Journey To The Centre Of The Earth – Outback Venezuela

We had almost reached the peak of Los Gonzalez. The environment here was dry and arid; a far cry from the tropical lushness of the North. Here cacti grow sporadically in the thirsty soil and the plants and shrubs that pepper the otherwise sparse mountainside, are almost thistle-like and well used to surviving in hostile environments.

I wasn’t very well prepared. The warmest thing I had in my backpack was a towel, and the freezing snow that fell lightly atop the pico Aguila yesterday seemed to be mocking my three-quarter length trousers. I suppose I should have researched a little more thoroughly – it turns out there’s a lot more to Venezuela than meets the eye – the expansive mountain range of the Andes, beginning its colossal stretch here and ending way down at Chile’s Southern tip. Anyway, after the sweltering heat of Caracas, where little pools of perspiration gathered in the folds of my skin in the sleazy and seething streets of the city, it came as something of a shock.

I smiled to myself as I looked out the window of the 4x4, lost in thought, visualising the ridiculous encounter with the wild Andean mule I had come face-to-face with the day before on my impromptu journey down the mountain. The thing is, I had reasoned that just because I had taken a cable car up, did not necessarily mean that I would have to take one down. I decided that walking would not only get me closer to nature, but cunningly allow me to escape the throngs of people waiting to fill the downward bound cars.

It turns out there’s a reason why people don’t walk back down this mountain. There isn’t really a path, well not at least that I could find. The further I descended from the peak, the thicker the vegetation grew. The Andean flowers and shrubs that had smelt so sweet and were such a joy to photograph, started to turn on me, lashing out and scratching with their prickly claws.

I had felt like Heidi at first as I bounded down the mountain rejoicing to myself, at one with nature and singing with the birds, until I realised that I was increasingly being forced to plough my way through thick thistles and that the path had definitely disappeared, despite my mind’s award-winning attempts to convince myself otherwise. It wasn’t until I had fought my way through a particularly tough thorn tree, cursing loudly, as I pulled little spines from my hair and skin that I crashed into the large, untethered semi-horse, giving me a bemused look as it continued to chomp on the undergrowth. I decided it may be time to give in.

Having made it three quarters of the way down the mountain, I then had to contemplate reversing my tracks up the steep incline in the gathering fog to take the cable car back down. Emerging in the visitor centre at last, dirty and bleeding, with thorns in my hair and mud on my face, yet maintaining my composure and a look as if nothing unusual was going on, I wasn’t convincing the scared Venezuelan child that grabbed hold of his mother, eyes frozen on my frazzled face all the way down.

The 4x4 pulled to a halt and I was jogged back into my surroundings. I realised that we had reached our destination and my thoughts were returned to today’s adventure; not content with almost careering off the side of a mountain yesterday, I thought that today I would actively try to jump off of one with a paragliding experience. I think that something about being in unfamiliar terrain awakens an insatiable thirst for adventure in me. It’s sort of as if I dare myself to see how far I can go.

There’s something quite magical about soaring with the eagles, harnessing the power of the wind, with nothing more than a flimsy parachute as you’re elevated through the clouds, high above gorges and valleys below diminished to mere models as you dominate the power of nature.

The key here, though, is that you do have to dominate the natural wind or your launch off of the cliff could turn nasty. If you aren’t with a trained expert, then a sweeping bluster can mean that you either spend hours up in the air or are recklessly blown off-course. The powerful gusts that were stubbornly whipping up today meant that we had to sit and wait, respectful of the conditions.

We sat on the ground; a group of people just waiting for the wind to die down, passing round a few cans of Polar and exchanging idle chit-chat. This is where I met Amy and Juliet, two larger than life personalities blundering through this country together for no particular reason other than to entertain themselves. It was moderately cheaper than going anywhere else in South America, always warm in summer (they also were ill-prepared for the frosty climate in these parts), and offered endless possibilities for cheap thrills.

I really don’t think it matters for how long you know some people – for how much time you are lucky enough to have them pass through your life or the level of contact you maintain with each other afterwards– they can still be entrenched forever in your mind as lifelong friends – and remembered with a chuckling smile. Although the three of ours encounter was brief, we certainly packed more into it than most people in a lifetime, from searching for anacondas ankle-deep in blackened swamp water, to dealing with corrupt policemen, wild parties in the outback, sleeping in hammocks with insects the size of our hands, and swimming with piranhas.

