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.
Thursday, 6 January 2011
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.
Thursday, 30 December 2010
In which Roz and Layla climb a hill, look at remnants of the civil war, and learn about iguanas
by Roz
After Layla had finished blogging, I’d finished my beer(s) and we had soaked up enough of the ambience of the lovely main square, we went off in search of dinner. We contemplated a number of options, all of which looked good – but exceptionally quiet. Having been informed by the guidebooks that Salvadorians eat early, we couldn’t quite work out whether this was due to Christmas holidays or a faux pas in terms of our timing. We therefore decided to mooch back through the lovely cobbled streets to our very fancy hotel for even fancier cocktails and food. And once we’d consumed our first two mohitos in a little courtyard with lots of fairy lights and a couple of water features, we were clear we’d made the right call. We were, however, less certain when a group of musicians appeared; Layla and I are not what one would describe as musical at the best of times. But, in fact, the musicians were very good and all in all it was very jolly. The food was good too – even if not especially Salvadorian.
Alas even the combination of food, cocktails and music couldn’t keep us up late – jet lag called us to bed at an unfashionably early hour. But as we went to bed, we consoled ourselves we were making the right decision, since we would need our strength for hiking the next day. And the next day, even after a very good night’s sleep, the fear of what was to come was certainly the reason why we consumed a number of delicious fluffy pancakes for breakfast…
We then rolled out onto the street to be collected by our guide (the American ex pat we met yesterday) – and his Salvadorean wife - in a pick-up truck. We were off for a hike in Cinquera Park, an aspiring national park which is currently run by a collective of enthusiasts lobbying for national park status. The 40-minute journey passed very pleasantly with me asking nerdy questions about the Government, the justice system, taxes and so forth. We also established during the ride that our hike could take one of two routes – and that which route we took would depend on our levels of fitness and enthusiasm. Since one involved getting to a look-out point at the top of the park (and, being uphill, was harder), I naturally resolved that this would be the option we would follow and, when we got there, set off at a determined pace. Amusingly the hike turned out to be really quite undaunting, and we kept up easily with the local guide from the park. Our ex-pat guide and his wife had a little more trouble and Layla and I had to work hard not to look back at them smugly as we strode forth. The route turned out to be very pretty and the view from the top was very pleasing – great vistas over volcanoes and the lake. The park itself was interesting both from the perspective of nature and history – since it had been used as a base during the civil war in the 1980s. (We were told a long tale about the naming of a base there, which was mainly pleasing / funny because the American ex-pat guide tried (not very successfully) to lesbianise the anecdote for our benefit.) Our route down had the really rather wonderful added benefit of a waterfall and pool, which we bathed in.
By the time we got to the bottom, lunch was all I could think of. The plan to drive to the nearby hostel / restaurant seemed to be foiled by an inconveniently parked car blocking our truck’s exit. Layla and I settled ourselves on a wall and watched whilst the local guides / ex-pat guide / random others debated how to solve the issue. With impressive resolve and enthusiasm, a solution was identified: to lift the parked car and move it out of the way. Ingenious. And, unlikely though it seemed at the time, successful. This accomplished, we drove off to the restaurant where we consumed a pleasing meal of eggs, rice and beans, washed down with beers and an explanation of how the civil war began (more nerdiness on my part).
Lunch over, we pottered around the town, and saw numerous bits of war memorabilia. I have to say that I’m not quite sure how I’d feel about my town having the remnants of a helicopter on a plinth outside the local church (the latter sporting a mural about their murdered archbishop)… but it was certainly interesting. Our guide then said that he’d heard that a butterfly farm had just opened in the town. It was clear that this was something exciting and so Layla and I therefore made excited and enthusiastic faces. We headed towards the farm, only to see the people in charge of the farm clearly on their way home for the day. Our guide persuaded them to open up for us, and Layla and I prepared ourselves to look impressed / interested at appropriate moments. In fact, it did turn out to be an interesting – and very sweet - place. They also kept iguanas, which I found fascinating (not least because I had, to Layla’s great amusement, always assumed that iguanas were furry mammals). The butterflies were good too, and Layla bobbed round trying to take photos, whilst my focus was rather more prosaic – avoiding the faux pas of stepping on a butterfly. That rather jolly tour at an end, we started off home.
