Beach Bumming in Belize and Living it up in Livingston

After my Guatemalan adventures I was certainly ready for some serious beach action. And where better than the Caribbean?

My first stop was a tiny Island called Caye Caulker, about a half an hour boat ride from Belize City. There are no roads and therefore no cars there, just sandy paths and golf carts. Bliss! This place is so chilled out that if you walk to fast, some big dredlocked Garifuna guy will stop you in your tracks and say 'hey, what da rush girl? chill out, go slow, dis is Belize man, lemme get you some rum punch'

After the hectic markets and chaotic chicken buses of Guate, I didn't need telling twice. Is was like another world. Broken English, Bob Marley, Baggy shorts, Boxfresh trainers, Basketball vests, Beany hats, bandanas and Big fat spiffs. Unpronouncable mayan names were replaced with Lucky, Rocky, Bunny and {my favourite of all} Major

Days were spent snorkling at the reef, surrounded my sharks and Sting Rays, Octopus and Lobster, all set in beautiful colourful coral gardens. I have never seen so many fish in my life. Pink ones, yellow ones, blue green and purple ones, stripey ones and spotty ones, tiny ones and absolutely enormous ones. At sunset everyone would retire to he Lazy Lizard to watch the sunset, where you could dangle your feet in the warm sea, while sitting at the bar sipping panty rippers. Evening ended eating fresh fish from Big Mamas BBQ and succumbing to the sounds of reggaeton.

If that place hadn't broken the bank, I would still be there, but with only $2 Belize to the $1US, it was time to move on. 1 watertaxi, 2 boats, 3 buses and 2 days later and I was back in Guatemala, though not the Guatemala I was used to! Livingston, through friendly enough, was pretty sketchy when you scratched the surface. One night hanging out with the local gangs at Longbeach Bar was enough for me, so when I was offered the last place on a bus to The Bay Islands in Honduras leaving the next morning, I was in.

Granted, the subsequent Tapado (traditional soup with pretty myuch everything sea-dwelling in it) followed by an night bender avec flaming Sambuca, was not the best of ideas, but then again impromptu parties are always the best. When my newly found travel buddies came to ´wake me up´ the following morning I was still propping up the bar and declaring that the full days traveling we had to come, with no sleep whatsoever would be 'no problem at all'.

Thankfully managed to firm the first boatride to Puerto Barrios at sunrise, before passing out on the back of the bus for some well deserved shut eye. I don't remember going through immigration at the Guatemala, Honduras border, though my passport says that I did. With two hours to kill in La Ceiba before the Ferry across to the Island, we found ourselves in a huge US style Mall, sheltering from the pouring rain, succumbing to the temptation of Burger King and Pizza Hut, which I don't mind admitting was absolutely f**king delicious!

Almost there, and pretty much on my last legs, we boarded the Ferry. We should have taken note of the fact that sick bags were being handed out in hand quantities before me had even left the port. 5 minutes later and we all knew why. It was like being on a rollercoaster, but without the safety straps! The boat listed and lurched across the straight, sending people flying across the deck as they puked uncontrollably into their laps.

How I managed not to lose my lunch and decorate the place I have no idea. I put it down to shear determination and willpower, but I was certainly rather green by the time we arrived at Utila dock. We had made it! The next task was to learn how to breath underwater. Joy!

Lounging at the lakes and dicing with death

Well I am just recovering from the shock of nearly losing all my pictures, because of some virus or another, and reflecting on my last two weeks in Guate...

Aldous Huxley said "Lago de Atitlan and its several immense volcanoes is really too much of a good thing. After a few days of this impossible landscapoe one finds oneself thinking nostalgically of the English home counties". Well I can vouch for that. It was simply beautiful, so it is not surprising that my 3 day stay turned into over a week!

Each of the lakeside towns had its own feel and charm. San Juan with its complete lack of tourism, cheap comodors, murals and womens weaving cooperatives. San Pedro, with its party athmosphere reminded me a bit of Thailand. We has a great few days getting drunk on redwine at the Swimming Pool Bar all day and dancing all night to awful music at Freedom bar, downing glow in the dark G&Ts. Lazy morning were spent nursing hangovers and sleepless nights over very late breakfasts, and afternoons were spent swinging in hammocks being a stonehead, glazing at the lake and eating Pan de Banaña.