I can still remember it now. Juliet was rubbing her eyes as they chuckled about what they had been up to the night before and Amy made a typically English comment about Brits on holiday while Juliet sniggered as she observed the skinny parachute instructor wrestling with the strong wind. I took to them at once. What friendship wouldn’t be immediately and solidly forged in the dizzying moments before running to the edge of a mountain, heart-in-mouth, about to leap over?

The breath pumped hard in my lungs and mixed with the stabbing cold of the wind, the adrenaline coursing through my veins as the impossibly orange sun set behind the mountain as we landed. Exhilarated, I ran over to Juliet and we jubilantly embraced as we waited for Amy to descend, jumping up and down and gushing over the awesomeness of what we had just done. “ I need a drink” said Juliet with a wink – that was my girl.

I’ll conveniently skip the details of the night that followed, mostly because I can’t remember them. Let’s just say a few beers turned into a rocking party that began soon after the sun set and ended as it was peeking through the mist some 12 hours later. Flashes of many things come to mind when I recall that night in the mountainous region of Venezuela with two English girls as mad as March hares. I had been on my own the last few weeks and it was good to have some company at last, especially in the form of two females from the same culture as me with the innate ability to laugh at themselves without being frightened of what they were doing.

I don’t remember any single person back home or in Spain saying to me that going to Venezuela was a good idea. The first reaction was almost always a wide-eyed “what on earth for?” or “where’s that? I don’t know if I would fancy going to Africa”. I remember the day I told my father that I had just bought a one-way ticket to Caracas. I couldn’t hear him breathing anymore on the end of the phone. Although I think he was secretly pleased that I wasn’t going to Colombia, where I would almost certainly be kidnapped by a rogue gorilla, he began his own (always dangerous) research – like when you google your flu-like symptoms and convince yourself that you have a multitude of incurable diseases. He rang me back. Apparently Colombia wasn’t the number one country in the world for gun crime – Venezuela was – was there no way I could reconsider my decision?

Amy and Juliet were like me. A formidable mixture of boldness and blind stupidity, with a lucky star watching from above – they didn’t see anything wrong or strange in venturing into the South American wildernesses in search of its most curious creatures either. We decided to go together to Los Llanos, in the heart of Venezuela, where you can see anacondas (ten metre long snakes) in their natural habitat, swim with flesh-eating fish, be eaten alive my mosquitoes with more perseverance than a drunken old guy at a bar and share your hammock with poisonous caterpillars – should you be that way inclined.

The day of the trip dawned ominously red and it was an uncomfortable ride from Merida to the cowboy ranch deep in the Venezuelan planes. After extracting almost no information from the nameless tourist agency, we relied on our own enthusiasm and imaginations as we waited in the plaza for our transport to arrive. Positively green around the gills after having tried far too many of the local substances, I bought us some coffee. Eventually a beaten-out 4x4 crunched its gears loudly in the distance and Amy laughed – “that’ll be our bus” she said – it turned out it was. A tin can of a vehicle that offered not a shred of comfort as the ten-hour journey quickly became one of the most uncomfortable experiences of our lives.

For the 99% of Venezuelans who are welcoming, jovial, friendly, chatty and entertaining, our “tour guide”, Jacinto, was certainly the exception, as he was little more than a chauffeur, no commentary was provided and no details as to our surroundings were offered, as we made several diversions along the way – one to pick up his girlfriend, Mariela, who was several years his junior – another to stop at a market and buy trousers for her, and several others for eggs, bananas, gifts for the family, just about anything purchasable was duly bought, and the bumpy, unpleasant, never-ending journey was extended even longer. It actually felt more as if we had hitched a ride on the side of the road with these people than that we had paid money for a tourist excursion.

As we wound our way through the mountainous roads, Jacinto loudly played a reggaton CD, that’s lustful lyrics told the tale of unrequited love (and something about banging on the bonnet of a beamer). He exchanged a deep and soulful look with his girlfriend. I opened the window a bit, and then asked for a pit stop of my own, feeling the vomit rise in my throat as the broken speaker in the back of the car throbbed against my thorax.