Our journey home was not without excitement mind you. We stopped off at a dry waterfall – apparently made out of hexagonal pieces of basalt from a volcanic eruption, which is exciting because there are only five in the world, or some such. We climbed down a reasonably mild cliff and admired the really rather remarkable natural phenomenon. From there we climbed back on to flat land…to find that if we looked one way we could see the dry waterfall, and if we looked the other, there was a superb view of the large and beautiful lake which we saw a tiny bit of yesterday. Pleasing.
Very happy with our day’s activities we drove back to Suchitito. And I entirely deny any stiffness or tiredness now, as I sit in the hotel bar with a beer and type. To acknowledge stiffness would suggest that we were challenged by the hike. And of course that’s not admissible…
After Layla had finished blogging, I’d finished my beer(s) and we had soaked up enough of the ambience of the lovely main square, we went off in search of dinner. We contemplated a number of options, all of which looked good – but exceptionally quiet. Having been informed by the guidebooks that Salvadorians eat early, we couldn’t quite work out whether this was due to Christmas holidays or a faux pas in terms of our timing. We therefore decided to mooch back through the lovely cobbled streets to our very fancy hotel for even fancier cocktails and food. And once we’d consumed our first two mohitos in a little courtyard with lots of fairy lights and a couple of water features, we were clear we’d made the right call. We were, however, less certain when a group of musicians appeared; Layla and I are not what one would describe as musical at the best of times. But, in fact, the musicians were very good and all in all it was very jolly. The food was good too – even if not especially Salvadorian.
Alas even the combination of food, cocktails and music couldn’t keep us up late – jet lag called us to bed at an unfashionably early hour. But as we went to bed, we consoled ourselves we were making the right decision, since we would need our strength for hiking the next day. And the next day, even after a very good night’s sleep, the fear of what was to come was certainly the reason why we consumed a number of delicious fluffy pancakes for breakfast…
We then rolled out onto the street to be collected by our guide (the American ex pat we met yesterday) – and his Salvadorean wife - in a pick-up truck. We were off for a hike in Cinquera Park, an aspiring national park which is currently run by a collective of enthusiasts lobbying for national park status. The 40-minute journey passed very pleasantly with me asking nerdy questions about the Government, the justice system, taxes and so forth. We also established during the ride that our hike could take one of two routes – and that which route we took would depend on our levels of fitness and enthusiasm. Since one involved getting to a look-out point at the top of the park (and, being uphill, was harder), I naturally resolved that this would be the option we would follow and, when we got there, set off at a determined pace. Amusingly the hike turned out to be really quite undaunting, and we kept up easily with the local guide from the park. Our ex-pat guide and his wife had a little more trouble and Layla and I had to work hard not to look back at them smugly as we strode forth. The route turned out to be very pretty and the view from the top was very pleasing – great vistas over volcanoes and the lake. The park itself was interesting both from the perspective of nature and history – since it had been used as a base during the civil war in the 1980s. (We were told a long tale about the naming of a base there, which was mainly pleasing / funny because the American ex-pat guide tried (not very successfully) to lesbianise the anecdote for our benefit.) Our route down had the really rather wonderful added benefit of a waterfall and pool, which we bathed in.
By the time we got to the bottom, lunch was all I could think of. The plan to drive to the nearby hostel / restaurant seemed to be foiled by an inconveniently parked car blocking our truck’s exit. Layla and I settled ourselves on a wall and watched whilst the local guides / ex-pat guide / random others debated how to solve the issue. With impressive resolve and enthusiasm, a solution was identified: to lift the parked car and move it out of the way. Ingenious. And, unlikely though it seemed at the time, successful. This accomplished, we drove off to the restaurant where we consumed a pleasing meal of eggs, rice and beans, washed down with beers and an explanation of how the civil war began (more nerdiness on my part).
