite the fact that the morning had been grey when we set off, it had cleared beautifully by the time we were hiking, which made it all very pleasant – and the views spectacular. At one point we could see all of Granada, the islands (that we’d kaykaked around) and surrounding volcanos, including a volcanic crater with a lake in it. Absolutely fab.
On our drive back, our guide’s enthusiasm for our education was unabated: we listened to CDs of some of his favourite music (mainly revolutionary music) and discussed the current Government. All in all, it was an exceptionally good trip. Even if the music did nonplus us somewhat (we struggle with Western music, let alone anything more complicated).
Having been dropped back in Granada, we booked a further trip for Thursday (with the same guide, hurrah), had a late and delicious lunch at Euro Café, then bought some postcards and then went (via Granada’s Chocolate Museum) to sit in another café and write cards. From there, we went back to the hotel and had a swim. And then to the hotel bar to sip drinks, and contemplate our dinner options.
We finally opted to go to Hotel San Francisco, which gets very good reviews. We turned up and were disappointed to find ourselves alone (again). However, the reviews had been sufficient to ensure we stayed, and we were glad we did. The mohitos were excellent (in my view some of the best of the holiday) and the Mexcian food really good (superior to that of the night before). We were even joined by a couple of other people during the course of the evening, which was pleasing. A game of the giant chess that lurks in the garden courtyard of our hotel (which I won) and we were ready for bed. An excellent day!
I woke early this morning, somewhat dreading the day’s activities. I’d humoured Layla when she said she wanted to bid in the silent auction for a horse-riding tour along the crater of a few volcanos – assuming we wouldn’t win, or that it would be too difficult to organise. To be clear, the only time I have been on a horse was when I was five and it was at a village fete. I cried when the horse moved and was swiftly rescued by my mother. To my horror, we’d won the horse-riding tour and it wasn’t a drama to book. Thus it was that we were picked up bright and early by an exceptionally enthusiastic American ex-pat (who has lived here for 7 years, and before that lived in Costa Rica). She laughed gaily when Layla told her that I was terrified. I did not. We picked up someone else, who seemed to be someone who the ex-pat vaguely knew, and we drove out to her farm. Pleasingly, it turned out to be in one of the famous white villages (pueblas blancas) near Granada (so called because they used to be whitewashed, to be easily spotted by traders) – and this village is particularly famous (we’d learned the day before from our enthusiastic guide) because witchcraft (both white and black) is still practised there.
We arrived at the farmhouse, which turned out to be envy-inducing in its niceness. Huge ceilings, large rooms, fantastic art and nice gardens. Layla and I looked at each other and contemplated what it must be like to be truly rich. We were told that our tour would involve a ride through the village and along the side of a volcanic crater lake, to a stopping place an hour or so away. We would then ride back. We were assured that the horses were exceptionally well-behaved and we had nothing to worry about.
And so it turned out to be. We had a really lovely ride on two very nice horses. I was particularly amused that Layla’s horse had a penchant for stopping off to nibble tasty looking grass – clearly a horse matching its rider. The views were fab, and I became thoroughly persuaded that I’d like to learn to ride properly, when we return to London. It’s such an interesting way and pace to see the world. That said, by the time we got to the stopping place, I felt crippled: as though someone had half broken my shins, and my bottom and thighs exceptionally sore. I was therefore very pleased to stagger off to drink water, stretch my muscles, and eat some plantain and similar items, while looking over Lake Apoyo, a bright blue crater lake, with yesterday’s volcano in the background.
The way back was also lovely, and, feeling braver, it was interesting to try out different paces. I particularly enjoyed the moment when Layla (accidentally) tried out cantering: she screamed “Roz, heeeeeelp”. Which is sweet, but did fail to recognise that I was quite the worst person to ask for assistance. Luckily, like Layla, the horse soon wanted a break and slowed to a sloth-like pace. Back at the farmhouse, we had a brief stop before returning to Granada. Layla and I took the opportunity to ogle the art (and decide which of the many number of lovely pieces we’d most like) and to daydream about not living in a one-bedroom flat in London.
Back in Granada, we stopped off at the local art shop that we’d identified a few days before and which runs art classes. We had a fancy to take a mosaic class and, having persuaded the person running it to delay the start for half an hour so we could have some lunch, signed ourselves up. Our speedy lunch in an open-air café was delicious and we had a beer to celebrate having survived the horse-riding.
Returning to the art shop, we looked expectant. The non-English speaking teacher gave us a couple of books for inspiration and indicated we should draw on a tile, the first step in creating a mosaic. At this moment, I made the wise decision that, talentless as I am in the art field, I would be best off seeking to be Layla’s glamorous assistant and therefore indicated to the teacher that one board would be sufficient. Layla drew a picture of us hiking up a volcano. The teacher looked slightly sceptical. She then showed us how to cut mosaic tiles. And then, dear reader, the miraculous happened: I found my calling in the art world. It turns out that I have an aptitude for cutting tiles – the first time I have ever shown an aptitude for anything related to art. And thus passed a very pleasant afternoon. Admittedly, the product of our labours was shockingly bad. But that wasn’t due to the quality of the cutting out of the tiles (phew) and we did enjoy ourselves. And the teacher made very approving noises (I’m sure mainly in relation to my tile cutting…).
After which, I went off for a massage (another thing we had won in the silent auction) and Layla to do some chores (well planned by me, don’t you think?). We rendezvoused back at the hotel, where I had a quick swim before beers and blogging.
We left you about to have dinner (and indeed I have this blog to type before dinner tonight!). We’d decided to head to a Mexican restaurant that gets very good reviews: Tequila Vallarta. The food was nice – particularly our starters (nachos, guacamole, beans, cheese and so forth), as were the mohitos. We ate outside and had a very jolly evening, watching passers-by, street theatre and so forth (pleasing to see a little play of one of the myths we read about in the Leon myth museum). We headed back to our room, having skipped dessert and contemplated bed (nervously anticipating an early start the next day) but instead opted to listen to a podcast or two from the Moth, which were very enjoyable.
The next day we were up early and all set for a trip up Volcano Mombacho. Our guide and driver picked us up at our hotel and there began an exceptionally fun day. Our guide was the happiest man I can ever remember coming across, and exceptionally keen to inform us about everything he could think of relating to Nicaragua, our tour, and anything else that came up, bursting with enthusiasm on every subject. On the short drive to our first stopping point, we received a potted history of Nicaragua (and, having read something of it myself before, it was fascinating to get his slant / perspective), and a brief description of culture now. And he was so jolly about everything: Granada invaded by an over-ambitious American – “ha ha, weren’t we crazy to let him”. He was very pleased to hear that we preferred Granada to Leon (the rivalry between the two cities is legendary) and looked as if he was personally responsible!
Our first stop, a third of the way up the volcano, (and greeted with much enthusiasm by our happy guide) was a coffee farm, Café Flores. It had been founded at the end of the 19th century by the family who still own it now, but developments have continued apace, most recently certification by the Rainforest Alliance. We learnt more than we had ever dreamt of learning about how coffee is made, the developments in the coffee trade over the years, requirements to be certified by said Rainforest Alliance, and then sampled some (even Layla, who is averse to the stuff).
Our next stop was at the top of the volcano (much to Layla’s glee, since she’s started to dread my great enthusiasm for hiking uphill). As we drove, it was amazing to see how the climate changed (indeed there were five different micro-climates on the volcano in total, apparently). We stepped out of the car into a cloud forest, and went for a hike, following trails which took us round some of the volcano’s craters. Our guide, in his keenness, ensured we got the full benefit of the hike: Layla told him that she had never seen a sloth and thus it was that a little later, and with great joy, he announced: “My lady, it’s a great day for you – look, there’s a sloth”. I mentioned that I’d never seen a puma, also reputed to be on the volcano. He showed less enthusiasm for finding one of those. I therefore looked wistful and said I’d like to see a white-faced monkey (also apparently on the volcano) and this became his mission – at various points he emitted monkey calls, to encourage them to show themselves. Alas, our luck had run out. Despite the fact that the morning had been grey when we set off, it had cleared beautifully by the time we were hiking, which made it all very pleasant – and the views spectacular. At one point we could see all of Granada, the islands (that we’d kaykaked around) and surrounding volcanos, including a volcanic crater with a lake in it. Absolutely fab.
On our drive back, our guide’s enthusiasm for our education was unabated: we listened to CDs of some of his favourite music (mainly revolutionary music) and discussed the current Government. All in all, it was an exceptionally good trip. Even if the music did nonplus us somewhat (we struggle with Western music, let alone anything more complicated).
Having been dropped back in Granada, we booked a further trip for Thursday (with the same guide, hurrah), had a late and delicious lunch at Euro Café, then bought some postcards and then went (via Granada’s Chocolate Museum) to sit in another café and write cards. From there, we went back to the hotel and had a swim. And then to the hotel bar to sip drinks, and contemplate our dinner options.
We finally opted to go to Hotel San Francisco, which gets very good reviews. We turned up and were disappointed to find ourselves alone (again). However, the reviews had been sufficient to ensure we stayed, and we were glad we did. The mohitos were excellent (in my view some of the best of the holiday) and the Mexcian food really good (superior to that of the night before). We were even joined by a couple of other people during the course of the evening, which was pleasing. A game of the giant chess that lurks in the garden courtyard of our hotel (which I won) and we were ready for bed. An excellent day!
I woke early this morning, somewhat dreading the day’s activities. I’d humoured Layla when she said she wanted to bid in the silent auction for a horse-riding tour along the crater of a few volcanos – assuming we wouldn’t win, or that it would be too difficult to organise. To be clear, the only time I have been on a horse was when I was five and it was at a village fete. I cried when the horse moved and was swiftly rescued by my mother. To my horror, we’d won the horse-riding tour and it wasn’t a drama to book. Thus it was that we were picked up bright and early by an exceptionally enthusiastic American ex-pat (who has lived here for 7 years, and before that lived in Costa Rica). She laughed gaily when Layla told her that I was terrified. I did not. We picked up someone else, who seemed to be someone who the ex-pat vaguely knew, and we drove out to her farm. Pleasingly, it turned out to be in one of the famous white villages (pueblas blancas) near Granada (so called because they used to be whitewashed, to be easily spotted by traders) – and this village is particularly famous (we’d learned the day before from our enthusiastic guide) because witchcraft (both white and black) is still practised there.
We arrived at the farmhouse, which turned out to be envy-inducing in its niceness. Huge ceilings, large rooms, fantastic art and nice gardens. Layla and I looked at each other and contemplated what it must be like to be truly rich. We were told that our tour would involve a ride through the village and along the side of a volcanic crater lake, to a stopping place an hour or so away. We would then ride back. We were assured that the horses were exceptionally well-behaved and we had nothing to worry about.
And so it turned out to be. We had a really lovely ride on two very nice horses. I was particularly amused that Layla’s horse had a penchant for stopping off to nibble tasty looking grass – clearly a horse matching its rider. The views were fab, and I became thoroughly persuaded that I’d like to learn to ride properly, when we return to London. It’s such an interesting way and pace to see the world. That said, by the time we got to the stopping place, I felt crippled: as though someone had half broken my shins, and my bottom and thighs exceptionally sore. I was therefore very pleased to stagger off to drink water, stretch my muscles, and eat some plantain and similar items, while looking over Lake Apoyo, a bright blue crater lake, with yesterday’s volcano in the background.
The way back was also lovely, and, feeling braver, it was interesting to try out different paces. I particularly enjoyed the moment when Layla (accidentally) tried out cantering: she screamed “Roz, heeeeeelp”. Which is sweet, but did fail to recognise that I was quite the worst person to ask for assistance. Luckily, like Layla, the horse soon wanted a break and slowed to a sloth-like pace. Back at the farmhouse, we had a brief stop before returning to Granada. Layla and I took the opportunity to ogle the art (and decide which of the many number of lovely pieces we’d most like) and to daydream about not living in a one-bedroom flat in London.
Back in Granada, we stopped off at the local art shop that we’d identified a few days before and which runs art classes. We had a fancy to take a mosaic class and, having persuaded the person running it to delay the start for half an hour so we could have some lunch, signed ourselves up. Our speedy lunch in an open-air café was delicious and we had a beer to celebrate having survived the horse-riding.
