Viva Madrid!

I make my way slowly along the cobbled streets snaking down to Oporto. It's an explosion of colors and sounds. Bright fabrics hanging from market stalls, elaborately embroidered scarves and blankets, table cloths and intricately painted Spanish abanicos. San Isidro and the Madrileños are out in force, crowds mingling, conversing cheerfully and soaking up the spring sunshine. Everywhere my gaze goes there is something else more tantalizing to hold my interest. Children laughing and playing, gnawing on candy cane and florescent green and orange toffee-covered apples, playing catch and jumping through skipping ropes.

There are women and men dressed in traditional costume. Poker dot dresses buttoned up to the neck and laced with frilly full petty coats, fanning out above their knees. They have flowers in their hair, which is pulled back austerely with jet black clips. The men wear berets, strategically placed over one eye and flowers in their breast pockets. A swishing of materials; a clacking of castanets, every now and then they break into dance, stomping their heels on the pavement and circling their partners with smoldering eyes.

In parque San Isidro there is a make shift fun fare. The sun is shining at last, heating up the icy air. The grass is strewn with people drinking sangria from plastic glasses and nibbling on patatas bravas, meat on skewers, sausage rolls, and sticky popcorn. All the talk of crisis seems far away in the face of such an abundant feast.

The Spanish really know how to enjoy themselves and today it is the patron Saint of Madrid that is responsible for the throngs of people and general merriment. There is something on offer today for every pallet. To the left, refrigerated containers bursting full of muscles, crabs, octopus, and other interesting-looking sea creatures. To the right, little stands selling bollas of bread the size of tyres, loaded with dried fruits and nuts. The largest paella dish I have ever seen, enough for a banquet of hundreds; a blend of ingredients of chicken, rabbit, rice, peppers, vegetables and squid; too big to place on a table, the paellara has a stand of its own.

This is a true slice of a traditional Spanish fiesta, yet as we wind our way up the narrow streets to La Latina and rest our weary legs in a small plaza next to a softly trickling fountain, we were served tinto de verano(red wine with lemonade) by a smiley, gap-toothed Colombian waiter. That's what I love about this city. For much as it preserves its glorious Spanish-ness; festivos, bull fighting, flamenco, football, and incessant smoking, there is diversity here.

You hear different languages in the street as you walk around, there are gatherings of international communities, Irish bars and Latin American hangouts. You can escape the constant hardness of the people with a mojito in a Cuban bar off a tucked-away side street. Escape is sometimes necessary here as the Spanish come off as rude; their patience thin for people who don't know how to order a caña.

You have to shout what you want as loudly and abruptly as possible, with no effort to smile and never saying please. One moment of hesitation will invite a loud huff from the waiter and before you can say vino tinto, he will be at the other side of the bar serving someone else who does understand the system.

This general unhelpfulness is endemic in Madrid and spreads beyond the tavernas. Shop assistants, in the main, are sullenly and intolerant, as they sling your purchase at you whilst chewing loudly on gum and looking in every direction other than yours, determined not to make eye contact. Commuters have absolutely no etiquette on the metro, as they squeeze and force and, at times, stomp over you to get a seat on the train, and it is a rare thing for someone to offer help as you struggle up flights of never-ending staircases with an over-sized suitcase.

The argument of Spanish food being the best in the world, for me is wearing thin. I challenge anyone to stand up in defense of a plate of fatty oreja (pig's ear), ensalada russa (potatoes and frozen vegetable salad, at times even complete with beads of sweat as it's been in the sun to long) or greasy bowls of potatoes and ketchup accompanied with stale bread.

However, protest as I do, I have to confess that I secretly relish the complementary chunks of bread and salami and salted crisps with slivers of sardines on top in the numerous old man bars, where everything is thrown on the floor and you feel the crack of peanut shells beneath your feet as you walk in.

I relish the exhaust fumes from traffic heaving through the streets, the grit of the metro and the tired faces that stare listlessly ahead. Street performers that burst into your carriage and opportunistic vendors that cluster outside the entrances selling umbrellas at the vaguest promise of rain or fans when the heat starts punishing. The noise, the din, the chaos and the overall human interaction that embodies pure... life.

Ahhh. Give me a city like Madrid any day.

In the cafe...

I stepped into the cafe, eyes flexing for a moment under the florescent lighting. It was busier than usual and I felt all eyes upon me as I walked inside. "Hola Guapa!" shrieked one of the regular ludo ladies, "estas mas gorda! Que guapa!" I tried not to let her comments (which sank in stomach like a lead in a pool) effect me, reminding myself that it's a different culture here and perfectly acceptable to remark about people's weight.