Lunch over, we pottered around the town, and saw numerous bits of war memorabilia. I have to say that I’m not quite sure how I’d feel about my town having the remnants of a helicopter on a plinth outside the local church (the latter sporting a mural about their murdered archbishop)… but it was certainly interesting. Our guide then said that he’d heard that a butterfly farm had just opened in the town. It was clear that this was something exciting and so Layla and I therefore made excited and enthusiastic faces. We headed towards the farm, only to see the people in charge of the farm clearly on their way home for the day. Our guide persuaded them to open up for us, and Layla and I prepared ourselves to look impressed / interested at appropriate moments. In fact, it did turn out to be an interesting – and very sweet - place. They also kept iguanas, which I found fascinating (not least because I had, to Layla’s great amusement, always assumed that iguanas were furry mammals). The butterflies were good too, and Layla bobbed round trying to take photos, whilst my focus was rather more prosaic – avoiding the faux pas of stepping on a butterfly. That rather jolly tour at an end, we started off home.
Our journey home was not without excitement mind you. We stopped off at a dry waterfall – apparently made out of hexagonal pieces of basalt from a volcanic eruption, which is exciting because there are only five in the world, or some such. We climbed down a reasonably mild cliff and admired the really rather remarkable natural phenomenon. From there we climbed back on to flat land…to find that if we looked one way we could see the dry waterfall, and if we looked the other, there was a superb view of the large and beautiful lake which we saw a tiny bit of yesterday. Pleasing.
Very happy with our day’s activities we drove back to Suchitito. And I entirely deny any stiffness or tiredness now, as I sit in the hotel bar with a beer and type. To acknowledge stiffness would suggest that we were challenged by the hike. And of course that’s not admissible…
Tuesday, 28 December 2010
In which Layla and Roz embark on an adventure to El Salvador, face down a nocturnal predator, and indulge in many drinks
by Layla
Deciding where to go on holiday for us often involves flicking through our Lonely Planet coffeetable book of every country in the world, and making a selection based on the recommended months to visit, and whether it sounds cool. When Roz came up with El Salvador, I was unconvinced, but the months were right, the war was over, and its claim of being the least visited country in Central America was just too tempting. We booked the flights and ordered the one guidebook that's available for the country. And decided to fly into El Salvador and out of neighbouring Nicaragua, for no particular reason except that we could and it sounded fun. And is the second least visited country in Central America.
With snow closing Heathrow Airport days before our flight, we thought we might be doomed, so it was with glee that we boarded the plane and zoomed across the planet to the delights of Central America.
We arrived last night in trepidation; I had heard too many tales of the complicated nature of San Salvador airport and had braced myself for an hour of customs and passport horrors. In fact there was a short queue, nothing to pay, a quick stamp in our passports, and we were sent on our way. I felt cheated of my stress! We stepped out into the arrivals hall only to find that our hotel transfer was not there (probably because our flight had been revoltingly delayed by one and a half hours). As we stood looking confusedly around, a taxi tout appeared. He asked us if we wanted a taxi; we explained we were waiting for a driver whom we could not find. Said man then called the hotel for us, established the driver ought to be here but was not, and he found us a comfortable big taxi at a fair cost. He was very sweet and I felt fairly confident that if our driver had been there, the tout would have led us to him, rather than trying to poach our business. Soon we were speeding efficiently towards our first destination: Suchitoto.
It was quite a long drive: over an hour in the dark, through the capital and into the hills. Finally, having been travelling now for about 21 hours, we staggered exhaustedly out of the taxi to be greeted by Pascal, former French ambassador, designer, and owner of El Salvador's poshest boutique hotel, Los Almendros de San Lorenzo. After the delights of the posh hotel in Beirut, we have forged a new tradition of spending the first few nights of our holiday somewhere glamorous, and when Pascal greeted us with 'Welcome to Paradise', we knew we had chosen well. We were shown across a courtyard and past a swimming pool to our room... or should I say apartment. It's over two floors, with beautiful, contemporary design, high ceilings, private veranda overlooking Lake Suchitlan, and absolutely fit the bill for 'somewhere glamorous'. We dropped our bags and returned to the bar to sip excellent mohitos before retiring exhaustedly to bed.