Returning to the art shop, we looked expectant. The non-English speaking teacher gave us a couple of books for inspiration and indicated we should draw on a tile, the first step in creating a mosaic. At this moment, I made the wise decision that, talentless as I am in the art field, I would be best off seeking to be Layla’s glamorous assistant and therefore indicated to the teacher that one board would be sufficient. Layla drew a picture of us hiking up a volcano. The teacher looked slightly sceptical. She then showed us how to cut mosaic tiles. And then, dear reader, the miraculous happened: I found my calling in the art world. It turns out that I have an aptitude for cutting tiles – the first time I have ever shown an aptitude for anything related to art. And thus passed a very pleasant afternoon. Admittedly, the product of our labours was shockingly bad. But that wasn’t due to the quality of the cutting out of the tiles (phew) and we did enjoy ourselves. And the teacher made very approving noises (I’m sure mainly in relation to my tile cutting…).
After which, I went off for a massage (another thing we had won in the silent auction) and Layla to do some chores (well planned by me, don’t you think?). We rendezvoused back at the hotel, where I had a quick swim before beers and blogging.
Tuesday 11 January 2011
In which Layla and Roz kayak on the world's largest lake, and Roz manages a dessert
By Layla
Yesterday was a lovely day. We started off with a stroll through the centre, down the pedestrianised street (where Roz tripped and sustained a rather bloody cut to her toe), to Lake Nicaragua, the largest fresh water lake in the world, and the only lake to contain sharks, we were informed later that day. It was designed very nicely, with a waterfront walk for several miles along by the waterside, next to a rather skinny beach where Nicaraguan families strung hammocks and hung out, with their children playing in the water as though at the seaside. Along the path, an array of vendors sold various wares; Roz and I sampled the local specialty of quesilla, essentially a corn tortilla with cheese, mayonnaise and onions in it. Quite pleasant.
We walked onwards til we got to Inuit Kayaks, where we decided to go on a kayak tour of Las Isletas, a collection of about 365 little islands in the lake, formed when a nearby volcano erupted many years ago. But first, the small matter of Roz’s bleeding toe – solved when the boss at Inuit Kayaks informed us he had some dressings given to him last week when he had his appendix removed. We were rather worried about using up his essential dressings but did take a little bit of bandage and micropore and dressed Roz’s wound nicely. A plastic bag round her foot, a beer, and we were ready to kayak!
Thus followed a really delightful two and a half hours with us in a double kayak, and our guide in a single one, paddling through beautiful water, islands, flowers, trees and birds, to an old fort on an island. We felt like adventurers as we kayaked through overgrown water lilies. Mind you, I have not yet recovered from being called an ‘English Rose’… The downside being our foolishly inadequate suntan lotion application, which subsequently left me with bright red legs and Roz with a bright red back, not to mention aching arms all round! Alas, but it was worth it as it was such a lovely trip.
We caught a taxi back to our hotel and changed into dry clothes, then headed out in search of a late lunch. We found ourselves back at the lovely EuroCafe where we indulged in some well-earned veggie burgers and ice cream. We returned to our hotel for a little swim, then lazed in the hotel garden’s hammocks, drinking mohitos, til we were ravenous, and headed out to Mediterrano, a highly recommended restaurant. The setting was lovely and it was quite busy, which was nice, but their vegetarian options were disappointing (a plate of rice, essentially) and price inflated. But a pleasant evening anyway. And a landmark one, since Roz managed a dessert (crepe suzette, which she was very enthusiastic about) for the first time. I looked on with longing but non-hungry eyes. And then it was off to bed, with rather painful sunburn…
Today we woke late, had breakfast, and spent the morning working on house chores – plasterer, painter, carpenter, kitchen… all most unpleasant (and made us dread returning to London). Then, feeling virtuous, we headed out for our Granada chores – to book the massage for Roz that we’d won at the silent auction, to investigate the Painted Ponies tour that we also won (we may be going on Wednesday – we await confirmation), and to investigate the Chocolate Museum (we’d thought of doing a chocolate making workshop but none were on that day) before sinking ravenously into seats at the Garden Café. Much lauded as better than EuroCafe, I can assure you that it was not. But we had tasty veggie sandwiches and smoothies, and felt temporarily sated.
We’d been planning to hire bikes and ride out to a scenic peninsula by the lake, so we went back to the hotel to put on sensible shoes, then went to leave just as the heavens opened. We felt cheated: wasn’t this supposed to be the dry season?! We sheltered in the hotel til it went off and, assured by the reception staff that it wouldn’t rain heavily, went on a quest to hire bikes. But by the time we sorted it out, it was getting rather late and the sky was looking ominous. We thought better of it – smugly, as ten minutes later it was pouring with rain! So instead we checked out tour options for tomorrow and booked one to a volcano and coffee farm for tomorrow, so that should be fun. And with the sky still ominous, and the humidity unbearable, we retired to the hotel pool!
We are now sitting with G&Ts looking forward to dinner. I am ravenous…
Yesterday was a lovely day. We started off with a stroll through the centre, down the pedestrianised street (where Roz tripped and sustained a rather bloody cut to her toe), to Lake Nicaragua, the largest fresh water lake in the world, and the only lake to contain sharks, we were informed later that day. It was designed very nicely, with a waterfront walk for several miles along by the waterside, next to a rather skinny beach where Nicaraguan families strung hammocks and hung out, with their children playing in the water as though at the seaside. Along the path, an array of vendors sold various wares; Roz and I sampled the local specialty of quesilla, essentially a corn tortilla with cheese, mayonnaise and onions in it. Quite pleasant.
We walked onwards til we got to Inuit Kayaks, where we decided to go on a kayak tour of Las Isletas, a collection of about 365 little islands in the lake, formed when a nearby volcano erupted many years ago. But first, the small matter of Roz’s bleeding toe – solved when the boss at Inuit Kayaks informed us he had some dressings given to him last week when he had his appendix removed. We were rather worried about using up his essential dressings but did take a little bit of bandage and micropore and dressed Roz’s wound nicely. A plastic bag round her foot, a beer, and we were ready to kayak!
Thus followed a really delightful two and a half hours with us in a double kayak, and our guide in a single one, paddling through beautiful water, islands, flowers, trees and birds, to an old fort on an island. We felt like adventurers as we kayaked through overgrown water lilies. Mind you, I have not yet recovered from being called an ‘English Rose’… The downside being our foolishly inadequate suntan lotion application, which subsequently left me with bright red legs and Roz with a bright red back, not to mention aching arms all round! Alas, but it was worth it as it was such a lovely trip.
We caught a taxi back to our hotel and changed into dry clothes, then headed out in search of a late lunch. We found ourselves back at the lovely EuroCafe where we indulged in some well-earned veggie burgers and ice cream. We returned to our hotel for a little swim, then lazed in the hotel garden’s hammocks, drinking mohitos, til we were ravenous, and headed out to Mediterrano, a highly recommended restaurant. The setting was lovely and it was quite busy, which was nice, but their vegetarian options were disappointing (a plate of rice, essentially) and price inflated. But a pleasant evening anyway. And a landmark one, since Roz managed a dessert (crepe suzette, which she was very enthusiastic about) for the first time. I looked on with longing but non-hungry eyes. And then it was off to bed, with rather painful sunburn…
Today we woke late, had breakfast, and spent the morning working on house chores – plasterer, painter, carpenter, kitchen… all most unpleasant (and made us dread returning to London). Then, feeling virtuous, we headed out for our Granada chores – to book the massage for Roz that we’d won at the silent auction, to investigate the Painted Ponies tour that we also won (we may be going on Wednesday – we await confirmation), and to investigate the Chocolate Museum (we’d thought of doing a chocolate making workshop but none were on that day) before sinking ravenously into seats at the Garden Café. Much lauded as better than EuroCafe, I can assure you that it was not. But we had tasty veggie sandwiches and smoothies, and felt temporarily sated.
We’d been planning to hire bikes and ride out to a scenic peninsula by the lake, so we went back to the hotel to put on sensible shoes, then went to leave just as the heavens opened. We felt cheated: wasn’t this supposed to be the dry season?! We sheltered in the hotel til it went off and, assured by the reception staff that it wouldn’t rain heavily, went on a quest to hire bikes. But by the time we sorted it out, it was getting rather late and the sky was looking ominous. We thought better of it – smugly, as ten minutes later it was pouring with rain! So instead we checked out tour options for tomorrow and booked one to a volcano and coffee farm for tomorrow, so that should be fun. And with the sky still ominous, and the humidity unbearable, we retired to the hotel pool!
We are now sitting with G&Ts looking forward to dinner. I am ravenous…
Sunday 9 January 2011
In which Layla and Roz regain their appetite and ditch their nomadic lifestyle
By Layla
We had saved a lovely romantic-sounding vegetarian restaurant, Cocinarte, for our final night in Leon. After a bit of a walk we arrived, and had the best food of this holiday so far– falafel and pitta for me, and fahitas for Roz – to the sound of live music in the form of an earnest man playing a guitar – Roz decided to lead some applause, which made his night. We wandered home through the main square and felt very fond of Leon.
However, this was nothing to how fond we immediately felt of our next destination, Granada. We caught a microbus from Leon to the capital, Managua, and then – having been told vehemently by guidebooks that the city is a den of crime with nothing particularly good to see – hopped straight on another bus to what is widely known as the jewel in Nicaragua’s crown, the beautiful colonial city of Granada.
As soon as Roz and I stepped exhaustedly off the bus into the bright, clean, pretty town square, flanked by pristine yellow cathedral, we both felt we’d come home. We’d planned to stay in Granada for 3 nights, then go to the Isla de Ometepe, but both of us harboured a secret desire that we were too shy to voice. We walked to the hotel, a little too early to check in, so left our bags and went to Europa Café on the main square, a lovely cool café with tasty food, ice cream, a book shop, a ping pong table, and a branch of the Seeing Hands massage company (blind people as masseuses). We settled down to a bagel (me) and hummous type items (Roz), some tasty gelato, and a game of ping pong in which I was shamefully thrashed. Then we booked a massage for later that day, returned to the hotel and checked in.
Hotel con Corazon is a lovely idea – a rather nice hotel, employing only Nicaraguan people, with all profits going to education projects and microloans for local people, and other such worthy causes. There were hammocks. A swimming pool. Giant chess. People sipping cocktails. There was no option but to voice our secret desire – to stay here for the rest of the holiday. With room key in our hand, we did the unimaginable – we unpacked properly. And with that, felt a huge relief and serenity. Travelling around has been fantastic, but it’s tiring, we’ve already stayed in six hotels, and we’d subconsciously been craving a break from the buses. We plunged into the little swimming pool, three steps out the door of our room, and grinned.
After our swim, and a very nice massage each by the Seeing Hands people, we felt ourselves slide into a new type of holiday mode. Including one in which our appetites returned. We shared a large chocolate muffin, then strolled back to our hotel, popping in to see if anything was going on at the lovely Casa de los Tres Mundos, the local arts centre in a beautiful colonial building. One of the things they do there is to run circus and theatre classes for underprivileged children, and that night they were having a fundraiser, billed as an art auction. We went back to our hotel, glammed up, and returned to find ourselves at a very cool Nicaragua event, populated largely by arty ex-pats, and Nicaraguan people who participated in the circus class company.
We examined the art; we’d hoped to bid on something but didn’t fancy any of the pieces (apart from one that Roz quite liked), but there was also a silent auction with the opportunity to bid on a variety of meals, experiences and hotels that had been donated. We (well, I) couldn’t resist. I put bids on lots of different options and sat in excitement… And then it was announced: I had won an hour long massage at a fancy spa type place, a horseriding trip for two (apparently experience not required…), a voucher for food at the Europa Café (where we’d earlier had lunch, and like), and dinner at the Monna Lisa Restaurant (which we’d quickly looked up on Tripadvisor and found to be acclaimed as the best pizza in Granada). Hooray! I hadn’t expected to win so much and had to root in my purse for every last penny I’d brought out. But still, all great bargains! (The horse riding was valued at $70 and I paid $11 – pleasing).