"Baby!" excalims Angel with a smile as he places a caña on the bar for me. I give him a kiss and pull up a stool. Carlitos, the resident borracho, is sitting slightly hunched at the bar. His face lights up as I greet him with a kiss on the cheek, forgetting as usual that here it is 2 kisses; "3" says Angel's father "if the girl is pretty". Carlitos is a self-proclaimed "golfo"; he was quite the womanizer in his hay day apparently.

We converse for a few moments until my comprehension decreases, directly related to the amount of cubata (rum and coke) thrown back by Carlitos. The first time I met him was a depressing experience. I could understand only a small proportion of what he said; individual words barely connecting together. I thought my Spanish was so bad that I couldn't understand a simple conversation. I told Angel about it and he said "Ah Carlitos, yeah I can't understand him either. He must be speaking in Gallego" (the local dialect). We thought it over for a moment until Miriam, a native of La Coruña, who was listening to our conversation, reassured us that it was certainly not Gallego that he was speaking, and that she often had trouble understanding him as well.

It seemed that Carlitos habitually speaks in rambled, half drunken speech, recounting stories to no one in particular. This isn't his only bar of preference; he spends his days on his own personal pub crawl, "pasando de bares". If you speak to him in the early afternoon, the conversation is likely to be more lucid.

He is particularly ambiguous today, although I almost believe we are having a two-way conversation instead of two unrelated monologues colliding together, until after about ten minutes he stops, pausing to quote something that his wife has told him, eyes searching my face tentatively; "hablas español?" he asks. I can't imagine what language he thinks we have just spent a sizable chunk of our time butchering, but I now doubt that my responses have been registered.

I get the feeling of being observed as I turn around and the old man at the table behind flashes me a cheeky grin. "Carlitos! Are you bothering this young lady? You're not as young as you used to be you know" he states winking.

With this dig at his manhood Carlos responds by lifting up his trousers to show me his legs. "Footballers legs", he states proudly. "Legs of a 30-year old". I am invited to verify the excellent condition of his lower extremities. What a way to sweep a girl off her feet, I think to myself with a wry smile. The two men then proceed to fight over which of them will pay for my drink (which has already been given to me on the house).

Even though Angel stresses that my caña has already been taken care of, they insist on paying, and we end up with quite a beer pool. I move behind the bar to speak to my boyfriend and Carlos joins his cheeky adversary, Luis, and his companions. The four at the table have already gone through a considerable share of a bottle of vodka. As they order their fourth round of drinks, one of the ladies begins to give me an impromptu lesson on preparing "pulpo".

It's interesting to hear about the techniques involved in producing a good consistency octopus, from bashing it upon a surface to soften it, to the condiment of paprika and salt. I don't have the heart to tell her that I would never prepare this entire sea beast myself in my own kitchen. I just about manage to swallow down the tentacled, slimy creature when it is cut in bite sized pieces and seasoned on a plate; I even enjoy it as long as I don't think too much while I'm chewing.

Pulpo is the topic of conversation today as we are going to a "pulpada" tonight in a neighboring village. Honestly there is no English translation for this. "Octopus fest" is about the closest thing I can think of to describe an event which is basically a large outdoor tent with little stands selling octopus and red wine. There is music and dancing and general festivity all in the name of the octopus.

The lady at the table's eyes glisten as she enthuses "if you like that you must go to (some village I couldn't make out) - for the festival of the salmon!" "or" interjects her companion "to (I drew another blank) for the day of the trout!" Luis chimes in with "for me none of them are as good as the party of the wine in Betanzos."

With just about any excuse for a get-together, the Galicians have come to build up quite a repertoire of feasts to celebrate single foods. The evening ahead certainly promises to be an experience.

It is time for Carlitos to leave but not without a parting song. He is actually quite a good singer, as he belts out "te vas porque quiero que te vayas" by Luis Miguel. He is surprisingly more coherent in song and I feel as if he is dedicating the song to me as his blurring eyes bore into mine.

Luis joins in and they make quite the double act, filling the bar with their dulcet tones, accompanying the singing with hand movements and flicks of the legs.

Their companions join in and the little cafe is suddenly taken-over by a train of merry pensioners singing and dancing as they wave goodbye and wobble onto the street.

Friday night in La Coruna's just heating up.

La Coruña - no holds barred. (You asked for an update).

The wooden door was surprisingly heavy as we pushed it back and made our way inside. Friday night in La Coruña and the lively, hole-in-the-wall tavern was an explosion of noise - the roar of a deep, belly laugh punctuated by scrapes of a chair leg on ceramic floor tiles and the chinking of glasses knocked together. It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the light and see that it was bustling with people. Smoking; drinking; engaged in lively debate over plates of mariscos and pulpo.