Across at the other side San Juan was equally as chilled, though we did venture up yet another Volcano once our legs had recovered from the previous hike. It was a hot sweaty battle, but the view at the top were sublime, though short lived, as we were reliable informed by our consciencious guide that bandaderos were loitering nearby ready to relieve of of our cameras or worse. Needless to say, we beat the world record for descent!

San Marcos felt like a hippy commune so i left before I was dressed in tie-die, fed lentils and forced to do a moon dance. Panajachel was more upbeat and tacky, with ´tradiitonal´ xelophone themed bars that kept me awake all night. I was in my element however, pottering about the place purchashing pretty things like they were going out of fashion.

With my back to the lake, I was finally headed for Antigua, stopping off at two great market towns on the way. First was Solola, made famous (here at least) recently, when the towns people decided to take the law into their own hands. çWith no respect for, or trust in Giatemalan police or the country´s judicial system, they decided to burn the town´s police station to the ground, amçnd then publicaly lynch said criminals in the square, burning their bodies in a pile for good measure. All was quiet in the aftermath when i was there, just a heaving local market selling everything from chickens, shoes, dried pasta, industrial sized pots of hair gel, and pretty much anything else you can think of. A burnt out cop car had been turned into a stall selling pirate DVDs and bras. Genius.

Next was Chichcastenango (try saysing that after a few), which was different kettle of fish altogether. This is where all the crasftmen (and women) from across Guate to sell their wares. The town turns into the biggest market around everyweek, the streets jammed with Guatemaltecas busting around in traditional dress, stalls selling jewellery, wood carving, and everything it is possible to make using the traditional material they weave here. bags, cushions, purses, bottlebottle holders...you name it. Everywhere has it nutter though, and the guy entertaining the crowd with his tales of wrestling wild animnals and flogging their innards for their healing properties had to be seen to be believed (he brought the lot along, dried and skinned for reinactment purposes and I assume our beneift)...

Anyway, exhausted and skint in arrived in Antigua, pleasantly surprised that it as not completely packed full of hideous gringos. More partying followed, with roof top cocktails at sunset overlooing the cities three huge surrounding volcanoes and salsa in the evenings. Its a tough life! The city itslef was beautiful, with cobbled streets, a lovely plaza and 24(!) churches. Enough of that. I was there for a reason. Yes you have guessed it. Another Volcano!

I had heard about Pacaya, but nothing could quite prepare me for it. This time it was about the hike, or the altitude, or the vistas. It was about the Lava. There is no way round it. It was completely and uttlerly dangerous. 20 tourists, stumbling about on top of an extremely active volcano at dusk, wobbling around on inch-thick crust taking photos of the huge oozing lava rivers flowing right past us. We toasted marshmellows in the fire as the wind howled and lava crackled under our feet. With meted shoes and hot feet we scrabbled back down in the dark, filthy dirty and totally exhilerated. How they allow it I dont know, but it was incredible.

Mum at this point I suggest a stiff Gin x

Next of the list of extreme adventure was Semuc Champey. Incredibly beautiful and totally unique, it is difficult to describe. From above it looks like series of bright blue and green pools, friged with yellow, shelving down through the dense green jungle that surrounds it, sinking into each other as they flow, and joined up by a series of waterfalls.

First though, we headed to the nearby caves, with our flipflops tied to our feet and armed only with candles we inched deeper and deeper inot the darkness, as the water crept up over our knees and then up to our necks. We swam through tunnels, climed up underground waterfalls on rope ladders, squeezed through tiny gaps between the cave walls and lept off ledges into deep (thankfully) pools of blackness, flying past stalitites as we went. Awesome. And I am no have claustophobia!

Back out into the sunshine, we swung off the river banks on rope swings, plunging into the cool water, each time just missing the huge rock plateaus jutting out into the calm blue. We tubed down the rapids on rubber rings and splashed about in the calm pools in the sunshine, making our way downstream. Then it ws the big one. A 15 metre Waterfall, and only one way down. Like lemmings we threw oursleves off, disappearing over the edge and plunging into the pools below. da, you would have loved it! My tummy left its position my mu body, as did my bikini on it.