Next a talk from the theatre company director and the arts centre director… followed unexpectedly and pleasingly by a fantastic display of mime, clowning and acrobatics by the kids who attend the classes. Great fun! Then some music from a Nicaraguan girl band, and then the art auction. People really had come prepared to bid, and pieces went for up to $150. Until the piece Roz had admired came up… and went for $1900. She was very smug indeed at her skills in identifying fine art. Then we paid for all our winnings, realised we’d spent all our dinner money, and decided we’d better go for dinner at the Monna Lisa, where we’d just won our meal.
Monna Lisa is located halfway down a lovely pedestrianised street called Calle La Calzada, bustling on both sides with restaurants, bars and cafes, with people sitting outside enjoying food, drinks and street theatre, interspersed with ordinary houses where people enjoyed the common Nicaragua habit of pulling rocking chairs our of their front doors onto the pavements, to chat and watch the world go by. Lovely atmosphere.
At Monna Lisa, we eyed the large pizzas with trepidation. Our stomachs were still sceptical. We ordered one between us. Which we then wolfed down at such a pace that we had reason to believe we were finally recovering. Alas I feared we had insufficient funds with us for dessert, so we decided to walk back to the hotel, where we acquired some rather good mohitos from the very nice bar and drank them while playing giant chess. I won and was suitably smug.
This morning we awoke most cheerfully, knowing there was no need to dash anywhere. We enjoyed a tasty breakfast of fruit, yoghurt, granola and bread, with fresh juice, and then settled down to potter on their wifi. Roz took the opportunity to check our bank details and found that I was the victim of credit card fraud! Even more upsettingly, it hadn’t even happened in central America – it had started at the beginning of December. Roz sweetly didn’t admonish me for failing to check my account for a month, but I did get straight onto the phone to my bank to report the fraud: apparently I’ve been buying a large amount of sordid material on the internet. Or not! They sorted it out and I am now sans credit card (though fortunately still have a debit card so will not starve).
And now to the day ahead. The days stretch deliciously in front of us, with all the possibilities of exploring Granada, eating, drinking, and indulging in some trips. Including the pony trip, which I’m not sure whether I should be regretting…
We had saved a lovely romantic-sounding vegetarian restaurant, Cocinarte, for our final night in Leon. After a bit of a walk we arrived, and had the best food of this holiday so far– falafel and pitta for me, and fahitas for Roz – to the sound of live music in the form of an earnest man playing a guitar – Roz decided to lead some applause, which made his night. We wandered home through the main square and felt very fond of Leon.
However, this was nothing to how fond we immediately felt of our next destination, Granada. We caught a microbus from Leon to the capital, Managua, and then – having been told vehemently by guidebooks that the city is a den of crime with nothing particularly good to see – hopped straight on another bus to what is widely known as the jewel in Nicaragua’s crown, the beautiful colonial city of Granada.
As soon as Roz and I stepped exhaustedly off the bus into the bright, clean, pretty town square, flanked by pristine yellow cathedral, we both felt we’d come home. We’d planned to stay in Granada for 3 nights, then go to the Isla de Ometepe, but both of us harboured a secret desire that we were too shy to voice. We walked to the hotel, a little too early to check in, so left our bags and went to Europa Café on the main square, a lovely cool café with tasty food, ice cream, a book shop, a ping pong table, and a branch of the Seeing Hands massage company (blind people as masseuses). We settled down to a bagel (me) and hummous type items (Roz), some tasty gelato, and a game of ping pong in which I was shamefully thrashed. Then we booked a massage for later that day, returned to the hotel and checked in.
Hotel con Corazon is a lovely idea – a rather nice hotel, employing only Nicaraguan people, with all profits going to education projects and microloans for local people, and other such worthy causes. There were hammocks. A swimming pool. Giant chess. People sipping cocktails. There was no option but to voice our secret desire – to stay here for the rest of the holiday. With room key in our hand, we did the unimaginable – we unpacked properly. And with that, felt a huge relief and serenity. Travelling around has been fantastic, but it’s tiring, we’ve already stayed in six hotels, and we’d subconsciously been craving a break from the buses. We plunged into the little swimming pool, three steps out the door of our room, and grinned.
After our swim, and a very nice massage each by the Seeing Hands people, we felt ourselves slide into a new type of holiday mode. Including one in which our appetites returned. We shared a large chocolate muffin, then strolled back to our hotel, popping in to see if anything was going on at the lovely Casa de los Tres Mundos, the local arts centre in a beautiful colonial building. One of the things they do there is to run circus and theatre classes for underprivileged children, and that night they were having a fundraiser, billed as an art auction. We went back to our hotel, glammed up, and returned to find ourselves at a very cool Nicaragua event, populated largely by arty ex-pats, and Nicaraguan people who participated in the circus class company.
We examined the art; we’d hoped to bid on something but didn’t fancy any of the pieces (apart from one that Roz quite liked), but there was also a silent auction with the opportunity to bid on a variety of meals, experiences and hotels that had been donated. We (well, I) couldn’t resist. I put bids on lots of different options and sat in excitement… And then it was announced: I had won an hour long massage at a fancy spa type place, a horseriding trip for two (apparently experience not required…), a voucher for food at the Europa Café (where we’d earlier had lunch, and like), and dinner at the Monna Lisa Restaurant (which we’d quickly looked up on Tripadvisor and found to be acclaimed as the best pizza in Granada). Hooray! I hadn’t expected to win so much and had to root in my purse for every last penny I’d brought out. But still, all great bargains! (The horse riding was valued at $70 and I paid $11 – pleasing).
Next a talk from the theatre company director and the arts centre director… followed unexpectedly and pleasingly by a fantastic display of mime, clowning and acrobatics by the kids who attend the classes. Great fun! Then some music from a Nicaraguan girl band, and then the art auction. People really had come prepared to bid, and pieces went for up to $150. Until the piece Roz had admired came up… and went for $1900. She was very smug indeed at her skills in identifying fine art. Then we paid for all our winnings, realised we’d spent all our dinner money, and decided we’d better go for dinner at the Monna Lisa, where we’d just won our meal.
Monna Lisa is located halfway down a lovely pedestrianised street called Calle La Calzada, bustling on both sides with restaurants, bars and cafes, with people sitting outside enjoying food, drinks and street theatre, interspersed with ordinary houses where people enjoyed the common Nicaragua habit of pulling rocking chairs our of their front doors onto the pavements, to chat and watch the world go by. Lovely atmosphere.
At Monna Lisa, we eyed the large pizzas with trepidation. Our stomachs were still sceptical. We ordered one between us. Which we then wolfed down at such a pace that we had reason to believe we were finally recovering. Alas I feared we had insufficient funds with us for dessert, so we decided to walk back to the hotel, where we acquired some rather good mohitos from the very nice bar and drank them while playing giant chess. I won and was suitably smug.
This morning we awoke most cheerfully, knowing there was no need to dash anywhere. We enjoyed a tasty breakfast of fruit, yoghurt, granola and bread, with fresh juice, and then settled down to potter on their wifi. Roz took the opportunity to check our bank details and found that I was the victim of credit card fraud! Even more upsettingly, it hadn’t even happened in central America – it had started at the beginning of December. Roz sweetly didn’t admonish me for failing to check my account for a month, but I did get straight onto the phone to my bank to report the fraud: apparently I’ve been buying a large amount of sordid material on the internet. Or not! They sorted it out and I am now sans credit card (though fortunately still have a debit card so will not starve).
And now to the day ahead. The days stretch deliciously in front of us, with all the possibilities of exploring Granada, eating, drinking, and indulging in some trips. Including the pony trip, which I’m not sure whether I should be regretting…
Saturday 8 January 2011
In which Roz and Layla surf down a volcano and go to the cinema
By Roz.
When Layla finished typing yesterday, we were struck with uncertainty about what to do next: it seemed too early for dinner (we hadn’t quite established what time Nicaraguans eat, but it seemed a fair guess it wasn’t 5pm) and we didn’t have any other clear plans for the night. Layla suddenly had the idea of going to the pictures (something that’s quite fun to do in foreign parts) and we dashed round the corner to the cinema. Alas, the film we wanted to see had been dubbed into Spanish, so we instead made ourselves comfortable with a drink in a nearby bar.
Having spun our drinks out as long as we could we (slowly) made our way to Mediterrano, which is one of Leon’s premier dining spots, according to Lonely Planet. We walked in, assuming we’d be the first diners there. And thus were pleasantly surprised to find the restaurant already bustling – indeed we got the last table. It was very cheery indeed, with candlelight and a pleasing atmosphere. The other diners were a mix of well-heeled Nicaraguans and tourists. The latter are something of a shock to our system, since we got used to tourists being something of a rarity in El Salvador. We had a very jolly evening, castle-building about the future (Layla seems to be suddenly feeling old, with her 30th birthday approaching). The food (Italian again) was quite good – although yet again, we found ourselves unable to reconcile ourselves to the thought of dessert. Shockingly this means that in our whole time this trip we haven’t once had dessert! Unheard of. I’m not quite sure what’s wrong with our stomachs – I’m of the view that it is some of the very lovely liquados that we are drinking have dodgy ice cubes in (and hence have steered clear today). Layla is too enamoured of the drinks to let herself accept that – so we’ll see how we both feel in a couple of days! After that, it was back to the hotel for bed.
I slept very well indeed (a relief after the previous night’s novel-induced insomnia) and we woke at a fairly early hour, all set to climb Cerro Negro, a local, active volanco. Well, when I say all set, there was a slight hitch. We’d given most of our clothes to the hotel to wash yesterday and they’d not been returned yet. Whilst I had a viable, if not ideal, outfit, Layla’s only option was to borrow my white linen trousers (as yet unworn). Not absolutely ideal for climbing a black ash mountain. She dashed down to reception and asked if any of our clothes would be back from the laundry in time. They said no. She explained our plans and they cried with laughter at her outfit and then said something which she didn’t quite understand but which seemed to bring the conversation to an end. So, off we went to breakfast, Layla in my white trousers. During breakfast, a member of the hotel staff turned up a twinkle in his eye and two pairs of trousers (now clean), which he’d clearly rescued from the local laundry.
Of course this meant we had no escape from climbing Cerro Negro. I can’t say that my nervousness was dissipated at all by the sight of the others going on the trip: all younger than us, and looking considerably fitter. An hour’s drive through a very pretty landscape, and we were deposited at the bottom of the volcanco. We were given boards (for boarding down the volcano on) – and Layla and I felt wusses for having asked for slow boards (but also somewhat relieved). And then came the trek. It was reasonably hard going, being constantly uphill through alternately rocks, volcanic sand, and ash (neither being easy to walk on). The pace was fast (too fast for us) and soon Layla’s face was its customary hue (red). On the other hand, it felt exceptionally cool to walk up a volcano and through craters, with steam coming out of the ground. Towards the top we got a really good sight of the tops of the other volcanos in the range, and could see smoke coming from them: indeed they looked exactly as one would draw a volcano. It was unexpected (though entirely logical) to find that if one scratched off the top surface of the ground, the surface below was smoking and very hot.
Having reached the top, we were put into boiler suits and given instructions on how to board down (and, crucially, how to slow down and stop). And then we were off. Despite all my hesitations and slow pace, it turned out to be brilliant fun. If you looked right down to the bottom, it was dauntingly steep and far – but it was easier to control the pace and direction than I’d imagined. And I definitely preferred it to the option that others were taking – of running down the volcano (which is supposed to give a sense of flying, but would inevitably end up with me flat on my face). Though I doubt I’m quite up to doing it on a properly fast board – I’ve heard that some can get up at 85 km an hour…
Back at the base, we ate lunch and felt unnecessarily pleased with ourselves. Over lunch, we swopped travellers’ tales and discussed the relative merits of Canada and New Zealand (not least given that we’d been contemplating where we’d like to live in the future last night). From there we were back in the truck and on the bumpy route back to Leon. We arrived back in our hotel to find the rest of our clean clothes had turned up (hurrah), had a shower, and contemplated what to do next. We headed off to a tour company in Leon, which we’d heard run a shuttle bus between here and Granada (our next stop) and tried to make arrangements for tomorrow (potentially unsuccessfully, since we are too stingy to pay what is really a quite exorbitant figure to just take us). From there we went to a bar and settled down with our books for beers (me) and liqudaos (Layla) in the nice place on the main square that we’d been to on our very first wander round Leon.