The day faded into evening and in the half light the severely worsening path was less visible. We had passed though just about every discomfort possible as the freezing rain that began at the top of pico el Aguila leaked in though the poorly insulated window, soaking us in instants. On one of our stops Jacinto had inserted a strategic plastic bag in its place as an attempt to stem the unrelenting torrent, but it failed to stop the leak. We shivered together as we descended the sloping roads from Merida to the flat lands.

As soon as we had driven through the mountains and reached the prairies, the temperature soared, as if jumping from an ice bath into a sauna and the bitter cold melted into blistering heat. The road was pitted with potholes and the brief relief we had felt that the twisting and winding had stopped for a moment was quickly quashed by the bumping and swerving of huge chasms where the road had fallen away, loose gravel chipping against the windscreen; our heads banged against the tinny roof.

The sky became dark and brooding and the black clouds looked as if they had formed for the rising of Lucifer’s reign on the planet. To the left of the jeep an electric bolt of lightning stabbed the earth, followed by a rumble of menacing thunder. The storm grew more persistent and aggressive, as fierce forks of unharnessed electrical energy passed directly over us, falling closer to the vehicle every time.

“Llano” in Spanish means “flat” - “Los Llanos” meaning “a flat place” – a plane – not really where you want to be in a fork lightening storm – the highest things for miles around being the occasional shrub at about the height of the wheels. Oh God how many times I’ve thought I was close to death on these wild trips of mine, as the jeep lurched high into the air without warning and we bounced over a rutted section of the road. My bag dropped to the floor, contents spilling out, head hitting the ceiling as the heavens opened, emptying the whole sky of water. Volumes and volumes of torrential rain pounded the jeep, converting the slippery, unpaved dirt tracks into swampy and treacherous terrain, and turning the car into a washing machine inside. We began to crash into clumps of earth and fallen trees, ditches, boulders and branches.

The make-shift leak stopper was rendered useless in the face of these conditions – the plastic bag could do nothing against the sheer force of nature and no one in the jeep could escape being soaked. The flimsy windscreen wipers worked feebly against the fury of the rain, their one speed unable to clear the ravenous water as it fell.

Jacinto was driving blind, presumably by memory. As the rain’s force continued to grow and the visibility weakened, so did the quality of the path. Our teeth rattled and our bones shook and banged against the hard sides of the jeep as the water continued to seep in through the window. At one point we drove past a sign warning to pass at our own peril. We collectively shuddered as we skidded along the road, wondering if we would ever reach our destination, all the while the anxiety rising in the back of the car; after all we actually had no idea of where we were, somewhere lost in the swamplands of outback Venezuela.

Finally we arrived at a modest-looking ranch with a few oil lamps burning dimly as a young shirtless llanero opened the gate. “You are most welcome” he said, staring particularly deeply into my eyes. Juliet giggled at me. With these insatiable cowboys, whose stares were just as capable as stripping clothes off your bones as the piranhas, the next few days would tell what the real dangers would be out here.

Paradise

What I love most about this crazy life is that I find myself in the strangest of places. It’s Sunday morning and I’m sitting on a broken bench in a football pitch in town called Paradise (Paraiso to the locals).

I think I’ve been to Paradise before, not this version of it, but some equally misnomered neglected backwater town in the outback parts of Latin America.

This certainly isn’t my idea of Paradise - a stifling humidity that makes clothes stick to a sweating body like a second skin; the kind of mosquitoes that buzz loudly in your ear before taking a bite; a couple of pulperias (local stores), sodas (restaurants – sort of) and a bar called Las Vegas, where there will be a free baile (dance) this evening - certainly the highlight of the year.

I’m afraid to say that every Costa Rican village looks the same to me - largely uninspiring places with the obligatory football pitch, iglesia, one bar and a pulperia. They all share at least these four common ingredients, although sometimes you might hope to find a ferreteria (hardware store), or perhaps an extra bar (maybe even one with naked ladies).

The houses are modest and small - the majority with simple corrugated iron roofs and walls made out of basic plywood, all different colours, with an aging relative rocking slowly on an easy chair on the porch or fanning themselves with a magazine.