Safely down, we scrambled up and under another waterwall, as the water pelted down on us, to see where the tranquility ends and the fierce underground river re-emerges in all it glory. Our guide also pointed out this was where the bodies of three tourists emerged, in pieces, some days later, after falling in at the other end some time ago...

One final launch off into he pools below and a mildly hairy swim across the mouth of the rapids and we were all back safe and dry. Hungry, tired and with a few cuts and bruises to show for an absolutely amazing day!

Hiking the Highlands to Atitlan

There is a chicken bus that goes from Xela to Lago Atitlan. It takes about an hour, is a little bumpy and often carried farm animals as well as people, but it is reliable, and cheap. You may therefore wonder why on earth I decided to spend three days hiking here instead. Trust me, I wondered this too.

Our first day started at 6.30am in Xela, with a wholesome breakfast and manic re-packing of my enormous backpack, with the rest of our group at Quetzaltrekkers, who were the volunteer run, vegan, ethically minded and really rather vague guides responsible for us for the duration of our trip. Its a wonder we ever left to be frank.

Armed with everything we needed for three days strapped to or backs {including sleeping bags, mats, dry clothes, food, crockery, unnecessarily heavy tubs of 'trail mix'(glorified nuts} and enough water for a month, we began our hike with a very pointless mission across Xela city, before hopping onto a chicken bus to our actual starting point, at the foot of an absolutely huge ridge we were set to climb.

I was already knackered by this point, wishing I had left a few more days to recover after my last hike up Volcan Santa Maria two days before {hardcore yes I am} and already considering turfing out he trail mix and at least 3 of my litres of the water I had been told I must carry at. all. times. If only I had known what was next, I would have been straight back on that chicken bus no questions.

The first two hours of our assent nearly killed the fat girl straight off. It was definitely the hardest part of the day, but the views at the top were absolutely stunning, with Volcan Tacamulco in the distance one way and the journey ahead of us spread out in the other. We walked until dusk, along exposed peaks, grassy plains, across cloud covered ridges, down steep slippery slopes, through thick pine forest and dense tropical jungle until our legs felt like jelly. I have never been so pleased to see the first signs of civilisation in my life {even if it did consist of piles of rubbish by the road as we approached Santa Catarina, where we were to spend our first night}.

When I say civilisation, I say it in the loosest possible sense of the word, because lets just say, that town was weird. The 'fair' had arrived in town, so the little shabby square had been turned into a spiderman themed ammusement arcade, complete with its own mini feras wheel, which certainly did not look like it could have held the weight of a human, groaning as it spun and was poked at by a precariously positioned mechanic. Around it were rows of identical stalls all selling the same rockhard bagel looking things that noone was buying because we were the only ones there. Was this strange scene for our benefit? Who knows. All I now is that all this seemed rather normal after stepping inside the bar...

We had been warned to get a take out where beer was concerned, but I had obviously protested that we must 'drink with the locals'. Smart move. On arrival it became clear that the bar was in fact just a rather disgusting concrete room and the locals were to all intents and purposes about 4 absolutely twatted old men, dribbling on themselves and leering at the incredibly patient {and not to mention brave} Mayan bar women, who was busy defending the last 3 bottles of beer left in the place. In and out was the word of the day, never to return.

The beer tasted like nectar however, swigged around a huge cooking pot of pasta {thank god I didn't get lumbered with carrying that piece of kit!} in an old disused municiple building, where we slept like babies on the hard concrete floor, woken only by a rather strange french guy pleasuring himself in his bag.

The next day we were up at 6, sitting in a smokey comedor eating rice and beans, next to the Carneceria outside which the days prime cuts had been delivered in the form of a whole cow, skinned and slumped in the back of a toyota pickup truck, avec head, feet and tail. Under any other circumstances I would have declined breakfast, but I was starving. The local kids on the other hand were having a ball, watching the carcus being heaved out and hacked up, and left to play with the remains, poking the tail through the eye socket for our benefit, squeeling with joy.

Another full day of hiking awaited us, so off we went in a long line snaking through villages and farms, clanking our pots and pans as we went, stopping only to practice of Kitche {spanish was pretty much useless here} and take pictures of hilarious looking bulls with pink bows in their hair. Although an easier day in comparison, we did have 'record hill' to contend with before lunch. A pilgrimage of all Quetzaltrekkers, it was basically a brutal climb up a ridiculously steep mountain, in the blazing midday sun, against the clock, with our 60 litre packs on. The fastest time is 9 and a half minutes. Sue managed 14 and a half and me 16. Apparently both very respectable times. Its fair to say it nearly killed me, and I can safely say that I enjoyed the cigarette at the top far more than any sense of achievement.