I fell straight asleep, but Roz was not so lucky. I was awoken an hour later by a trembling voice. "Layla... I think there's someone in the room... or a rat..." I rubbed my eyes, rather disbelievingly. Like a brave girl I got out of bed and shouted "hello?", ran down the stairs, put on all the lights. "Nope, nobody here!" I shouted reassuringly. In response, a shriek. I leapt back up the stairs, only to see something flying straight towards my head. A bat! I'm afraid my response was to shriek too, dive into bed, and put the covers over my head, where Roz was already cowering. Hmmm a predicament. I really had no idea what to do with a bat, so it was clear that external assistance was required. In terror I got out of bed and tried to call reception, but the phone didn't work. Then Roz, like a hero, got out of bed and went to find some hotel staff. The reception was deserted. But then she spotted a man wandering around the grounds who seemed to be staff, and decided he would have to rescue us. Which he duly did. My description of 'una rata... negro...' and flapping my arms descriptively made him fear for what he was about to encounter. Fortunately, the bat made another appearance, flapping wildly. Roz and I shrieked on cue and shot downstairs, abandoning the man to his fate. Fortunately he rather efficiently disposed of the beast, and we returned to bed, adrenaline pulsing. We really aren't as intrepid as we like to believe!
Up too early this morning with jetlag, we indulged in a glorious breakfast at the hotel, including fresh orange juice, fresh fruit salad, banana pancakes, tea and coffee, eaten in a pretty outside courtyard. And then we ventured out into the quaint cobbled streets of Suchitoto. It is a very sweet little town of art galleries, cafes, a market, and a central square with a big church. We wandered around a little, then headed off on the 1.5km walk downhill to Lake Suchitlan, pausing for a drink at a cafe overlooking the lake. Which was our first introduction to liguados, delicious fruit drinks that I suspect will become a staple. We walked past lots of pretty little houses, most with stencils on their outside walls stating that there was no violence towards women in that house - presumably a campaign, and rather a nice one. Onwards we walked til we reached the lake, and hired a boat and boatman to take us round the lake - very picturesque and serene. Afterwards I topped up my liguado habit, and Roz sampled the local beer, Pilsener. We vaguely thought of walking back up the steep and untempting hill to Suchitoto, but the delightful appearance of a local bus tempted me too much. Grabbing a reluctant Roz, we hopped aboard and were back in Suchitoto ten minutes later, along with a large number of the local population.
Lunchtime! We proceeded to a recommended restaurant owned by 'Gringo' Robert, a US expat, who gave us the local delicacy, pupusas (delicious), two chimichangas, some nachos, some beer... and lots of advice. He also runs a tour company and we arranged a tour tomorrow, which seems to involve climbing up a very mountain and learning about the civil war. My legs hurt at the thought of it...
After lunch we returned to our room for a nap, then had planned to go for a swim. Roz was brave but the water was icy and I just couldn't manage it. After I had bee pathetic for a while, hovering by the water, she emerged and we both got dressed and returned to the main square where we have settled ourselves with beer and liguado in Artex Cafe, complete with Wifi, to watch the world go by and indulge in a little preprandial blogging.
We haven't seen another British person yet, and couldn't be happier!
Deciding where to go on holiday for us often involves flicking through our Lonely Planet coffeetable book of every country in the world, and making a selection based on the recommended months to visit, and whether it sounds cool. When Roz came up with El Salvador, I was unconvinced, but the months were right, the war was over, and its claim of being the least visited country in Central America was just too tempting. We booked the flights and ordered the one guidebook that's available for the country. And decided to fly into El Salvador and out of neighbouring Nicaragua, for no particular reason except that we could and it sounded fun. And is the second least visited country in Central America.
With snow closing Heathrow Airport days before our flight, we thought we might be doomed, so it was with glee that we boarded the plane and zoomed across the planet to the delights of Central America.
We arrived last night in trepidation; I had heard too many tales of the complicated nature of San Salvador airport and had braced myself for an hour of customs and passport horrors. In fact there was a short queue, nothing to pay, a quick stamp in our passports, and we were sent on our way. I felt cheated of my stress! We stepped out into the arrivals hall only to find that our hotel transfer was not there (probably because our flight had been revoltingly delayed by one and a half hours). As we stood looking confusedly around, a taxi tout appeared. He asked us if we wanted a taxi; we explained we were waiting for a driver whom we could not find. Said man then called the hotel for us, established the driver ought to be here but was not, and he found us a comfortable big taxi at a fair cost. He was very sweet and I felt fairly confident that if our driver had been there, the tout would have led us to him, rather than trying to poach our business. Soon we were speeding efficiently towards our first destination: Suchitoto.