Driving though these villages makes one feel rather like a celebrity, for everyone stares with a mixture of unabashed curiosity and hope – for something that will momentarily relieve the boredom and monotony that must make up life in the scarcely populated and the oppressively hot interior.

We stop for a coffee in a small store that’s barely opening its doors. It’s a little after 8 am in the morning but soon these plastic tables will be full of people breakfasting on gallo pinto, frijoles, huevos revueltos and tortillas. It’s a hearty breakfast of rice, eggs and beans that doesn’t even appear on my radar in such tropical climes. We settle for a tepid black coffee, slapping away the flies that land on the sticky tabletops and in the bowls of sugar.

Today there is a bicycle race to raise money for the children’s Christmas party and Luca is going to do the short circuit (which is 10 km instead of the adult 60 km) on his unicycle. As he peddles back and forth on the spot to keep his balance the people giggle and point.

The president of the town’s youth club asks if she can take a photo of him for their page on Facebook - surely this bizarre foreigner with the Polynesian tattoos and one wheeled bicycle will be spoken of for many a year to come.

We wait anxiously for the start of the race. It’s 9.04 and the kick off was supposed to be at 8.30am. Apparently we are waiting for a family to arrive from Santa Cruz – I really should be used to Latin American punctuality and informality by now but the heat is starting to intensify and I’m a little tired and ratty.

There is a DJ cranking out tunes from the early 90’s, offering cold beer and sporting a pair of neon sunglasses. It takes an iron stomach to start the day this way and so far there are no takers.

At last they announce the start of the race and it’s a somewhat scrambled affair and not quite clear if the adult and children’s circuits start at the same time or not. As Luca peddles off behind the group I marvel at the speed with which he manages that one-tyred apparatus and how he sits on that horrifyingly uncomfortable-looking saddle.

I look around at the somewhat shabby collection of entrants and doubt that all of the candidates will manage the full 60 clicks. One señor in particular has a gut spilling out over his lycra cycling shorts, getting in the way of the saddle.

As they leave I find myself almost completely alone - the only person left in Paradise – on the edge of the football pitch, a few stray dogs scratching their fleas around my ankles and a little cloud of pesky insects above my head.

The bar opposite suddenly cranks into life, going into direct competition with the DJ on the stand, blasting out their music even louder, so I now have two cringe-worthy variations of Cumbia crackling out through blown speakers, fighting to be heard.

Apart from that the village is practically empty. A mother and child sit down near me and the driver of the Cruz Roja ambulance is eying me up salaciously from his van. I yawn as I slap an ant off my toe and a mosquito from my thigh. Ah this crazy life. I wonder where I’ll be this time next week.

Life's Rich Tapestry

I came across this while organizing my computer, it’s something that I wrote about six, maybe seven years ago but it made me laugh out loud. Hope no one gets offended by this and takes it in the light-hearted jest in which it is intended...

I watch from windows as people meander through their lives; discuss the bad and the good and the odd at length with random strangers; find myself repeatedly surprised by the kindness or weirdness or rudeness of those who cross my path.

The more people I meet, the more bewildered; disappointed; humbled and overall; experienced I feel... and the more material I gather for my book, the eternal work in progress, that someday I hope to complete.

These character profiles below are derived from my observations of other travellers I have met in hostels, on buses, in boats, planes, trains, police stations... They are not meant to offend. I also realise that I make sweeping generalisations and for that I apologise in advance, but here goes:

Travelling Personalities:

1. Your hippy French: unshaven bodies, floppy hats, no money and yet somehow manage to smoke their way through 2 packets of Marlborough’s per day.

2. Brash Australians: always friends with EVERYONE in the hostel. Never speak a word of the local language. Turn relaxation into an art form; awe inspiringly relaxed over flight, train, bus timetables.

3. The tall Dutch guy: far too sweet for his own good, entertains every would-be scam artist that crosses his way, always good conversation.

4. Your giggly, gooey, chatty girls: Stick to themselves. Usually studying or volunteering in the country, often Swedish.

5. Your Jack-ass American: Laughs in the face of persistent questioning and harassing over politics in his country. Funnier and dopier than the class clown at school.