That night was spent at San Pedro's house, drying off after our trek through the river, filling our hungry tummys with great food, and taking it in turns to get clean in his tepid shower. An even earlier night was had, and thankfully no more extra curricular activities were witnessed during the night {I assume he had learned his lesson after having a carton of juice hurled at his head the night before}.

We woke at 3.30am to find that Pedro's cat had eaten our stash of banana bread. You should have seen Sue's face. Luckily for him, the little bastard was keeping a low profile. Anyway, the incredibly early start was for a very good reason, as after staggered through the pitch black still half asleep, we were back in our sleeping bags, perched above the lake, sipping hot chocolate and huddled to keep warm, starring into the darkness, waiting for sunrise.

Slowly, as the minutes ticked by, we began to pick out the mountain ridge in the distance across the lake, as the sky started to turn from black to deep navy blue and then pink, as the sun rose behind them and active volanos puffed ash into the air. Gradually the edge of the like came alive too, as lights began to twinkle in the little villages that surround the lake, and the first fishing boats made their journey through the dawn mist. We were in the perfect spot to watch this beautiful landscape emerge and change, and night turned into day.

With tummys full of porridge and heavy legs, we began our dessent to San Juan and our final destination, stopping only for one last killer climb up 'the nose', which is the highest point around the lake for more incredible views. A hot shower, more rice and beans and and a couple of well deserved glasses of wine later, we were tucked up actual real beds, with real sheets and pillows, fast asleep by 9. Enough hiking for a while I think.

Viva la Revolucion?

It has been two weeks since I went to Oventic in search of the illusive Zapatista headquaters, high up in the Chiapan mountains, but until now I really have not been sure what I wanted to say about the whole thing. I still don´t. I went there with such anticipation and excitement, with such high expectations, that I guess it could never have lived up to my expectations.

Armed with a load of questions and a far better Spanish speaker than myself, I arrived at the gate of the main gate marked "Zapatista Territory. No drugs or weapons", with butterflies in my tummy and a lump in my throat. Faced with a balaclava clad guard, we both looked at each other wondering what on earth we were supposed to do now...

Sometime later, after being shunted from hut to hut, where we gave our names, handed over our passports and explained in our broken Spanglish that we wanted to learn more about the movement, what felt like at least 20 times, we found ourselves sitting across a desk from three Zapatista ´spokespersons´(obligatory ski masks firmly in place) and feeling incredibly nervous. We had a million things we wanted to ask, but first it was their turn.

Although we could only see their eyes, their somber tone and serious manner left us under no illusions that this was not some sort of holiday camp for wannabe revolutionaries to hangout and hear amazing stories of bravery and resistance. Their message was clear, and they wanted us to hear it straight.

They are fighting for the country of Mexico, not against it. They are fighting for all the Mexicans who are marginalised and exploited. All the indigenous Mexicans who have no rights.

Before 1994, the governmenet had never encountered resistance, but the Zapatista uprising changed this. It was the realisation of the need to stand up for reolutionary change in Mexico. For human rights, democracy, equality, independence, peace, education, health and bread.

The world took notice, and so did the governement, but after a bloody conflict, mass repression and subsequent promises, nothing changed. Agreements have not been honoured and the situation has not improved.

This is why they set up the five autonomous areas, called Caricoles (snails). Each zone has schools, clinics and operates its own ´good governance´ system, through which the people make the rules (including the recent banning of alcohol) independent from the Mexican state. Put simply, the governement didn´t listen, so they went and did it themselves.

Perhaps it was our Spanish, or theirs (their first language is a Mayan dialect) or both, or maybe they just didnt like the look of us, but aside from this matter of fact statement, delivered with the stern sincerity of someone who has watched their comrades die and would lay down their life just the same, we were unable to gain any further insight into their struggle.