It was quite a long drive: over an hour in the dark, through the capital and into the hills. Finally, having been travelling now for about 21 hours, we staggered exhaustedly out of the taxi to be greeted by Pascal, former French ambassador, designer, and owner of El Salvador's poshest boutique hotel, Los Almendros de San Lorenzo. After the delights of the posh hotel in Beirut, we have forged a new tradition of spending the first few nights of our holiday somewhere glamorous, and when Pascal greeted us with 'Welcome to Paradise', we knew we had chosen well. We were shown across a courtyard and past a swimming pool to our room... or should I say apartment. It's over two floors, with beautiful, contemporary design, high ceilings, private veranda overlooking Lake Suchitlan, and absolutely fit the bill for 'somewhere glamorous'. We dropped our bags and returned to the bar to sip excellent mohitos before retiring exhaustedly to bed.
I fell straight asleep, but Roz was not so lucky. I was awoken an hour later by a trembling voice. "Layla... I think there's someone in the room... or a rat..." I rubbed my eyes, rather disbelievingly. Like a brave girl I got out of bed and shouted "hello?", ran down the stairs, put on all the lights. "Nope, nobody here!" I shouted reassuringly. In response, a shriek. I leapt back up the stairs, only to see something flying straight towards my head. A bat! I'm afraid my response was to shriek too, dive into bed, and put the covers over my head, where Roz was already cowering. Hmmm a predicament. I really had no idea what to do with a bat, so it was clear that external assistance was required. In terror I got out of bed and tried to call reception, but the phone didn't work. Then Roz, like a hero, got out of bed and went to find some hotel staff. The reception was deserted. But then she spotted a man wandering around the grounds who seemed to be staff, and decided he would have to rescue us. Which he duly did. My description of 'una rata... negro...' and flapping my arms descriptively made him fear for what he was about to encounter. Fortunately, the bat made another appearance, flapping wildly. Roz and I shrieked on cue and shot downstairs, abandoning the man to his fate. Fortunately he rather efficiently disposed of the beast, and we returned to bed, adrenaline pulsing. We really aren't as intrepid as we like to believe!
Up too early this morning with jetlag, we indulged in a glorious breakfast at the hotel, including fresh orange juice, fresh fruit salad, banana pancakes, tea and coffee, eaten in a pretty outside courtyard. And then we ventured out into the quaint cobbled streets of Suchitoto. It is a very sweet little town of art galleries, cafes, a market, and a central square with a big church. We wandered around a little, then headed off on the 1.5km walk downhill to Lake Suchitlan, pausing for a drink at a cafe overlooking the lake. Which was our first introduction to liguados, delicious fruit drinks that I suspect will become a staple. We walked past lots of pretty little houses, most with stencils on their outside walls stating that there was no violence towards women in that house - presumably a campaign, and rather a nice one. Onwards we walked til we reached the lake, and hired a boat and boatman to take us round the lake - very picturesque and serene. Afterwards I topped up my liguado habit, and Roz sampled the local beer, Pilsener. We vaguely thought of walking back up the steep and untempting hill to Suchitoto, but the delightful appearance of a local bus tempted me too much. Grabbing a reluctant Roz, we hopped aboard and were back in Suchitoto ten minutes later, along with a large number of the local population.
Lunchtime! We proceeded to a recommended restaurant owned by 'Gringo' Robert, a US expat, who gave us the local delicacy, pupusas (delicious), two chimichangas, some nachos, some beer... and lots of advice. He also runs a tour company and we arranged a tour tomorrow, which seems to involve climbing up a very mountain and learning about the civil war. My legs hurt at the thought of it...
After lunch we returned to our room for a nap, then had planned to go for a swim. Roz was brave but the water was icy and I just couldn't manage it. After I had bee pathetic for a while, hovering by the water, she emerged and we both got dressed and returned to the main square where we have settled ourselves with beer and liguado in Artex Cafe, complete with Wifi, to watch the world go by and indulge in a little preprandial blogging.
We haven't seen another British person yet, and couldn't be happier!
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