Having basked long enough in the café, we headed off to the cinema to see The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. I can’t honestly say it’s a particularly good film, but it’s always fun to go to the cinema in another country… and the popcorn was excellent. And having spent enough time typing this for it to be now dinner time, I’ll conclude!
When Layla finished typing yesterday, we were struck with uncertainty about what to do next: it seemed too early for dinner (we hadn’t quite established what time Nicaraguans eat, but it seemed a fair guess it wasn’t 5pm) and we didn’t have any other clear plans for the night. Layla suddenly had the idea of going to the pictures (something that’s quite fun to do in foreign parts) and we dashed round the corner to the cinema. Alas, the film we wanted to see had been dubbed into Spanish, so we instead made ourselves comfortable with a drink in a nearby bar.
Having spun our drinks out as long as we could we (slowly) made our way to Mediterrano, which is one of Leon’s premier dining spots, according to Lonely Planet. We walked in, assuming we’d be the first diners there. And thus were pleasantly surprised to find the restaurant already bustling – indeed we got the last table. It was very cheery indeed, with candlelight and a pleasing atmosphere. The other diners were a mix of well-heeled Nicaraguans and tourists. The latter are something of a shock to our system, since we got used to tourists being something of a rarity in El Salvador. We had a very jolly evening, castle-building about the future (Layla seems to be suddenly feeling old, with her 30th birthday approaching). The food (Italian again) was quite good – although yet again, we found ourselves unable to reconcile ourselves to the thought of dessert. Shockingly this means that in our whole time this trip we haven’t once had dessert! Unheard of. I’m not quite sure what’s wrong with our stomachs – I’m of the view that it is some of the very lovely liquados that we are drinking have dodgy ice cubes in (and hence have steered clear today). Layla is too enamoured of the drinks to let herself accept that – so we’ll see how we both feel in a couple of days! After that, it was back to the hotel for bed.
I slept very well indeed (a relief after the previous night’s novel-induced insomnia) and we woke at a fairly early hour, all set to climb Cerro Negro, a local, active volanco. Well, when I say all set, there was a slight hitch. We’d given most of our clothes to the hotel to wash yesterday and they’d not been returned yet. Whilst I had a viable, if not ideal, outfit, Layla’s only option was to borrow my white linen trousers (as yet unworn). Not absolutely ideal for climbing a black ash mountain. She dashed down to reception and asked if any of our clothes would be back from the laundry in time. They said no. She explained our plans and they cried with laughter at her outfit and then said something which she didn’t quite understand but which seemed to bring the conversation to an end. So, off we went to breakfast, Layla in my white trousers. During breakfast, a member of the hotel staff turned up a twinkle in his eye and two pairs of trousers (now clean), which he’d clearly rescued from the local laundry.
Of course this meant we had no escape from climbing Cerro Negro. I can’t say that my nervousness was dissipated at all by the sight of the others going on the trip: all younger than us, and looking considerably fitter. An hour’s drive through a very pretty landscape, and we were deposited at the bottom of the volcanco. We were given boards (for boarding down the volcano on) – and Layla and I felt wusses for having asked for slow boards (but also somewhat relieved). And then came the trek. It was reasonably hard going, being constantly uphill through alternately rocks, volcanic sand, and ash (neither being easy to walk on). The pace was fast (too fast for us) and soon Layla’s face was its customary hue (red). On the other hand, it felt exceptionally cool to walk up a volcano and through craters, with steam coming out of the ground. Towards the top we got a really good sight of the tops of the other volcanos in the range, and could see smoke coming from them: indeed they looked exactly as one would draw a volcano. It was unexpected (though entirely logical) to find that if one scratched off the top surface of the ground, the surface below was smoking and very hot.
Having reached the top, we were put into boiler suits and given instructions on how to board down (and, crucially, how to slow down and stop). And then we were off. Despite all my hesitations and slow pace, it turned out to be brilliant fun. If you looked right down to the bottom, it was dauntingly steep and far – but it was easier to control the pace and direction than I’d imagined. And I definitely preferred it to the option that others were taking – of running down the volcano (which is supposed to give a sense of flying, but would inevitably end up with me flat on my face). Though I doubt I’m quite up to doing it on a properly fast board – I’ve heard that some can get up at 85 km an hour…
Back at the base, we ate lunch and felt unnecessarily pleased with ourselves. Over lunch, we swopped travellers’ tales and discussed the relative merits of Canada and New Zealand (not least given that we’d been contemplating where we’d like to live in the future last night). From there we were back in the truck and on the bumpy route back to Leon. We arrived back in our hotel to find the rest of our clean clothes had turned up (hurrah), had a shower, and contemplated what to do next. We headed off to a tour company in Leon, which we’d heard run a shuttle bus between here and Granada (our next stop) and tried to make arrangements for tomorrow (potentially unsuccessfully, since we are too stingy to pay what is really a quite exorbitant figure to just take us). From there we went to a bar and settled down with our books for beers (me) and liqudaos (Layla) in the nice place on the main square that we’d been to on our very first wander round Leon.
Having basked long enough in the café, we headed off to the cinema to see The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. I can’t honestly say it’s a particularly good film, but it’s always fun to go to the cinema in another country… and the popcorn was excellent. And having spent enough time typing this for it to be now dinner time, I’ll conclude!
Thursday 6 January 2011
In which Roz and Layla sample San Salvador, journey across three nations, and admire papier mache people
By Layla
I woke up at the disappointing time of 5:30am, and read my book til Roz awoke at a more presentable hour. So presentable, in fact, that we found we’d missed our hotel’s breakfast. The guidebooks are very nervous about San Salvador – it has a high crime rate, and one is advised to take taxis even 2 minutes down the road and never go near the centre after dark, so we removed all our valuables, left our camera and iPhones at home, and hid various bits of necessary cash in various parts of our clothing. We settled down at a nearby rather posh little cake shop where I had waffles, Roz had a large bread basket, and we both had tasty orange juice and contemplated first our possible security overkill (as the other customers tapped away on laptops) and then the day ahead. Priority number one was sorting out bus tickets to Nicaragua for the following day. Fortunately both bus companies offering said journey had offices within 5 minutes of our hotel (or within 20 minutes up a big hill, if walking the particular route I misguidedly selected). Ticabus had sold out, much to my distress, as it was the cheaper option; King Quality, however, still had seats and we bought two tickets, leaving at 11:30 the following day.
Duty done, we returned to our hotel to drop off tickets and then headed out again. Our hotel was in Zona Rosa, one of the safer areas, and so we were delighted to find that the top attraction, an excellent modern art museum (MARTE), was in the same area, just a few minutes away. We climbed up the hill and found ourselves in a lovely, tasteful art gallery, and even more excitingly, there was a museum café where – after last night’s solitary dining – we encountered a crowd! We joined them for lunch, a delicious focaccia sandwich for Roz and a walnut, pear and blue cheese salad for me, and a large amount of people watching for both of us. Clearly MARTE is where the well-heeled El Salvadorean Sex and the City type ladies lunch. Heels, flashy jewellery, and sleek outfits abounded. We gazed shamefacedly at our outfits… and enjoyed the ambience.
After lunch we went to the museum, which absolutely lived up to the hype – beautifully displayed interesting exhibits, including several which Roz commented on as reminding her of Alice in Wonderland. When a very sweet security guard tracked down an English booklet for us that explained the room’s pictures were intended to be reminiscent of Alice, Roz’s smugness was unbearable.
Having properly enjoyed the art, we walked back down the hill, and caught a taxi to that den of terror, the city centre (apparently comparatively safe during the day). What an odd city. We were dropped off after a 20 minute taxi ride on the main square. Which was filled with people who essentially seemed to be hanging out. The centrepiece was the cathedral, with an interesting dome, and brightly coloured mosaic entrance. A government building lined another side of the square. We stood. We looked. And we wondered: what now? The guidebook directed us to a (closed) theatre with nice architecture. We located it a block away. Its architecture was indeed pleasing. We walked into another square and contemplated our guidebooks. According to both, we’d seen all there was to see in the city centre. There was nothing for it – we jumped in another taxi, this time to the famed lefty bar Casa de Luna y Arte, only to find – after a rather long journey – that it was closed for new year. Alas! We had the delighted taxi driver take us back to Zona Rosa.
Upon debating our dinner options, we realised the art gallery’s restaurant was open for dinner that night, so seduced by the thought of dining with other people, we decided to give it a go. We had a couple of beers at a little Italian restaurant first, reading our books and getting hungrier as the clock ticked towards 7pm, the time our guidebooks claimed was the epitome of dinnertime in El Salvador. We climbed back up the hill, only to find we were yet again the only people in the restaurant. We stalled with gin and tonics and a tomato dip til more people started arriving, acknowledged that really El Salvadoreans eat at 8 or 9, and tucked into the sole vegetarian option, gnocchi with fresh tomato. Which we have had rather a lot recently… We had a very cheery dinner, and then headed home to bed, still not feeling entirely well (again, declining dessert).
Disappointingly I was up at 5:30am again. But this time, Roz woke up in time for us to have the hotel’s buffet breakfast, on the roof terrace overlooking the city and the volcanoes beyond. Very pleasant. Then we set off to the local cafes on a mission to stock up on food for the horror that awaited us: a 10 hour King Quality bus journey from San Salvador through Honduras to Leon in Nicaragua. Fully armed with a giant bag of sandwiches, crisps, water and a sneaky beer or two, we grabbed our suitcases and caught a taxi to Puertobus, the bus terminal.
We were there far too early (my paranoia), and the bus was an hour late, so by the time it eventually departed, we were already exhausted (and peckish). The seats were wide, with great leg room, but despite this, there really is only so pleasant a 10 hour bus journey can be. Roz was listening to Stone’s Fall, an audiobook, while I gazed out the window, and watched the remake of The Karate Kid dubbed into Spanish (fortunately a simple plot, and despite not understanding a word, I wept copiously at the end, much to Roz’s amusement). Time ticked by slowly. We got to the El Salvador border, and the bus staff took our passports for their Honduras stamp. Then more driving. As we drove through Honduras it went from brilliant sunshine to blackest night, and we reached the Nicaragua border in the dark. Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, we were deposited at a petrol station just outside of Leon, where I immediately had an argument with a waiting taxi driver who was innocently trying to tell me the cost of the taxi; I had forgotten the change of country meant a change of currency, and was horrified that he was suggesting 20 dollars each; in fact he was suggesting 20 cordoba each, i.e. $1. Roz packaged me into the taxi, rolling her eyes and apologising.
We arrived at the Hotel Real which, unusually compared to El Salvador, was expecting us. The man carried our bags to a small but adequate room. As the whole town seemed to have gone to bed (but we were still awake from our day of forced inactivity), we played cards and drank fizzy drinks til we were adequately sleepy. Alas I was more sleepy than Roz, who listened to the end of her audiobook, and then spent the rest of the night sleepless, distressed by the book’s ending (wuss).
Morning came, and we ventured out into Leon after a rather nice hotel breakfast of watermelon, fried egg, beans, and tortilla, with orange juice and coffee. Leon is Nicaragua’s second city, a university town with colonial architecture and a lot of charm. We were intrigued to find that a 10 hour bus journey had made so much of a difference to the climate – hot and humid! Having staggered down to the main square and watched a procession through the cathedral by a bishop and a large number of holy men, we retired to a squareside café in the shade to drink a fruit liguado (Roz) and rather disgusting chocolate milk drink (me). Afterwards, we tried to follow the Lonely Planet suggested walking tour but it proved too complicated so I devised one of our own. First to the martyrs’ monument, with an eternal flame that seemed to be out. And a big mural depicting Nicaragua’s past, mainly warriors and poetry. Apparently Nicaraguans are big on poetry, worship their national poet, and write poetry themselves. Then past the cathedral and down to a ruined church, and the hilarious Museum of Myths and Legends, housed in an old prison. It’s composed of hideous, life sized papier mache models depicting local, well, myths and legends. Alas the tour was in Spanish but we had been given a book of translations when we arrived, so I made Roz read me the stories while in front of each model. I particularly liked the one about the chief who spent much of his life trying to stop his daughter’s Spanish suitors from getting their hands on his fortune. He hid the gold and they never found it. After he died, legend states that he sometimes appears as a golden crab. You can follow the crab to find the fortune (though with an unfortunate side effect is that you lose the power of speech for a few days). I liked the papier mache crab… A particular interest in the museum was that behind the displays of papier mache legends was realistic line drawings on all the walls of prisoners, as they might have spent their time when the building was a prison, thus depicting two different histories of Leon at once. I was glad we couldn’t understand Spanish so as to be spared the tales of their tortures…
After the museum we walked up past the city’s theatre (nothing on this week, alas) to the famous art gallery, housed in a beautiful old building. We zoomed past the religious Renaissance paintings to more interesting modern art from Central American artists, including an interesting one by Diego Rivera, interesting as I’ve just finished The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver (about his life), and Roz is currently reading it.