I wanted to know more about how the Caricoles functioned (for example how their supported themselves financially, how decisions and laws were made, and even who decided who could live it one). I also wanted to know their attitude to mainstream politics (since their appointed figurehead Subcomendante Marcos led an ´anti all party´ election campaign, which it is widely believed contributed to election of the far right candidate rather than the left(ish) candidate, wh was said to have stood a good chance).

Finally, I wanted to know what the interational community could do to support their movement. They famously utilised the internet to galvenise support during the height of the conflict, but since then, their struggle has dropped off the international radar and out of our consciousness. What could we do to help and show solidarity? Their answer: Go back and tell our story.

So this is what I am trying to do now, but without any real engagement or insight it is really hard to write or say anything powerul anough to shock or move anyone into doing anything. And even if I could, what exactly do they want us to do?

I left Oventic confused, frustrated and deflated. Was that it? I wanted to be made to feel angry and inspired, but their was no buzz. It was just a peaceful community, going about their business, and trying to get on with their own lives. And they are it seems, so maybe we should just leave them to it...

Quetzaltenango - or Xela for short

It has taken me a little while to start liking Guatemala. Maybe it was just because Mexico was so incredible, but I think it was also the shock of arriving into a big, dirty, noisey and rather rough round the edges Xela. It has none of the Colonial grandure of the previous places I have been. No pretty squares, or parks or pretty artisan markets (which I now realsie it a good thing because I am not buying a load of crap). Instead, new arrivals are confronted with a confusing maze of uninviting grey grubby and delapidated streets, which all look the same, and just make you want to keep walking.

Its not surprising really when you think that Guatemala is only really now finally starting to draw a line under and move on from the devastating civil war which ravaged the country for decades and claim the lives of hundreds of thousands of people. Guatemala is one of the poorest countries in the Americas (ilitracy rates are the second highest in the Americas, beaten only by Haiti) and it shows.

Scratch below the surface though, and Xela is a hot-bed of activity. Hidden behind unmarked doorways the more inquisitive will find cosy little bars, seconf hand boutiques, not for profit Spanish schools, cafes that douible up as mini cinemas, womens weaving coopertaives (I am going to make myself a scarf!) and even a pretty pumping Salsa club. The best thing about Xela for me though? El Nahual!

Up a dirt track way out of town, and the overlooked by Central Americas biggest volcano, El Nahual and its project ´manos de colores´ is sandwiched between the city´s cemetary and one of Xelas poorest barrios. This is excatly where it should be of course, because its where the local kids come to learn, play and generally exhaust any volunteer who steps across the threshold into the chaos and is willing to get involved!

Between 3 and 5 everyday I am officially Maestra Kate (Caty) and I love it! For two whole hours I have a room stuffed full of kids and they are all mine! Noisey, naughty, filthy dirty and tearing about the place, they cause absolute chaos. The are totally brilliant. Today we learned our body parts. Heads, shoulders, knees and toes anyone? I am not sure how long I want to stay in Xela, but they certainly give me a reason to stick around!

Really rather weird Oaxaca (Wahaka!)

On reflection, I am not sure that I really made the most of my few days in Oaxaca. Arriving on the actual Day of the Dead meant that I didn't really get the chance to get my baring and find out where the party was.

That said, the city was beautiful, decorated with all the morid things you could think of: enermous sandsculptures of dismembered skeletons in graves spread across the main plaza, mock hangings dangled over shop doorways, with windows filled with edible skulls...you get the picture.

There was dancing in the streets, with OAPs dressed as ghosts and a very peculiar ballet was pèrformed in the grounds of the cities largest and most striking church, lit up against the dark night sky. Something to do with life and death I presume, but all I can remember is grim reaper and a very brave guy dressed as a horse with fireworks strapped to his back going off everywhere. The Mexican idea of a finale I presume!

I managed two failed attempted to the cemetary, which I was later told was incredible, with flowers covering every grave, thousands of candles and entire families dancing around with huge bottles of Mescal, all celebrating their dead relatives (dont you just love people who bang on about how great something you missed was?) Bit like this blog then really eh!

I did however manage to sample some of the famous local produce. I am afraid I drew the mine at Mole, even for research purposes, as I think beef sauted in chocolate is one step too far for even the most flexible of vegetarians, but I did try the delicious Oaxaca hot chocolate (thanks for the tip Jon) and I did brave a handful of the far less delicious Fried Grasshoppers!