A cackle of laughter escaped from the amply proportioned waitress behind the bar. Her kindly eyes framed by rectangular spectacles dissipated into crows feet as a smile lit up her face. "Jovenes!" she exclaimed, "you came back! 2 copas de Rioja! Quereis?" Before we had time to answer, she had a bottle in her hand, ready to pour. I found it amazing that in a bar crammed wall to wall with people sitting, standing and squatting, not only did she remember us from the week before, she also knew what we had ordered.

But then food and drink are a serious business here in Galicia and I feel as if everything and everyone is conspiring to encourage me to eat. From the plates loaded with roasted chicken, pork, or steaming hot callos that Angel's father sends home from the cafe each day, to this jolly lady refilling our glasses, it's impossible to resist the temptation. Good, strong, red wine; a platter of cured ham, queso azul and chunks of baked pan con tomate are all forces far greater than me.

I glance around, drinking in the scene. It's something like 1 am and there are some children shrieking as they chase each other in a game of tag across the bar. You have to hand it to Spain; in not many places will you see such a variety of ages come together under one roof on a Friday night. Mothers with babies in pushchairs; silver haired pensioners in berets; adolescents with over-sized pants... I would have been mortified going out to a bar with my parents when I was that age.

The fruit machine in the corner throbs out a repetitious jingle broken every now and then by a cacophony of coins dropping into a pile. A gruff-looking man propped against the bar thumps his glass heavily upon the counter "pongame otro!" he barks at the waitress as he pulls out a black cigar from his top pocket and lights up, letting out a hacking, phlegmy cough that originates deep from the bottom of his lungs.

Going out here is like going back in time; when you got home from the pub after a night out and your clothes reeked of cigarettes and your hair stank like an ash tray. I've done so much passive smoking since I arrived I almost want to start again and the abundance of cervezerias and quaint little tapas haunts are fueling my alcoholic tendencies.

So many of my friends have been asking for updates. It's not for lack of time or inherent laziness that I haven't revised my blog. It's just, well, I'm struggling to find my peace with the place. I've been overwhelmingly negative the past few weeks and I was always taught that if you don't have anything nice to say then don't say anything at all.

With the most aging population in Europe and 20% unemployment, the Spanish orgullo has definitely taken a blow. "Crisis" has become the word of the moment and it feels as if Spain's love affair with the EU could be coming to an end. When they joined in 1986, its people were among the most enthusiastic of Europeans. And with good reason; they benefited from generous investment and rebuilt their roads, railways and modern infrastructure. The country prospered from a sky rising property market and the boom was felt by all. But now its payback time and the deficit hangs heavier upon the socialist government's backs each day. There are more eurosceptics than glowing supporters and the infamous Spanish separatist tenancies are on the rise.

More for personal amusement purposes than a real desire to offend, I started a forum on a social networking website, provocatively stating that the young and the bold had long since fled this backwater town, and that it seemed that anyone with half a spark had emigrated, at the very least to the larger cities of Madrid or Barcelona. I received a multitude of responses, the majority scolding for my narrow-mindedness and encouraging me to get out more and discover the striking landscape, deserted beaches and unrivaled selection of seafood.

I had several recommendations of places to visit. On Sunday we took the car and drove along La Costa de la Muerte. An endless dramatic coastline of sandy beaches puntured with villages haphazerdly formed hugging the shore line. More eating, more drinking, a few cobwebs swept away. But still this nagging sensation that this is just not where I want to be; I pushed bak a little further on the forum.

Thanking people for their advice and suggestions and apologizing for my negativity, but not able to resist a chance to reiterate that it does feel inexplicably backward here. And the fiestas and markets and traditions may well be charming in their own right, but there is no attempt to embrace any culture other than their own. At last I received the type of deliciously wicked response I was looking for to cheer me up. I will just quote him directly as I don't think I can put the words any better than he put them himself. Here goes:

"I agree with Christina. After you have lived all over Spain you tend to grow tired of the little communities of people who wrap their own micro-cultures around themselves as an excuse to be ignorant. My god they love a bit of ignorance in Spain! Its not actually one country, more a series of mini-countries, each with their own particular way of cooking fish and their own kinds of fiestas. They tend not to like outsiders or other Spaniards much in a lot of these mini countries."

Harsh? Definitely. Fair? Well, I suppose that depends upon your point of view.

Sigh... so this is the part of the fence that I am sitting on for the present time. A little glass half empty but not beaten yet. And I will grudgingly admit that when I am not complaining about the people and the part of the earth they chose to live in, I am actually developing a new found appreciation for the simple pleasures in life...