A diversion to the bank to acquire thousands of Cordoba, and then we headed to Terrace M for lunch. London food prices, but quite nice. I had a crepe with goats’ cheese and tomato and Roz had a mozzarella sandwich (after a nasty moment of thinking it was chicken!), coupled first with bizarre mohitos, and then with rather tasty Victoria beer, one of Nicaragua’s national beers.
After lunch we went to a tour company called Quetzaltrekkers, run by volunteers with all profits going to a charity to benefit street children. Our mission: to book a tour for tomorrow. More specifically, our tentative mission was to book a volcano surfing tour. Apparently there is a big volcano calle Cerro Negro near here – they’ve invented an ‘extreme sport’ where one climbs to the top and then surfs or toboggans down to the bottom. We thought we wanted to go but also thought it sounded scary. The man in the office persuaded us. Sort of. We handed over our thousands of Cordobas, and felt rather scared about 8am tomorrow morning…
And with that, we returned to the hotel, where I am writing this, before we venture out again, to the very pleasing city of Leon.
I woke up at the disappointing time of 5:30am, and read my book til Roz awoke at a more presentable hour. So presentable, in fact, that we found we’d missed our hotel’s breakfast. The guidebooks are very nervous about San Salvador – it has a high crime rate, and one is advised to take taxis even 2 minutes down the road and never go near the centre after dark, so we removed all our valuables, left our camera and iPhones at home, and hid various bits of necessary cash in various parts of our clothing. We settled down at a nearby rather posh little cake shop where I had waffles, Roz had a large bread basket, and we both had tasty orange juice and contemplated first our possible security overkill (as the other customers tapped away on laptops) and then the day ahead. Priority number one was sorting out bus tickets to Nicaragua for the following day. Fortunately both bus companies offering said journey had offices within 5 minutes of our hotel (or within 20 minutes up a big hill, if walking the particular route I misguidedly selected). Ticabus had sold out, much to my distress, as it was the cheaper option; King Quality, however, still had seats and we bought two tickets, leaving at 11:30 the following day.
Duty done, we returned to our hotel to drop off tickets and then headed out again. Our hotel was in Zona Rosa, one of the safer areas, and so we were delighted to find that the top attraction, an excellent modern art museum (MARTE), was in the same area, just a few minutes away. We climbed up the hill and found ourselves in a lovely, tasteful art gallery, and even more excitingly, there was a museum café where – after last night’s solitary dining – we encountered a crowd! We joined them for lunch, a delicious focaccia sandwich for Roz and a walnut, pear and blue cheese salad for me, and a large amount of people watching for both of us. Clearly MARTE is where the well-heeled El Salvadorean Sex and the City type ladies lunch. Heels, flashy jewellery, and sleek outfits abounded. We gazed shamefacedly at our outfits… and enjoyed the ambience.
After lunch we went to the museum, which absolutely lived up to the hype – beautifully displayed interesting exhibits, including several which Roz commented on as reminding her of Alice in Wonderland. When a very sweet security guard tracked down an English booklet for us that explained the room’s pictures were intended to be reminiscent of Alice, Roz’s smugness was unbearable.
Having properly enjoyed the art, we walked back down the hill, and caught a taxi to that den of terror, the city centre (apparently comparatively safe during the day). What an odd city. We were dropped off after a 20 minute taxi ride on the main square. Which was filled with people who essentially seemed to be hanging out. The centrepiece was the cathedral, with an interesting dome, and brightly coloured mosaic entrance. A government building lined another side of the square. We stood. We looked. And we wondered: what now? The guidebook directed us to a (closed) theatre with nice architecture. We located it a block away. Its architecture was indeed pleasing. We walked into another square and contemplated our guidebooks. According to both, we’d seen all there was to see in the city centre. There was nothing for it – we jumped in another taxi, this time to the famed lefty bar Casa de Luna y Arte, only to find – after a rather long journey – that it was closed for new year. Alas! We had the delighted taxi driver take us back to Zona Rosa.
Upon debating our dinner options, we realised the art gallery’s restaurant was open for dinner that night, so seduced by the thought of dining with other people, we decided to give it a go. We had a couple of beers at a little Italian restaurant first, reading our books and getting hungrier as the clock ticked towards 7pm, the time our guidebooks claimed was the epitome of dinnertime in El Salvador. We climbed back up the hill, only to find we were yet again the only people in the restaurant. We stalled with gin and tonics and a tomato dip til more people started arriving, acknowledged that really El Salvadoreans eat at 8 or 9, and tucked into the sole vegetarian option, gnocchi with fresh tomato. Which we have had rather a lot recently… We had a very cheery dinner, and then headed home to bed, still not feeling entirely well (again, declining dessert).
Disappointingly I was up at 5:30am again. But this time, Roz woke up in time for us to have the hotel’s buffet breakfast, on the roof terrace overlooking the city and the volcanoes beyond. Very pleasant. Then we set off to the local cafes on a mission to stock up on food for the horror that awaited us: a 10 hour King Quality bus journey from San Salvador through Honduras to Leon in Nicaragua. Fully armed with a giant bag of sandwiches, crisps, water and a sneaky beer or two, we grabbed our suitcases and caught a taxi to Puertobus, the bus terminal.
We were there far too early (my paranoia), and the bus was an hour late, so by the time it eventually departed, we were already exhausted (and peckish). The seats were wide, with great leg room, but despite this, there really is only so pleasant a 10 hour bus journey can be. Roz was listening to Stone’s Fall, an audiobook, while I gazed out the window, and watched the remake of The Karate Kid dubbed into Spanish (fortunately a simple plot, and despite not understanding a word, I wept copiously at the end, much to Roz’s amusement). Time ticked by slowly. We got to the El Salvador border, and the bus staff took our passports for their Honduras stamp. Then more driving. As we drove through Honduras it went from brilliant sunshine to blackest night, and we reached the Nicaragua border in the dark. Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, we were deposited at a petrol station just outside of Leon, where I immediately had an argument with a waiting taxi driver who was innocently trying to tell me the cost of the taxi; I had forgotten the change of country meant a change of currency, and was horrified that he was suggesting 20 dollars each; in fact he was suggesting 20 cordoba each, i.e. $1. Roz packaged me into the taxi, rolling her eyes and apologising.
We arrived at the Hotel Real which, unusually compared to El Salvador, was expecting us. The man carried our bags to a small but adequate room. As the whole town seemed to have gone to bed (but we were still awake from our day of forced inactivity), we played cards and drank fizzy drinks til we were adequately sleepy. Alas I was more sleepy than Roz, who listened to the end of her audiobook, and then spent the rest of the night sleepless, distressed by the book’s ending (wuss).
Morning came, and we ventured out into Leon after a rather nice hotel breakfast of watermelon, fried egg, beans, and tortilla, with orange juice and coffee. Leon is Nicaragua’s second city, a university town with colonial architecture and a lot of charm. We were intrigued to find that a 10 hour bus journey had made so much of a difference to the climate – hot and humid! Having staggered down to the main square and watched a procession through the cathedral by a bishop and a large number of holy men, we retired to a squareside café in the shade to drink a fruit liguado (Roz) and rather disgusting chocolate milk drink (me). Afterwards, we tried to follow the Lonely Planet suggested walking tour but it proved too complicated so I devised one of our own. First to the martyrs’ monument, with an eternal flame that seemed to be out. And a big mural depicting Nicaragua’s past, mainly warriors and poetry. Apparently Nicaraguans are big on poetry, worship their national poet, and write poetry themselves. Then past the cathedral and down to a ruined church, and the hilarious Museum of Myths and Legends, housed in an old prison. It’s composed of hideous, life sized papier mache models depicting local, well, myths and legends. Alas the tour was in Spanish but we had been given a book of translations when we arrived, so I made Roz read me the stories while in front of each model. I particularly liked the one about the chief who spent much of his life trying to stop his daughter’s Spanish suitors from getting their hands on his fortune. He hid the gold and they never found it. After he died, legend states that he sometimes appears as a golden crab. You can follow the crab to find the fortune (though with an unfortunate side effect is that you lose the power of speech for a few days). I liked the papier mache crab… A particular interest in the museum was that behind the displays of papier mache legends was realistic line drawings on all the walls of prisoners, as they might have spent their time when the building was a prison, thus depicting two different histories of Leon at once. I was glad we couldn’t understand Spanish so as to be spared the tales of their tortures…
After the museum we walked up past the city’s theatre (nothing on this week, alas) to the famous art gallery, housed in a beautiful old building. We zoomed past the religious Renaissance paintings to more interesting modern art from Central American artists, including an interesting one by Diego Rivera, interesting as I’ve just finished The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver (about his life), and Roz is currently reading it.
A diversion to the bank to acquire thousands of Cordoba, and then we headed to Terrace M for lunch. London food prices, but quite nice. I had a crepe with goats’ cheese and tomato and Roz had a mozzarella sandwich (after a nasty moment of thinking it was chicken!), coupled first with bizarre mohitos, and then with rather tasty Victoria beer, one of Nicaragua’s national beers.
After lunch we went to a tour company called Quetzaltrekkers, run by volunteers with all profits going to a charity to benefit street children. Our mission: to book a tour for tomorrow. More specifically, our tentative mission was to book a volcano surfing tour. Apparently there is a big volcano calle Cerro Negro near here – they’ve invented an ‘extreme sport’ where one climbs to the top and then surfs or toboggans down to the bottom. We thought we wanted to go but also thought it sounded scary. The man in the office persuaded us. Sort of. We handed over our thousands of Cordobas, and felt rather scared about 8am tomorrow morning…
And with that, we returned to the hotel, where I am writing this, before we venture out again, to the very pleasing city of Leon.
Tuesday 4 January 2011
In which Layla and Roz travel the Rotes de las Flores and have to forego dessert.
by Layla.
The day got off to an unpromising start with me vomiting and feeling very green indeed. By the time I summoned the energy to wobble down the hill to the cool artisan café from the day before, I felt able to manage a cup of mint tea, while trying studiously not to look at Roz’s pancakes, and keeping one eye on the café’s bathroom… Luckily, possibly with the help of some Dramamine medication from the local pharmacy, there were no further incidents. Roz and I settled down to read and then had a little stroll around the square, before returning to our hotel, grabbing our bags, and tottering down the hill again to the bus stop. Despite ailments, Ataco was a beautiful town and our favourite place in El Salvador so far. It was with some sorrow that we hopped on the 249 (or as easily as one can hop on an old American school bus with a turnstile, carrying two suitcases, two rucksacks and two handbags). Next destination: Juayua, another mountain town on the Ruta de las Flores.
Upon arrival half an hour later, on a very crowded bus, we did not have an initially good first impression. It was crowded, dirty, stressful, and confusing. We fought our way through a covered market and located our hotel, the Hostel Anhouac. Which in fact turned out not to be our hotel after all. Despite my booking ahead, and indeed them having my name written down, they had nevertheless given our room to someone else. Feeling sick and peeved, I got rather irate about this til a nice Canadian family told us the same had happened to them the previous night, and we were directed down the road a few blocks to a similar establishment, Casa Mazeta, which did have a room.
We walked down to the main square in search of a late lunch, only to find that Central America’s best food festival is no place for a quiet snack. The place was absolutely mobbed, with thumping music and crowds aplenty, sitting at innumerable outside stalls eating all sorts of food. Neither of our stomachs were quite up to the chaos. We retreated to a supermarket, acquired bread, cheese, yoghurt and fruit, and lunched in the garden of our new hostel. Well, Roz lunched; I ate most of a yoghurt before feeling ill. Roz sent me for a nap, and read her book in the sun (fortunately for her, she was completely absorbed by it).
