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…
Sunday, 9 January 2011
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.
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