6. Your penny pincher: Can apply to any Nationality. Backpacker meanness turns frugality into an art form. Beware of this type of traveller. They will have you trek across every restaurant in the city, triumphantly saving 50 cents off a meal. Usually quibble the price. Usually single; often female.

7. Your over-loader: Usually girls. In fact, always girls. No ability whatsoever to pack light (I am this one). They will be carrying twice their body weight on their backs and have hair strengtheners and high heels with them, even in the jungle.

8. Your pack herder: Large groups who book out entire hostels. Make loads of noise. Have low respect for local culture. Often Israeli.

9. The "life's a party" people: usually English, or Australian. Will go all the way to Cairns without seeing the barrier reef, or to Cuzco without going to Machu Picchu. They argue it’s too expensive, and yet will prop up the bar at the local watering hole night after night.

10. Your "I don't belong here": skulks around the hostel with an unfortunate expression. Gets up before everyone else. Always occupies the kitchen. Often older, often resident in the country.

11. Your "please be my friend": another to be avoided if possible. Stray dog syndrome. Will readily change the whole point and plan of their trip to travel in the company of others.

12. Mr. "I have nine lives": The blessed traveller who leaves their wallet or camera or backpack in a bar and somehow gets it back the next day. Often Italian.

13. Your "one better than you": Highly obnoxious; avoid at all costs. No matter the 100s of places you have been in a country, they will always seize upon the one place you haven’t and tell you how you missed out. Another favourite of this vicious traveller is discussing places you have in common, out-trumping you by saying that they went there at sunset; or the only day of snow in 100 years, or the day that Silvester Stalone went, or whatever.

14. The "I AM A GRINGO AND I'M PROUD": Recognisable a mile off for their Jesus style, oh-so-practical sandals. I will wear Khaki combats and jungle shoes even though I'm in a city!!!

If anyone has anymore, drop me a comment on my blog (unless it’s mean) - I would love to hear other people’s experiences!

Swimming With Nemo

I think my favourite noise of the day is the whooshing sound of skype as I close the program down and turn off my over-heated laptop for the day. There’s no point in surfing now as the ocean is flat and the tide is out. I hate it when low tide coincides with the end of my work day and I can’t lose myself in the waves.

Normally not being able to surf renders my day somewhat mediocre and a little lifeless, like eating a plate stacked high with unsalted potatoes and no ketchup. But today is different - we’re heading over to Playa Conchal, a stunningly beautiful and quietly sheltered beach where the shells crunch underfoot and the water is turquoise and still.

I hop on the back of the bike and as the engine purrs into life and we get moving, the gentle air blows in our faces soothing the afternoon heat. I haven’t had the chance to travel much around Costa Rica this time, partly because my work requires that I have a base with a reliable internet connection and partly because everything I want at the moment is right here and the pull of the waves is a force so much greater than me.

As we leave Tamarindo behind we pass by cheerful-looking sodas (Costa Rican restaurants where every dish on the menu is served with rice and beans) and small pulperias selling fizzy drinks and over-priced groceries, platanos and papaya hanging up outside.

When we reach the main road and gather speed, the warm wind against my skin and freedom of speeding through the wide expanse of fields makes the smile on my face slowly widen. The pastures are florescent green and cows sleepily munch upon the thick, tall grass, banana trees and sugar cane swaying in the breeze.

We slow down to a stop at a one-way bridge to let a couple of trucks come past and a bright blue butterfly with yellow spots flutters by, resting for a moment on the wing mirror and opening and closing its wings a couple of times before it takes flight again and drifts off into the undergrowth.

We cross the narrow bridge and take a left down the dirt road towards the beach. To get to Playa Conchal you have to drive across the sandy beach of Brasilito and then up a steep track, ripped open by roots and rocks and potholes, interesting on a motorbike. When the bumpy part is over and your teeth have stopped chattering together, the path slopes back down and the breath-taking beauty of the pinkish shell-covered beach comes into sight.

The water is transparent and there are some people snorkelling close to the rocks, while others enjoy a beer under the shade of a leafy mangrove. We gather our things and walk along the beach until finding a place to hang our helmets and lay out our towels in the sun, with just a small patch of shade for the water bottle.

