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…