Later we decided to brave Juayua again. It was still extremely busy but we located a very cool little café/bar, El Cadejo. The artwork was cool, the cocktails excellent, the food plain and familiar enough to tempt our complaining stomachs, and most pleasingly, it seemed to be a word game hub. We commandeered an ancient Scrabble board and launched into a game, with hummous and mohitos to fuel our efforts. Annoyingly someone moved our board and ruined it before we could finish the game. We started another game and ordered more food. As we ate our food (or attempted to; our stomachs both protested even at tomato soup and pasta and pesto), our second game was knocked over. We admitted defeat and retired to our room where the thumping music from the town centre’s food festival kept us (well, Roz) awake into the small hours. We were not convinced about Juayua.
We felt rather better about the town the next morning. We were up early and back to the Hotel Anhouac, as many tours in the area are run by them. We were planning to go on a 6 hour hike through waterfalls. The more we thought about it, the more foolish it sounded, particularly given recent ailments, failure to keep down food, and the need to walk in knee deep water without appropriate footwear. We deliberated confusedly over pancakes at Hotel Anhouac, til the same Canadian family came to the rescue: they’d arranged another trip, rather less hardcore, to a set of waterfalls called Los Chorros de Caleta. We accepted happily, and suddenly Juayua started to look up. As the trip didn’t leave til later, we went down to the market in quest of a set of earphones for Roz, who’d left hers at Tacuba, frustratingly as she is keen on listening to audiobooks (particularly on buses). A quick look around revealed only fruit and tourist tat. We asked a stallholder. Like a man whose sole dream is to be helpful, he left his stall and led us to a shop where another very nice man sold us some ideal earphones. Inspired, we returned to our hostel to find Roz’s watch, which needed a new battery. Another visit to the market and another cheery stallholder walked us to a watch shop, where a battery was duly fitted. We wandered back to Hotel Anhouac through the pretty town square, now much lovelier since the food festival crowds of yesterday had dissipated, and felt really very cheery.
The waterfall walk was also very cheery: through town, then down through coffee plantations to see a series of impressive and pretty waterfalls in a pretty, secluded setting. When we got to the last waterfall, the Canadians decided to swim and jumped in the waterfall pool. Roz and I stood, deterred by the hassle of changing into swimming gear, the prospect of icy water, and the large number of Salvadorean boys (who, to be fair, were more interested in the Canadian girls… though we didn’t appreciate their mother advising us of this, as though we were no longer alluring to a Salvadorean boy!). But eventually we couldn’t resist and I jumped in, in my clothes, followed closely by Roz. We had a lovely, fun time swimming in the waterfall pool, including going underneath the waterfall, and returned very cheerily (and soggily) to our hostel.
We’d meant to stay in Juayua two nights but as the tour had finished by lunchtime we decided to press on to the capital, San Salvador. After a quick pizza lunch, we caught a bus to Sonsonate, and then located the 205 bus terminal to San Salvador – a busy building with two options: normal bus, or posh executive one. We decided to splash out ($1.50 each!) and had a smooth, air conditioned ride to the big city, an hour and a half away.
First impressions were that San Salvador is busy and enamoured of motorway-like roads. We grabbed a taxi from the bus station to the hotel we’d reserved in one of the safest areas of town, the Zona Rosa. I was a little disappointed to find that Suitas Las Palmas turned out to be on one of these motorway-like roads, as it didn’t feel at all like a neighbourhood. In fact it was bustling with fast food joints and nightclubs.
We settled into our rather nice room, partook of our free drink at a deserted hotel bar, and then headed out into the night. In fact, just round the corner to a much acclaimed restaurant (by Frommers guidebook, whose judgement is not to be relied upon); the restaurant, Ala Nuestro, did turn out to be posh and lovely, though rather deserted – for most of the meal we were the only customers; we sat outside, overlooking the twinkling lights of the city. The mohitos were good, but while the gnocci and risotto both seemed lovely, our stomachs – which we’d thought had recovered – put up a new protest and we were forced to leave some on our plates and, horrors, not have dessert. After dinner we returned to the hotel for a Moth podcast before bed.
The day got off to an unpromising start with me vomiting and feeling very green indeed. By the time I summoned the energy to wobble down the hill to the cool artisan café from the day before, I felt able to manage a cup of mint tea, while trying studiously not to look at Roz’s pancakes, and keeping one eye on the café’s bathroom… Luckily, possibly with the help of some Dramamine medication from the local pharmacy, there were no further incidents. Roz and I settled down to read and then had a little stroll around the square, before returning to our hotel, grabbing our bags, and tottering down the hill again to the bus stop. Despite ailments, Ataco was a beautiful town and our favourite place in El Salvador so far. It was with some sorrow that we hopped on the 249 (or as easily as one can hop on an old American school bus with a turnstile, carrying two suitcases, two rucksacks and two handbags). Next destination: Juayua, another mountain town on the Ruta de las Flores.
Upon arrival half an hour later, on a very crowded bus, we did not have an initially good first impression. It was crowded, dirty, stressful, and confusing. We fought our way through a covered market and located our hotel, the Hostel Anhouac. Which in fact turned out not to be our hotel after all. Despite my booking ahead, and indeed them having my name written down, they had nevertheless given our room to someone else. Feeling sick and peeved, I got rather irate about this til a nice Canadian family told us the same had happened to them the previous night, and we were directed down the road a few blocks to a similar establishment, Casa Mazeta, which did have a room.
We walked down to the main square in search of a late lunch, only to find that Central America’s best food festival is no place for a quiet snack. The place was absolutely mobbed, with thumping music and crowds aplenty, sitting at innumerable outside stalls eating all sorts of food. Neither of our stomachs were quite up to the chaos. We retreated to a supermarket, acquired bread, cheese, yoghurt and fruit, and lunched in the garden of our new hostel. Well, Roz lunched; I ate most of a yoghurt before feeling ill. Roz sent me for a nap, and read her book in the sun (fortunately for her, she was completely absorbed by it).
Later we decided to brave Juayua again. It was still extremely busy but we located a very cool little café/bar, El Cadejo. The artwork was cool, the cocktails excellent, the food plain and familiar enough to tempt our complaining stomachs, and most pleasingly, it seemed to be a word game hub. We commandeered an ancient Scrabble board and launched into a game, with hummous and mohitos to fuel our efforts. Annoyingly someone moved our board and ruined it before we could finish the game. We started another game and ordered more food. As we ate our food (or attempted to; our stomachs both protested even at tomato soup and pasta and pesto), our second game was knocked over. We admitted defeat and retired to our room where the thumping music from the town centre’s food festival kept us (well, Roz) awake into the small hours. We were not convinced about Juayua.
We felt rather better about the town the next morning. We were up early and back to the Hotel Anhouac, as many tours in the area are run by them. We were planning to go on a 6 hour hike through waterfalls. The more we thought about it, the more foolish it sounded, particularly given recent ailments, failure to keep down food, and the need to walk in knee deep water without appropriate footwear. We deliberated confusedly over pancakes at Hotel Anhouac, til the same Canadian family came to the rescue: they’d arranged another trip, rather less hardcore, to a set of waterfalls called Los Chorros de Caleta. We accepted happily, and suddenly Juayua started to look up. As the trip didn’t leave til later, we went down to the market in quest of a set of earphones for Roz, who’d left hers at Tacuba, frustratingly as she is keen on listening to audiobooks (particularly on buses). A quick look around revealed only fruit and tourist tat. We asked a stallholder. Like a man whose sole dream is to be helpful, he left his stall and led us to a shop where another very nice man sold us some ideal earphones. Inspired, we returned to our hostel to find Roz’s watch, which needed a new battery. Another visit to the market and another cheery stallholder walked us to a watch shop, where a battery was duly fitted. We wandered back to Hotel Anhouac through the pretty town square, now much lovelier since the food festival crowds of yesterday had dissipated, and felt really very cheery.
The waterfall walk was also very cheery: through town, then down through coffee plantations to see a series of impressive and pretty waterfalls in a pretty, secluded setting. When we got to the last waterfall, the Canadians decided to swim and jumped in the waterfall pool. Roz and I stood, deterred by the hassle of changing into swimming gear, the prospect of icy water, and the large number of Salvadorean boys (who, to be fair, were more interested in the Canadian girls… though we didn’t appreciate their mother advising us of this, as though we were no longer alluring to a Salvadorean boy!). But eventually we couldn’t resist and I jumped in, in my clothes, followed closely by Roz. We had a lovely, fun time swimming in the waterfall pool, including going underneath the waterfall, and returned very cheerily (and soggily) to our hostel.
We’d meant to stay in Juayua two nights but as the tour had finished by lunchtime we decided to press on to the capital, San Salvador. After a quick pizza lunch, we caught a bus to Sonsonate, and then located the 205 bus terminal to San Salvador – a busy building with two options: normal bus, or posh executive one. We decided to splash out ($1.50 each!) and had a smooth, air conditioned ride to the big city, an hour and a half away.
First impressions were that San Salvador is busy and enamoured of motorway-like roads. We grabbed a taxi from the bus station to the hotel we’d reserved in one of the safest areas of town, the Zona Rosa. I was a little disappointed to find that Suitas Las Palmas turned out to be on one of these motorway-like roads, as it didn’t feel at all like a neighbourhood. In fact it was bustling with fast food joints and nightclubs.
We settled into our rather nice room, partook of our free drink at a deserted hotel bar, and then headed out into the night. In fact, just round the corner to a much acclaimed restaurant (by Frommers guidebook, whose judgement is not to be relied upon); the restaurant, Ala Nuestro, did turn out to be posh and lovely, though rather deserted – for most of the meal we were the only customers; we sat outside, overlooking the twinkling lights of the city. The mohitos were good, but while the gnocci and risotto both seemed lovely, our stomachs – which we’d thought had recovered – put up a new protest and we were forced to leave some on our plates and, horrors, not have dessert. After dinner we returned to the hotel for a Moth podcast before bed.
Sunday 2 January 2011
In which Roz and Layla do some 'imposible' hiking, sample local gastronomic specialties, and Roz learns to be more sympathetic
by Roz
We woke comparatively early on New Year’s Day, all set for our hike. Well, when I say all set, Layla was looking distinctly nervous… First off, breakfast time. Oddly, the breakfasts were rather good (eggs, beans, pancakes, fruit, juice, coffee), which made us rather wonder why we’d been condemned to rice the night before, so we filled up and chatted about plans for the next decade (!) with some nice American girls staying at the hotel who we’d met the night before. And thus it was at half-past eight on New Year’s Day, hangover-free, we were ready to hike Park Impossible (a national rainforest).
A short drive and we were deposited at the start of the walk with our guide, who carried (reassuringly or otherwise, depending on one’s perspective, a large cutlass). As we set off, Layla enquired whether much of the route was uphill. He nodded vigorously and she looked depressed. The guide then informed us that the area is called “Impossible” because the hill is impossible to climb. Layla looked horrified and I must admit that I internally raised an eyebrow. Fifteen minutes in, Layla’s face was bright red and she didn’t look happy. I enquired whether she was sick or it was an issue of fitness. She claimed it was a combination of both and I gave her the benefit of the doubt, and adjusted my face to look appropriately sympathetic. After we’d gulped down some water, we carried on. Layla continued to suffer, though I must admit that I was having a lovely time, since the park / rainforest was absolutely beautiful. It was, therefore, with a heavy heart that, about forty minutes into the walk that I suggested that we tell the guide we needed to go back: Layla looked just too miserable. She reluctantly agreed. The guide, however, had other ideas. He ruled out going back and suggested that he take us on a shorter and easier route and that we have more stops (“there is no need to suffer”). And this saved the day. The route got noticeably easier and Layla’s face returned to its normal colour, whilst I continued to feel very happy, gazing at the amazing scenery on the route. A particular highlight was climbing through the undergrowth to reach a point from which, in the distance, we could see the Pacific (my first sighting of it!). The waves were so far away they almost looked like clouds and it was spectacular.