Heading straight for the soothing water, I float on my back, eyes closed, sun on my face for a few moments until curiosity gets the better of me. With my goggles on I can swim for some distance and I am anxious to see what ocean life there is by the rocks. I front crawl strongly until I reach them, enjoying for once the flatness of the bay and being able to see underwater.

It’s a little too close to the shore for any seriously cool fish though – no sharks or rays, or barracuda –but, diving down a little I feel a surge of excitement as a large, flat, wide lipped fish slithers past. I follow it for a while until I can’t hold my breath any longer and surface for air. Plunging back down, a speckled puffer fish is gently blowing bubbles by the rock, unconcerned by my presence.

A mini school of Nemos brushes past me, orange and white with black stripes. I can’t help but smile under water as I think of the children’s animation we all love so much and Dory’s voice, “just keep swimming, just keep swimming”. I hold my breath and dive down as low as I can before my ears throb from the pressure. There are caracoles, sea urchins and a couple of oysters suckered to the rocks.

I swim back the couple of hundred meters without taking a break and stride out of the ocean, making sure my bikini is still safely in place first – there is nothing worse than emerging from the sea unwittingly flashing a nipple at an ill-prepared family playing into the sand.

The storm clouds are gathering on the horizon and it won’t be long before the rain comes crashing down, but we want to stay and watch the sunset here and have a beer in the little chiringito whose fresh fish is renowned in the area and whose owner comes out to greet us with a beaming smile and a firm handshake.

We huddle round a table under a canvas and wait for the worst of the rain to pass while the deliciously cold beers go down so easily and we devour little appetizers of ceviche as the thunder rumbles in the distance and the rain drops begin crashing down refreshing the heavy air.

I look around at the sea and the sand, at the palms and the brooding sky, at the locals huddled under umbrellas, squealing in delight as the rain lashes their cheeks and a feeling of total contentment washes over me. I’m riding the wave at its highest point again. I had forgotten that life could be like this –a smile from a stranger, the smell of rain on the air, a breath of wind in my hair and swimming with Nemo. Every day should be like this.

Living in Costa Rica

The sun was still high in the clear blue sky as I strolled barefoot down the dirt road to the beach, trying in vain to avoid the loose stones and rubble, jagged underfoot. Everything changes when the dirt road ends. I reach the white sand and linger for a few moments, drinking in the lapping waves and swaying palms, and curling the delicate grains between my toes. The work day is left behind and the barely-present ocean breeze tickles my face, gently blowing strands of sun-bleached hair out of my eyes.

I can tell from the moment that I pass El Pescador what type of waves I can expect that day. The waiters are busily preparing tables for happy hour as the frothy white water breaks around the fishing boats anchored at this part of the beach. The waves should be quite still here – when the spray buffets the wooden boats from side to side I know the surf will be ravenous.

Yesterday the ocean was rough and unforgiving, as the insistent wind caused the usually perfect waves to break in every which direction, separating me from my board with thunderous force. Most of the time I managed to keep a firm grip, but was caught off guard on a few occasions as a towering wall of water forced me under, pummelling me into the surf, my board lurching out of grasp.

Time plays in slow motion as the ocean consumes you, ears filled with the silence of water. There is nothing to be done but wait to be spat back out again, as you gasp for air and inhale salt water instead, then a sharp tug of the leash around your ankle as the surfboard gathers speed and yanks you into the frothy depths once more.

Today the waves are a little choppy but it doesn’t matter – I catch every single one – the ocean is on my side. Any surfer, even the really talented ones, will usually concede that that some days are better than others. Surfing is about connecting with the elements, the wind and the waves, mind and body. I have such frustrating moments at times, when I ache to show off my increasing skills to a group of wobbly beginners that can’t stand up yet, but my board turns into a bar of soap, capriciously (and embarrassingly) slipping out from under me.

Today is different though, the energy clicks and every wave I want is mine, speeding me exhilaratingly towards the shore. Chris (my surfing buddy) and I are as close to the river mouth as we have ever been – we generally try to stay a little further down since finding out about the creatures that dwell in the river.