I am not going to lie, they weren't great. All crunchy and salty with lots of legs. Full of protein though I am told! And apparently not technically meat according to the loacls, as they are insects (hummmmm). It was an experiemce in any case and it certainly bought be serious kudos among far less hardcore travelers. The Mexicans meanwhile watched on in confusion over what all the fuss was about.

So all in all, it was a lovely sunny couple of days, and a relief after incurring frost bite in San Christobal, where in fact I am again now, wearing all the clothes I own and with ice cubes for toes and a cold damp nose. Why you may ask? Well because I came all the way here to find out about the Zapatistas, and because basically I am not leaving without at least shaking hands with someone wearing a balaclava. Tomorrow, I am going to go into the hills and bloody well find some! wish me luck! x

Soggy San Christobal - and no Zapatistas : (

High up in the Chiapan Mountains, San Christobal was made famous in 1994, when Zapatista rebels stormed the city in an attempt to liberate their indigenous heartland from the clutches of government control and decades of poverty.

I am not sure what I was expecting - maybe the streets covered in Anarchist graffitti, squares filled with balaclava wearing rebels and dark smokey bars where revolutionary debate would be thrashed out and Comandante Marcos would address curious travellers and invite them into the hills to see what all the fuss was about - but I was not as I thought (and to be honest also hoped) it would be.

Certainly beautiful (if a little chilly and wet in the evenings) it has a lovely hippy vibe, with cobbled streets, shops stuff with pretty things, great cafes with even better coffee, bustling and beautifully colourful markets selling everything from ponchos, to amber jewellery, embroidered bags, belts, throws and pretty much anything else you can think of, and even REAL vegetarian food! Somehow though, after my initial excitement, it felt a little flat.

That said, I had a lovely couple of days. I celebrated Halloween with two hilarious Danish girls at a local bar and woke up with whiskers painted on my face and a shocking hangover. I powered through and visited the small indigenous village of Chamula. A fiercely traditional place where pologemy is still practised, it is quite normal to VERY young women walking about with babies strapped to their exposed breasts, and where you cannot take photos because they believe its steals their souls (!).

I got to witness the following weirdness, as part of their regilious ritual for All Saints Day: The main plaza full of elders dressed in black and white sheepskin smocks (think fluffy sandwich boards with a belts holding it together) drinking bottles of coca cola in rows on mass - get this - ´to keep the evils spirits away´(!). Women wafted strong pine smelling incense about, while the men (now wearing their traditional hats with which looked like made to measure plastic bags to keep off the rain) chanted in low voices and moved towards the church. I on the other hand, was in flipflops and and got drenched.

Inside, it was decorated with beautiful bouquets of flowers, the floor scattered with pine needle and candles burinign in every corner. Seems normal enough until you notice that around the Virgin Mary has been drapped a string of illuminous green flishing disco lights, which add a certain air of Vegas to the whole thing. Why? I have no idea. I am just glad I missed the sacrficial killing of the chickens!

Back down in the town that evening (and a few more pretty things from the market later) it was the local childrens time to get in on the party. Cue streets filled with rampaging ghosts and gouls, pick up trucks crammed with devils and vampires, and a parade led by actually quite scary youths driving motorbikes, weilding enormous (and very real) knifes and brandishing flame throwers. eeek!

So all in all San Christobal was pretty cool, though the obvious and widespread poverty makes the 1994 uprsising all the more understanding, while at the same time the lack of overt resistance to it leaves me feeling even more just where this revolutionary movement of which they speak actually is!

All Ruined Out

Sitting in the midst of Palenque´s Mayan ruins felt like sitting on top of the world. The Mayan world! It was absolutely stunning. I was so hot and sweaty I felt like I was about to melt, but I just could not move. I was transfixed by just how incredibly beautiful it was, an entire civilisation spread out in front of me, sticking out of the dense lush green jungle. From on top it looked like a giant 2000 year old jigsaw puzzle scretching out for miles around. Truely incredible and impossible to do justice to with words. Go and see it!

Back in the depths of the jungle I retired to my Cabana and spent the rest of the evening munching on burritos and sipping tequils cocktails (not nearly sick of either yet!) and listening to sounds of ´la Selva´, which comes alive at night with the buzzing and clicking of a million insects and animals )something I try not to think about when I first slide my feet into bed!).