The guide himself was very sweet, too, pointing out things of interest (and sometimes things of not so much interest!). I particularly enjoyed the moment when he used his cutlass to cut off a long cane (called, we later learned, Crystal Cane), shave off the outer bit and then presented it to us to eat. Initially doubtful, it turned out to be delicious.
The shorter route (which was admittedly still five hours) meant we were back at the hotel at 2. We decided that this was a good prompt to move on and so, some hasty packing, accompanied by beers, and we were all set to go and stay in Ataco, one of the towns on what’s known as the Ruta de las Flores. And what a good decision it turned out to be. Having checked in at a hotel (alas for Layla at the top of a hill!), we wandered into the centre of town. Ataco is known for being an artisan town and has huge murals on walls, as well as shops selling local crafts. We went into a café / dessert bar / art place for coffee and a slice of cake. Sitting in a cobbled courtyard and next to a pretty garden, we congratulated ourselves on coming to Ataco. We then wandered on through the pretty cobbled streets and finally towards the main square which had a food festival (a regular weekend feature of towns along the Ruta de las Flores). It was exceptionally jolly wandering around the festival, as dusk fell, contemplating (and indeed consuming) local delicacies (including corn on the cob, with cheese and sauce) and generally people watching. After a little more wandering we settled ourselves in a café on the square, and drank liquados. Being the late hour of 6.45 (we still haven’t adjusted to Central American time) we decided dinner was in order. We went to a French place that we’d spotted earlier and which was recommended in a couple of the guidebooks and ate savoury crepes. (It’s curious that Ataco seems to be quite enthusiastic about French cuisine, whilst Suchitoto, for example, was all about Italian food.) It was quite jolly, though there was a mad large group also there.
And from there, it was off to bed. And it would have been what my mother-in-law would describe as a golden day, had I not been woken in the night to the sound of Layla being violently sick. I fear that I should have been more sympathetic on our hike when Layla said that she thought she really was ill…
We woke comparatively early on New Year’s Day, all set for our hike. Well, when I say all set, Layla was looking distinctly nervous… First off, breakfast time. Oddly, the breakfasts were rather good (eggs, beans, pancakes, fruit, juice, coffee), which made us rather wonder why we’d been condemned to rice the night before, so we filled up and chatted about plans for the next decade (!) with some nice American girls staying at the hotel who we’d met the night before. And thus it was at half-past eight on New Year’s Day, hangover-free, we were ready to hike Park Impossible (a national rainforest).
A short drive and we were deposited at the start of the walk with our guide, who carried (reassuringly or otherwise, depending on one’s perspective, a large cutlass). As we set off, Layla enquired whether much of the route was uphill. He nodded vigorously and she looked depressed. The guide then informed us that the area is called “Impossible” because the hill is impossible to climb. Layla looked horrified and I must admit that I internally raised an eyebrow. Fifteen minutes in, Layla’s face was bright red and she didn’t look happy. I enquired whether she was sick or it was an issue of fitness. She claimed it was a combination of both and I gave her the benefit of the doubt, and adjusted my face to look appropriately sympathetic. After we’d gulped down some water, we carried on. Layla continued to suffer, though I must admit that I was having a lovely time, since the park / rainforest was absolutely beautiful. It was, therefore, with a heavy heart that, about forty minutes into the walk that I suggested that we tell the guide we needed to go back: Layla looked just too miserable. She reluctantly agreed. The guide, however, had other ideas. He ruled out going back and suggested that he take us on a shorter and easier route and that we have more stops (“there is no need to suffer”). And this saved the day. The route got noticeably easier and Layla’s face returned to its normal colour, whilst I continued to feel very happy, gazing at the amazing scenery on the route. A particular highlight was climbing through the undergrowth to reach a point from which, in the distance, we could see the Pacific (my first sighting of it!). The waves were so far away they almost looked like clouds and it was spectacular.
The guide himself was very sweet, too, pointing out things of interest (and sometimes things of not so much interest!). I particularly enjoyed the moment when he used his cutlass to cut off a long cane (called, we later learned, Crystal Cane), shave off the outer bit and then presented it to us to eat. Initially doubtful, it turned out to be delicious.
The shorter route (which was admittedly still five hours) meant we were back at the hotel at 2. We decided that this was a good prompt to move on and so, some hasty packing, accompanied by beers, and we were all set to go and stay in Ataco, one of the towns on what’s known as the Ruta de las Flores. And what a good decision it turned out to be. Having checked in at a hotel (alas for Layla at the top of a hill!), we wandered into the centre of town. Ataco is known for being an artisan town and has huge murals on walls, as well as shops selling local crafts. We went into a café / dessert bar / art place for coffee and a slice of cake. Sitting in a cobbled courtyard and next to a pretty garden, we congratulated ourselves on coming to Ataco. We then wandered on through the pretty cobbled streets and finally towards the main square which had a food festival (a regular weekend feature of towns along the Ruta de las Flores). It was exceptionally jolly wandering around the festival, as dusk fell, contemplating (and indeed consuming) local delicacies (including corn on the cob, with cheese and sauce) and generally people watching. After a little more wandering we settled ourselves in a café on the square, and drank liquados. Being the late hour of 6.45 (we still haven’t adjusted to Central American time) we decided dinner was in order. We went to a French place that we’d spotted earlier and which was recommended in a couple of the guidebooks and ate savoury crepes. (It’s curious that Ataco seems to be quite enthusiastic about French cuisine, whilst Suchitoto, for example, was all about Italian food.) It was quite jolly, though there was a mad large group also there.
And from there, it was off to bed. And it would have been what my mother-in-law would describe as a golden day, had I not been woken in the night to the sound of Layla being violently sick. I fear that I should have been more sympathetic on our hike when Layla said that she thought she really was ill…
In which Layla and Roz travel on four buses, seduce their way into some Mayan ruins, and celebrate the new year
by Layla
So we found the Hotel Torremolinos. Which was entirely deserted. Nevertheless we ordered cocktails, which were horrible, and spaghetti, which tasted as though it came out of a tin. As tumbleweed blew past, we polished off our meal and headed for our room. It was 7:30. We couldn’t possibly go to sleep. And yet there seemed little else to do but read, and Roz had already polished off two books that day (and was becoming concerned she would run out of reading material). We looked at each other, flummoxed. Until Roz came up with the excellent idea of listening to The Moth podcasts, recorded in the USA (we go to hear it live when in New York). We listened to a selection of interesting and amusing true stories, told without notes, and by the time it really was bedtime, we felt we’d had rather a good evening.
Alas for Roz, the night was interrupted by a dodgy stomach (punished for suggesting the need for a private bathroom, perhaps), and she felt a tad grotty this morning. But we wandered down to the lake and gazed out over the water, mercifully now free of disco music (though the adjacent drilling persisted). And we had some orange juice, before deciding we’d completed our lake experience and it was time to depart. So we paid, stepped outside, and waited for the first of four buses that we were to take today.
The first, from Lake Coatepeque to Santa Ana (El Salvador’s second city) was quite pleasant – breezy and fairly comfy in an old American school bus. It was really rather lovely to pass through, at a reasonable pace, local towns and cities and see a tiny bit of daily life. Once in Santa Ana we walked down scorching streets (devoid of cafes that we could find, alas), to the bus stop in quest of our second bus, which rather conveniently was waiting for us. Indeed, having spotted us staggering along the street laden with luggage, they continued to wait as we dragged our suitcases across the street and very kindly heaved them on board for us. A much busier bus this time, to the Tazumal ruins. We got off at the neighbouring town, Chalchuapa, 45 minutes later in the hope that it would have a lovely café as promised by our out-of-date Lonely Planet book; we ended up eating chips at the local version of Kentucky Fried Chicken which was at least plain and fairly familiar for Roz’s still dodgy stomach… and guiltily rather pleasant!
After lunch we tried to catch a bus to the ruins, but after ten minutes in scorching sunlight there was no sign of one so we decided to walk. Fortunately, as it turned out, as we soon realised it was only five minutes away! We walked down the road, complete with luggage, and came upon the gates of Tazumal, site of ancient Mayan ruin. Where things didn’t look quite right… Further exploration revealed that it had closed an hour ago, due to it being new year’s eve. After all that effort! We almost wept. And then I put on my sweetest face and best broken Spanish and explained to the guard that it was our lifelong dream to see Tazumal and this was the only opportunity in our whole life to do so. The man was eventually persuaded. He unlocked the gates and told us we had fifteen minutes. We zoomed in with glee and admired the little pyramid complex with all the more relish, given how nearly we’d missed seeing it… Roz was particularly excited, these being her first Mayan ruins.
After the pyramid, we stopped for ice cream at a nearby shop, then caught the bus to a town called Ahuachapan, which took another 30 minutes. Upon getting off we sought the bus to Tacuba, our final destination. There was indeed a bus but it was crammed full. With our large suitcases we stood waiting for the next one. In the meantime a man almost persuaded us to pay for him to take us in his pickup truck before Roz had a vision of us being abducted and we felt rather foolish for thinking this plan a good idea. So we hopped out again, in time to catch the next Tacuba bus. We had to sit separately and Roz started listening to a book on her iPhone. Which meant she was entirely oblivious to the little drama playing out behind her. A fellow passenger clearly enjoyed the site of my slightly burnt red skin and started chatting me up in Spanish. I chose to not understand: ‘no entiendo’. He kept on. I repeated ‘no entiendo’. He sidled closer. I inched away. He put his hand on my shoulder. I slapped it. He started talking again. I said ‘silencio’! He then stood next to me pretending to be asleep and falling against my face. I gave him some well placed elbows. Eventually another man on the bus gave me his seat. My suitor continued to pester me, until the poor man in the middle had to spend his whole journey guarding me against him in uber-chivalrous fashion, which he did pleasantly and without any altercation. It was amusing and my guardian very impressive and sweet.
Finally, after 45 minutes, the bus rolled into Tacuba and we walked up the hill in search of the Mama y Papa hostel. We passed a group of folk dancers dressed in big papier mache masks (apparently a new year’s eve celebration); they stopped their performance to ask where we were headed, and a devil pointed us down a street, incongruously in the correct direction.
The Mama y Papa Hostel is basic but pleasant. Mama was horrified that we were vegetarian and tried to send us to a variety of restaurants, all of which happened to be closed as it was New Year’s Eve. So we have just celebrated New Year’s Eve (UK time) in hammocks with beer, made lots of plans for the next year, eaten a big plate of rice, and shall be going to bed to the sound of fireworks and Papa’s guitar… and the promise of an 8 hour hike tomorrow!
So we found the Hotel Torremolinos. Which was entirely deserted. Nevertheless we ordered cocktails, which were horrible, and spaghetti, which tasted as though it came out of a tin. As tumbleweed blew past, we polished off our meal and headed for our room. It was 7:30. We couldn’t possibly go to sleep. And yet there seemed little else to do but read, and Roz had already polished off two books that day (and was becoming concerned she would run out of reading material). We looked at each other, flummoxed. Until Roz came up with the excellent idea of listening to The Moth podcasts, recorded in the USA (we go to hear it live when in New York). We listened to a selection of interesting and amusing true stories, told without notes, and by the time it really was bedtime, we felt we’d had rather a good evening.
Alas for Roz, the night was interrupted by a dodgy stomach (punished for suggesting the need for a private bathroom, perhaps), and she felt a tad grotty this morning. But we wandered down to the lake and gazed out over the water, mercifully now free of disco music (though the adjacent drilling persisted). And we had some orange juice, before deciding we’d completed our lake experience and it was time to depart. So we paid, stepped outside, and waited for the first of four buses that we were to take today.
The first, from Lake Coatepeque to Santa Ana (El Salvador’s second city) was quite pleasant – breezy and fairly comfy in an old American school bus. It was really rather lovely to pass through, at a reasonable pace, local towns and cities and see a tiny bit of daily life. Once in Santa Ana we walked down scorching streets (devoid of cafes that we could find, alas), to the bus stop in quest of our second bus, which rather conveniently was waiting for us. Indeed, having spotted us staggering along the street laden with luggage, they continued to wait as we dragged our suitcases across the street and very kindly heaved them on board for us. A much busier bus this time, to the Tazumal ruins. We got off at the neighbouring town, Chalchuapa, 45 minutes later in the hope that it would have a lovely café as promised by our out-of-date Lonely Planet book; we ended up eating chips at the local version of Kentucky Fried Chicken which was at least plain and fairly familiar for Roz’s still dodgy stomach… and guiltily rather pleasant!