On very rare occasions and never at this time of year, crocodiles have been observed in the ocean here when the strong October rains fill up the fresh water and the river spills its banks, bringing with it one or two of the normally freshwater reptiles. I think I would rather come face to face with a shark while on my board. Although that’s not a prospect that exactly thrills me, more people die each year from rouge coconuts falling from trees than are gruesomely savaged by a shark – I don’t know about crocodiles though.

Arms and legs tired and aching I retire from the surf and say farewell to Chris. The tide is on its way out and the beautiful beach is rippled by the retreating waves. Little crabs scamper sideways in the wet sand and the shells that I step past suddenly come alive as delicate legs sprout out from under them and they scurry to take cover from my imposing shadow. My footprints leave a mark that is washed away moments later, a fleeting memory erased by the waves; I’m only passing through here after all.

The Beach Club is warming up and the mosquitoes beginning to pester. Blond haired gringos giggle and sip cocktails, their wrists bearing the stamp of an all-inclusive bracelet. The lazy palms that fringe the shore are accentuated by a setting sun, the sky a tapestry of pinks and oranges. The boats bob up and down and the fading daylight casts shadows; surfers walking by are mere silhouettes against the backdrop as they pass with their boards under arm.

My skin is chocolate brown in this light and darkening a shade every day. I never lie in the sun; it’s just too hot for that, but despite religiously slathering myself with thick, white, gloopy sun block and wearing a rash guard, the penetrating rays filters through.

Two tourists are taking photos of a prehistoric-looking pelican that has landed near their sun loungers. He eyes them beadily and then flaps his wings, accelerating towards them as they shriek in fear and rapidly pull back to their chairs. I stop for a moment and stare out at the ocean, the warm air caresses my skin. My lips sting with the salt and my body aches. My knees are bruised like a teenage boys, and the wound on my foot oozes open. My hair is crispy and dry, my throat parched, and I struggle to hold up my board. I’m physically tired and wholly content… I’ve never felt more alive.

Becoming a Local

I am fast becoming a local in a small seaside town on the Northern Pacific coast of Costa Rica. I get a discount in the supermarket. The weary vendors that plod along the beach in the gruelling heat selling coconuts, animal shaped whistles, full body massages and jewellery made out of shells have stopped lighting up when I walk past; they know I won’t buy anything. The lethargic man with leathery skin who slumps beneath the leafy shade of the same palm tree each day no longer lifts his gaze; even the local insect population has stopped biting me, savagely insistent upon my arrival, they now prefer the blood of the pasty-legged tourists, fresh off the plane.

I’m learning to read the waves and work out which way they will break. I plan my entire day around the rise and fall of the tide and know that a few moments of flat are followed by a crescendo of ravenous water. I can sense how long it will take for the rain drops to fall when the lightning flickers on the horizon and, from the shape and colour of the clouds, calculate how much time I have to walk to the store and pick up my groceries before the torrential rain converts the dusty road into a river of slushy mud.

The surfaces of the streets here are impossibly badly laid. The thirsty earth is dehydrated and cracks open in the punishing midday sun, a dust cloud enveloping pedestrians when a passing 4x4 skims by. It’s even worse when the Heavens open and the going becomes treacherously slippery. I desperately struggle not to dislocate a knee or fall over ungraciously on my behind, as the backs of my legs get splattered with sodden earth.

It’s not recommended to leave anything unattended on the beach, not even flip flops, so I fully experience the loose rubble, sharp beneath my toes, or the soft squelch as I slip and slide my way barefoot to the beach, surfboard tucked under arm and dodging shards of broken beer bottles, pot holes and monkey excrement. From their deafening call it’s easy to see why howler monkeys win the award for loudest land mammal on earth; their eerie lament can be heard for up to three kilometres away.

It’s ladies’ night tonight at Sharky’s and again on Saturday I believe. I have never been but I know their timetable, I walk past the sign every day. The few times that I’ve been out to bars here have left me with little desire to go back. They’re full of lecherous locals drivelling over and praying on drunken tourists and the music pumps distortedly and crackly out of large blown speakers.