The next day was a 5.30 am start, as there were 2 more big deal ruins to see: Bomanpac and Yaxchilla. The first of the two is only accessible by a boat along the river that pretty much divides Mexico and Guatemala, so i pretty such saw where I will be in a week or so.

The ruins were thmselves stunning, with a maze of tunnels when self sacrifice took place, a steam room (like that would have been necessary in this heat), and ball court, where it is believed the winner was sacrificed to the gods and even a hotel (though it obviously no longer takes reservations). Bonampac was a less grand but had stll intact brightly decorated interior walls, depicted various deities, more sacrifce (naturally) and daily life. Quite incredible when you think these painting are as old as our Man Jesus! The site also had trees which the locals called ´the tourists' because the bark has a thin skin which turns red in the sun and then peels off - Ha!

Anyway, I think I am done with ruin for a while now. Onward and upward into the highlands I go, to San Christolbal de las Casa, and into Zapatista territory. Vale!

Merry ól Merida!

Well its fair to say my visit to Merida was a little less cultural than I had planned. I did manage to make it there in time to see the street party in full throttle (via a quick trip to the famous Chichen Itza - along with about another 9 million camera wielding tourists and a bus ride that can with the worst guitar player in the world. I did involve a yummy tuna bagnette a la Kate though). Anyway, imagine a plaza full of tipsy OAPs salsa-ing their little socks off to an amazing 10 piece live band and you are there!

I sat down with a beer and within a few minutes I had be invited to join a couple of Londoners and a very drunk Texan who looked like Ronald Regan and spoke just as much shit. We soon did a runner, scoffed some fahitas and sank a few cocktails before bed. note to self: Copa de Nada is NOT a cup of nothing! On the contrary, it has tequila, run and gin in it, among other things....hummmm.

I enrolled in a city tour with the boys the next morning (the afore mentioned londoners who I must say are total gentlemen, if a ´tad´ on the posh side ;). Anyway, I lost them half way through when I went to buy fags, so i decided to check out the market, which in true latin American style was hot, hectic, noisy, dirty, smelly and absolutley ace! stalls piled high selling everything and anything. 2 sweaty hours later I emerged from the chaos with enough fruit and veg for a month and was in need of a nap!

Some hours later we decided to hit the town, and after a coffee in a wind tunnel that I am told served chicken that tasted like fish, we ventured out into the plaza, which was alive again, this time with dancers dressed a sceletons spinning round with trays of beers on their heads (?) and got stuck into some cocktails. A few Copas de Nadas later and I was wearing a huge Sombrero and requesting some Ace of Base be played. Bed soon folloewed obviously. Brits abroad anyone?

Still rather drunk the next morning, I hit the market again, this time with a camera (pics to follow later). I purchased a collection of rather weird Holloween sweets in the shape of skulls and what look like grim reapers (yours presents guys), along with a Spong Bob Square Pants Piñata and a Halloween mask which makes me look like Wednesday from the adams Family, and that i have decided is coming with me around Latin America and of which there is a picture of me in the hostels pool.

Despite being told by a number of reliable sources that the 2.30 bus wouldn´t get us to the local ruins (Uxmal) in time we bought our tickets and boarded the bus with a bunch of dungerees wearing, deleverance style red neck hill billys, two of which were clearly both gay and related to each other.

Low and behold, we arrived with about half an hour before it closed, and just as the heavens opened on us. It was actually very athmospheric, and hillarious, tearing around in the pouring rain. We were even treated to a beautiful mini rainbow before it really did chuck down and we decided to huddle under the tree by the road and wait for the bus back home.

So we waited. and we waited. And as it started to get dark, I began to wonder about the level to which my newly found friends would be able to rescue me if the sit was to hit the fan and the local mafia decided to jack us for our cameras and selection of iphones (sorry guys, but its true ; ). Anyway, fear not, we were saved by a little old lady, who after flagging down a pick up truck, turned to us and recommeneded that we get in the back.

20 wind swept minutes later and 50p lighter we were dropped off at the nearest town and after one last soaking we were whisked off in our ice cold bus back to Merida, shivering, but buzzing with the excitement of our adventure. A hot shower and an enormous pizza later, it was alreday beginning to feel like a distant memory.

I love travelling! x