Life in the heart of a Central American village.

As we wind along the twisty road leaving the capital behind, I can almost feel my shoulders begin to drop. The road is winding and the mountains lush and vibrant, product of the tropical rains that pound and saturate, evaporating in seconds as the sun breaks through and steam rises from the earth.

The road to Valle de Angeles is dotted here and there with food stands, little more than make-shift tents, sheltering steaming grills, wooden fires beltching out smoke beneath smouldering cauldrens boiling and grilling bright yellow corn, yuka, pupusas and, of course, tortillas. Sleepy cows and horses wonder the unfenced boundaries and a woman is scrubbing clothes by hand, atop a brightly coloured brick table.

As we overtake a slow moving truck around a blind bend, the view to the right is breath-taking; florecsent green and fertile land, shrouded in mist against the backdrop of a brooding sky.

An elderly man stuggles up the hill, with a large brimmed sombrero shielding deep brown eyes in a dark skinned face, etched with wrinkles, carrying a bundle of firewood upon his back. Chickens cluck past on our left and, as we are overtaken by a giant black 4x4, with fat tyres and tinted windows, it seems almost an absurd paradox of the old and modern world.

Clapped-out yellow, old-style US school buses line up at the side of the road waiting for passengers, spluttering out black smoke from their exhausts. As we pull into the village, the main street is a hodge-podge of colourful souvenir shops, restaurants and houses, almost one on top of another, with red tiled rooves and wooden doors.

Stepping out of the car my clever boss negotiated for us in a barter deal with Avis, I almost feel my legs tremble with the excitement of being used and actually walking around the streets for a bit. Living in the capital doesn't present abundant opportunities of strolling the steets with a digital camera.

The shrewd villagers are clearly wise to the tourist appeal of their little town; oldworldy shops, decked out with brightly woven hammocks, ceramics and cloths, have a sign accepting VISA by the counter. I question the authenticity of some of these souvenirs as I pick up a magnet embossed with the ruins of Tikal (in Guatemala) above the lettering HONDURAS.

The town square is alive with colours and smells. Prickly green cactai, exotic plants and flowers sprout from cracks in the stone and cheekily grinning children, selling quesadillas and dulce de leche run about playing tag. Men wearing traditional sombreros and checkered shirts converse amongst themselves and a bus load of gringos with Jesus sandles, "I love Honduras" T-shirts and shock-blond hair spill out of the restaurants.

Openair tables are filled with people chattering, sipping back ice-cold cervezas, eating and laughing. A robust lady with a firm hand shovels pork sausages (chorizo) and onions. As I snap a picture she catches my eye, stopping to pose and flashing me a contageous ear to ear smile.

Narrow cobbled streets span from the plaza like a spiderweb, lined with multi-colored houses, tarnished only by the occasional SUV. Hand painted signs indicate pupusas, comidas, pulperias (small shops) and souvenirs. As we walk into one, Anko races to pick up a foot-long knife, enthusiastically drawing it from its elaborately etched case, and letting out a conspiratory chuckle. "What are the possibilities of this making it through the US custom officials in Texas?"

A little 3-wheel taxi with no doors buzzes past, tooting its horn, missing by a whisper colliding with a wide-eyed tourist. Giant-leaved palm trees and orange budded shrubs ooze from the parts of the street not covered by stone, and a hotdog seller absorbed in his celular phone lets out a loud beltch, scratching his ample belly.

The immaculelty painted church invites us inside. There is a shrine of florescently clothen saints and, frankly vulgar paintings of Jesus on the cross and a manequin of Christ that makes my spine tingle. It's glass eyes seem to follow me around the church, evoking better-forgotten memories of Chucky from the horror movie that invaded my sleep as a child.

The old and new come together here as internet cafes and cash machines stand aside horses and carts, banana sellers and crumbling archways. As we walk slightly away from the center and up a less crowded street, past some young Honduran brick layers, they giggle amongst themselves as they stare in our direction; the three of us taking a photo of the same truck. We must be so funny to them.

I buy some cookies with cinnamon and syrup from a young girl under a parasol selling locally produced goods. We walk back to the car and wave goodbye to Valle de Angeles, on route to Santa Lucia, a spell-binding stone village burried in the heart of the mountains. A place where time literally stands still as the devout villagers make their way to church and sleepy dogs potter the streets.

We stop for a coffee at "cafe del pueblo". Stepping outside to the terrace, the dramatic backdrop of cloudly mountains peppered with red-brick rooves and gently smoking chimnies is completely absorbing. I don't know for how long I stared out at the mountains, drinking in the overwhelming peace breathing from the plantlife and trees.

If I ever question my motives for my constant need to keep moving, be everywhere at once, and so far from the people I love, then Santa Lucia was enough to remind me. I think I left a little piece of me behind there, somewhere in the slowly gathering fog that swept up the village as we left.