My hair has been bleached a funny colour and my ribs are permanently black and blue from the pummelling I take in the ocean. I eat a whole avocado every day and my favourite snack is spicy refried beans spread over crunchy crackers, instead of the marmite on toast I devour when I’m visiting my family in the UK, or when they send me care packages abroad. I’ve had marmite posted to me around the world – that quintessentially English spread that represents a little jar of black gold for me, even if most people find it vehemently repulsive.

If I leave anything out on the counter the resident colony of ants will arm an invasion; I’m getting pretty good at clearing up after myself speedily now. I’m even getting used to the grating screech of the fan and the sand that gets in my bed sheets and all my important electrical items. I am mesmerized by the geckos as they patter across the walls or stop dead, suckered to the spot on the ceiling when they sense that I am watching. The bull frogs croaking in the undergrowth don’t frighten me anymore and the daily power cut is no longer cause for alarm, even my tenuous internet connection as reliable as an English summer fails to get me flustered these days. I think I’m becoming a local.

A Horse in the Road, Honduras

My eyes were glazing over from staring at the screen of my laptop too long. I lifted my gaze for a moment, just in time to see the horse that filled the windscreen; the wretched creature’s eyes widening with fear at the car hurtling towards him. There was a sickening scrape of tyres on the gravel and time played in slow motion as the petrified animal scrambled out of our path, the thick blanket of banana trees loomed ever closer and the vehicle zigzagged from side to side, like a rally car. Amidst the chaos I could hear someone screaming and then realised a split-second later that it was me. Time was temporarily distorted; decelerated as if watching one still frame of a camera after another.

At last the driver jolted awake in time to slam his foot on the break and we skidded to a stop, my head lightly banging the seat in front, the dust clouds rising around us and the smell of burnt rubber and dirt filling the car. The dense green foliage swayed in the breeze and there was a sudden anti-climatic silence but for a few birds cawing in the distance and the humming of the radiator. Two campesinos bearing machetes, cutting down crops a few feet away, were staring agape with a mixture of concern and bemusement written on their faces, as they beheld the dented rental car enveloped in a cloud of dust, with a horse flinching in its wake.

This wasn’t the first time I had the feeling that I might die in this part of the world or that my vehicle had swerved off the road; at least this time there was a line of banana trees to break the fall. In Guatemala when our bus nearly lurched over the edge of a cliff with a blown tyre, we tilted sharply to the right, the whole bus balancing on two wheels as the sheer drop below beckoned. I saw my life flash before me to the sound of merengue music and a rosary dangling from the rear view mirror; along with several chickens, bags of tamales, rice, and brightly coloured pinks, reds, oranges and yellows of the Mayan women’s clothing. It seems there will always be an animal present each time I brush with death to share a terrified glance with before we pass into the next life.

After assessing the miraculously limited damage and saying our prayers and a few hostias we continued back to Tegucigalpa. I don’t think I even blinked for the rest of the journey, eyes rigidly fixed on the road ahead, lost in thought about how I’d come to be here, working in a country like this where a simple journey could turn into several hours, on a constant look-out for bandidos, or gaping crevices in the road and stray animals that wondered into the path. Working mostly 12 hour days, running around in three inch heels giving interviews, breakfast meetings at 7am, night-time appointments in coffee foundations on the outskirts of San Pedro Sula, imagination running wild as the gun shots in the distance felt uncomfortably close.

The daylight began to fade as we finally approached Comayaguela, the gateway to the city that also happened to be the most desperate part of town and not where you wanted to be after dark, lost in this rats nest of dead-end alleyways, closed streets, road blocks, one ways, crack addicts, thieves, ghosts of people with vacant stares, shoeless children with gammy eyes, houses without roofs, shops without doors and far too few police to maintain order.

Nerves on the edge of a knife, I’d been awake for almost three days and tomorrow we had an early meeting with the Minister of Communications, an ironic misnomer due to the fact that he was the hardest man in Honduras to get hold of. How would I go in to that appointment as if nothing had happened today; as if I wasn't exhausted and my clothes weren’t damp and dirty shoved into a rucksack, my suit jacket left hanging on its perch from Friday night, that felt like an eternity ago now. Still… how else would I be spending Sunday if I were anywhere else but here and what’s the point in being alive if you aren't reminded of your own mortality from time to time? Even if it is by a horse.