After lunch we tried to catch a bus to the ruins, but after ten minutes in scorching sunlight there was no sign of one so we decided to walk. Fortunately, as it turned out, as we soon realised it was only five minutes away! We walked down the road, complete with luggage, and came upon the gates of Tazumal, site of ancient Mayan ruin. Where things didn’t look quite right… Further exploration revealed that it had closed an hour ago, due to it being new year’s eve. After all that effort! We almost wept. And then I put on my sweetest face and best broken Spanish and explained to the guard that it was our lifelong dream to see Tazumal and this was the only opportunity in our whole life to do so. The man was eventually persuaded. He unlocked the gates and told us we had fifteen minutes. We zoomed in with glee and admired the little pyramid complex with all the more relish, given how nearly we’d missed seeing it… Roz was particularly excited, these being her first Mayan ruins.
After the pyramid, we stopped for ice cream at a nearby shop, then caught the bus to a town called Ahuachapan, which took another 30 minutes. Upon getting off we sought the bus to Tacuba, our final destination. There was indeed a bus but it was crammed full. With our large suitcases we stood waiting for the next one. In the meantime a man almost persuaded us to pay for him to take us in his pickup truck before Roz had a vision of us being abducted and we felt rather foolish for thinking this plan a good idea. So we hopped out again, in time to catch the next Tacuba bus. We had to sit separately and Roz started listening to a book on her iPhone. Which meant she was entirely oblivious to the little drama playing out behind her. A fellow passenger clearly enjoyed the site of my slightly burnt red skin and started chatting me up in Spanish. I chose to not understand: ‘no entiendo’. He kept on. I repeated ‘no entiendo’. He sidled closer. I inched away. He put his hand on my shoulder. I slapped it. He started talking again. I said ‘silencio’! He then stood next to me pretending to be asleep and falling against my face. I gave him some well placed elbows. Eventually another man on the bus gave me his seat. My suitor continued to pester me, until the poor man in the middle had to spend his whole journey guarding me against him in uber-chivalrous fashion, which he did pleasantly and without any altercation. It was amusing and my guardian very impressive and sweet.
Finally, after 45 minutes, the bus rolled into Tacuba and we walked up the hill in search of the Mama y Papa hostel. We passed a group of folk dancers dressed in big papier mache masks (apparently a new year’s eve celebration); they stopped their performance to ask where we were headed, and a devil pointed us down a street, incongruously in the correct direction.
The Mama y Papa Hostel is basic but pleasant. Mama was horrified that we were vegetarian and tried to send us to a variety of restaurants, all of which happened to be closed as it was New Year’s Eve. So we have just celebrated New Year’s Eve (UK time) in hammocks with beer, made lots of plans for the next year, eaten a big plate of rice, and shall be going to bed to the sound of fireworks and Papa’s guitar… and the promise of an 8 hour hike tomorrow!
In which Layla and Roz laze in hammocks and swim in a volcanic crater lake
By Layla
We spent our final evening in Suchitoto dining in Las Puertas, the other posh hotel with restaurant. We sat out on the square and watched the town go about its business while sipping cocktails and eating incongruous (but very nice indeed) Italian food. Pleasing. And then headed home trying to trick ourselves into not being jetlagged. Alas we failed; we were both sound asleep by… ahem… 9pm.
This of course meant that we were up at the crack of dawn, and used the time to sort out our kitchen installation via Skype from the patio of the Artex café on the Suchitoto main square. Again incongruous: arguing over work surfaces and cupboard space while the church clock loudly chimed the hour, the ice cream seller rang the bell on his cart, and the tortilla van played loud music as it circled the square. Mission accomplished, we returned to our own hotel for our final helping of glorious breakfast. The pancakes they make may well be the best in the world… Back to the Artex Café for a final kitchen argument and then it was farewell to Suchitoto. El Gringo (the American ex-pat guide) picked us up and conveyed us past volcanoes and along the pan-American highway to our next destination, Lake Coatepeque.
I had deliberated long and hard about whether to stay overnight at said Lake. The guidebook said it was unmissable – a beautiful, ‘pristine’ lake in a volcanic crater with lovely little hotels, with great swimming and kayaking. All the rich El Salvadoreans have their summer house here, including former presidents. It was a certain amount of drama and expense to get there, so when El Gringo deposited us on the doorstep of Hostel Amacuilac we didn’t like to voice our trepidation. It looked a tad dodgy, after the glamour of Los Almendros. And they’d given the private room with bathroom which we’d booked to someone else. Pleasingly El Gringo saved us from our resigned acceptance of the rather miserable dorm room and after some vehement conversation in Spanish he got the manager to agree to move the people in the private room to our rather less salubrious dorm, and make us something vegetarian for lunch. We waved farewell to El Gringo and his language skills, and launched ourselves into a land of Spanish-only conversation.
We settled ourselves at a little table overlooking the lake, which was indeed rather pretty. However not especially more so than Lake Suchitlan, despite the hype. And furthermore the adjacent dock was home to a bar containing a hundred Ibiza-style partiers, complete with thumping music. As though to add to this vibe, an array of speedboats pumping competing music zoomed around. A few jetskis contributed to the cacophony. We’d come for serenity and seemed to have found Ibiza. Alas. I begged forgiveness from Roz. She sniggered.
We got increasingly grumpy, then realised this was because they still hadn’t brought lunch. After a full hour of preparation, a hard potato with a little tomato sauce was produced for each of us. They proudly asked how we liked it. “Mmmmm” said we. It may not have been gourmet, but it cheered us up, and we settled comfortably into hammocks overlooking the lake, reading our books and drinking beer in a shady patio with a beautiful lake view. Later we realised we’d better start indulging in the aquatic delights we’d come for. The hotel people retrieved another hotel guest to translate the news that we shouldn’t kayak as the water was choppy. It didn’t look very choppy, and feeling responsible for ensuring Roz had a good time in this bizarre resort, we hired a dugout canoe.
Luckily it wasn’t actually very choppy and we had a lovely time paddling up the coastline where we spotted several other club-style docks, and a rather odd potential dinner destination before heading back to our hostel. We settled back into our hammocks, but both of us knew in the back of our minds that one of our main reasons for going to the Lake was our enthusiasm to swim in a volcanic crater. When it came to it, we didn’t feel very tempted… and then a group of gung-ho American surfers appeared, fellow hostel guests who launched themselves vigorously off the pier, and down the slide into the water. We decided to brave it. I am a wuss, and Roz is a wuss who has never been on a slide before, on water or land. Clearly it was up to me to go first. With much terror, Roz followed. The surfers enjoyed our shrieks as we shot down the chute and into the chilly water. And, in fact, we enjoyed ourselves. The water wasn't quite as chilly as the waterfall, and we had some cheery chat with the Americans.
After our swim, we returned to our books and hammocks. Soon the hotel staff informed us that they had just told the people in the private room to swap. I was mortified when I realised it was the same surfers, and that they were somewhat dismayed at having to pack, and losing their private bathroom, TV, fan and nicer décor. I felt some desperate need to justify moving them with something other than ‘we’re very precious and demand nice surroundings’. Which is how I somehow got them thinking that one or both of us have some mysterious issue that means we need a private bathroom. Oh dear… They duly swapped, feeling virtuous, and we settled guiltily into a much nicer room. The shame.
We now lie antisocially in said room, listening to the drunken shouts and cheers of our hostel-mates through paper-thin walls, and contemplating a walk in search of Hotel Torremolinos and its allegedly rather good restaurant… A curious day – but quite jolly, all in all.
We spent our final evening in Suchitoto dining in Las Puertas, the other posh hotel with restaurant. We sat out on the square and watched the town go about its business while sipping cocktails and eating incongruous (but very nice indeed) Italian food. Pleasing. And then headed home trying to trick ourselves into not being jetlagged. Alas we failed; we were both sound asleep by… ahem… 9pm.
This of course meant that we were up at the crack of dawn, and used the time to sort out our kitchen installation via Skype from the patio of the Artex café on the Suchitoto main square. Again incongruous: arguing over work surfaces and cupboard space while the church clock loudly chimed the hour, the ice cream seller rang the bell on his cart, and the tortilla van played loud music as it circled the square. Mission accomplished, we returned to our own hotel for our final helping of glorious breakfast. The pancakes they make may well be the best in the world… Back to the Artex Café for a final kitchen argument and then it was farewell to Suchitoto. El Gringo (the American ex-pat guide) picked us up and conveyed us past volcanoes and along the pan-American highway to our next destination, Lake Coatepeque.
I had deliberated long and hard about whether to stay overnight at said Lake. The guidebook said it was unmissable – a beautiful, ‘pristine’ lake in a volcanic crater with lovely little hotels, with great swimming and kayaking. All the rich El Salvadoreans have their summer house here, including former presidents. It was a certain amount of drama and expense to get there, so when El Gringo deposited us on the doorstep of Hostel Amacuilac we didn’t like to voice our trepidation. It looked a tad dodgy, after the glamour of Los Almendros. And they’d given the private room with bathroom which we’d booked to someone else. Pleasingly El Gringo saved us from our resigned acceptance of the rather miserable dorm room and after some vehement conversation in Spanish he got the manager to agree to move the people in the private room to our rather less salubrious dorm, and make us something vegetarian for lunch. We waved farewell to El Gringo and his language skills, and launched ourselves into a land of Spanish-only conversation.
We settled ourselves at a little table overlooking the lake, which was indeed rather pretty. However not especially more so than Lake Suchitlan, despite the hype. And furthermore the adjacent dock was home to a bar containing a hundred Ibiza-style partiers, complete with thumping music. As though to add to this vibe, an array of speedboats pumping competing music zoomed around. A few jetskis contributed to the cacophony. We’d come for serenity and seemed to have found Ibiza. Alas. I begged forgiveness from Roz. She sniggered.
We got increasingly grumpy, then realised this was because they still hadn’t brought lunch. After a full hour of preparation, a hard potato with a little tomato sauce was produced for each of us. They proudly asked how we liked it. “Mmmmm” said we. It may not have been gourmet, but it cheered us up, and we settled comfortably into hammocks overlooking the lake, reading our books and drinking beer in a shady patio with a beautiful lake view. Later we realised we’d better start indulging in the aquatic delights we’d come for. The hotel people retrieved another hotel guest to translate the news that we shouldn’t kayak as the water was choppy. It didn’t look very choppy, and feeling responsible for ensuring Roz had a good time in this bizarre resort, we hired a dugout canoe.
Luckily it wasn’t actually very choppy and we had a lovely time paddling up the coastline where we spotted several other club-style docks, and a rather odd potential dinner destination before heading back to our hostel. We settled back into our hammocks, but both of us knew in the back of our minds that one of our main reasons for going to the Lake was our enthusiasm to swim in a volcanic crater. When it came to it, we didn’t feel very tempted… and then a group of gung-ho American surfers appeared, fellow hostel guests who launched themselves vigorously off the pier, and down the slide into the water. We decided to brave it. I am a wuss, and Roz is a wuss who has never been on a slide before, on water or land. Clearly it was up to me to go first. With much terror, Roz followed. The surfers enjoyed our shrieks as we shot down the chute and into the chilly water. And, in fact, we enjoyed ourselves. The water wasn't quite as chilly as the waterfall, and we had some cheery chat with the Americans.
After our swim, we returned to our books and hammocks. Soon the hotel staff informed us that they had just told the people in the private room to swap. I was mortified when I realised it was the same surfers, and that they were somewhat dismayed at having to pack, and losing their private bathroom, TV, fan and nicer décor. I felt some desperate need to justify moving them with something other than ‘we’re very precious and demand nice surroundings’. Which is how I somehow got them thinking that one or both of us have some mysterious issue that means we need a private bathroom. Oh dear… They duly swapped, feeling virtuous, and we settled guiltily into a much nicer room. The shame.
We now lie antisocially in said room, listening to the drunken shouts and cheers of our hostel-mates through paper-thin walls, and contemplating a walk in search of Hotel Torremolinos and its allegedly rather good restaurant… A curious day – but quite jolly, all in all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)