Going to Carrefour and filling up a shopping cart to the top with a variety of goodies you simply can't get in the "third world"; Going out for a beer and getting free chunks of tortilla and pieces of ham; a good, strong coffee that always slightly burns the roof of your mouth; football - everywhere all the time; and cooking. Yes; cooking (or watching my boyfriend cook) has become quite a highlight in my otherwise incident free days. Planning and making a meal can kill quite a bit of time...

By the next installment I promise to have done the following things:

Joined a gym
Lost 2 kilos (pure jamon)
Lost this attitude
Started French
Made some friends
Gotten my web sites up and running. You can check out www.gypsyspirit.es if you're interested; there's nothing there yet, but slowly, slowly...

Life in La Coruña. First observations.

La Couruña, Spain. It has been a journey to get here. Both mentally and physically. In the six weeks since leaving Buenos Aires I have bought a piece of land in Uruguay, gotten to know the ins and outs of Montevido from the back of a moterbike, spent time with my family in England and finally moned into a new apartment here in Galicia. I miss my friends and the energy and pace of Buenos Aires. The people here seem to have been formed by the climate; hard and relentless; cold and unwelcoming. Although if you look hard enough every now and again there is a break in the clouds and the warmth shines through.

There is a notable lack of youth. This city is teemed with cafeterias and cervezarias all taken over by mobs of white haired retirees and fur-clad ladies with excess makeup, playing cards and smoking cigarettes with equal vigor. The card playing ladies are formidable. They know what they like and are very vocal about what they don´t: foreigners; vegetarians; non-smokers and cold drinks. What´s a Masters in Business Administration here? If you don´t know the rules of ludo, you will never be part of the club.

I don´t feel so much as if I am in Spain, as a neighboring country called Galicia. Here the language is gallego and it doesn´t matter if you don´t speak it as they will carry on regardless. I don´t think I will mix with the same cultured, talented, youthful and fun-loving set of friends I had in South America, yet lack of refinery aside, they do have a certain endearing charm. There are no airs and graces here. People tell it like it is with an arresting directness that can leave you breathless. When Angel gave one of his clients at the cafe his bill he came back with "Vale. Voy a cagar y te pago!"

Lifestyle and cultural adjustments aside, I think I can learn to be happy here and I have to remember why I am doing this. I am still eating and drinking in the new tastes, smells and customs. The coffee culture is so appealing and the popping out for a glass of full bodied house Rioja, with a tapita of jamon serrano something I am relishing once again. We went out for pulpo gallego with Angel´s father and were led into a dark basement and served at a wooden table by a waiter with barely any vocal chords. Steaming bowls of purple tentacles were served with wooden sticks and washed down with crisp, white wine in ceramic jars.

One of my favorite times of day is the morning, when Angel goes to work and I rob a few hours to myself (I do miss the alone time I had so much of, although life in a couple is great). I potter around the apartment or go out for fresh baked bollos of pan and eat tostadas with aceite de oliva, or go and explore the rincones of this pretty city with the eyes of a silent observer.

We are a strange combination here. An inglesa and a Uruguyan. Although the people here don´t share the same South American curisity and it matters little. Although we raise a few eyebwors taking the matera to the beach. It is not something that people do here and any change in the normal is not easily taken. Slowly, slowly, softly, softly I will make this new life work...

How do you know what's right?

How do you know what decision to make? When there is a tidal wave of choices and armies of advisers persuading and pushing you in one direction or another and you don't trust your instincts anymore? When your inner voice sings enthusiastically time and again at options that are so different and you have a constant tug of war between the two sides of you that are polar opposites. If you stripped away all the shoulds and the ought tos and self-imposed pressures and judgments... how do you know what is real?

It´s pretty simple really. If you don´t like the question... it´s probably because you don´t like your answer. I still grimace and squirm and cringe under the weight of the "what are you doing here?" - or worse - the cocktail party horror; "what do YOU do?", which quickly places you in to your slot in the food chain and essentially translates into the worth of your life and how valuable are you as a person. What is your contribution to society? What is the POINT of you?

Perhaps in a small way it relieves you to realize that the only person who agonizes over the answer is yourself, yet, I still detest the question..

I forget that the taxi driver who asked me did so out of a reflex, or that the cocktail party question loaded with judgment and scolding and scathing, or looks of bemusement which make you feel like a ridiculous person, is probably coming from someone who you will never meet again; who doesn´t care, or who asked in the first place out of a desperate bid to fill an awkward silence.

Enough. If I don´t like my answers then I need to change what I am doing until I do. But it´s not easy for those of us who haven´t been made exceptional at any one thing, or strongly desired the motherland; or motherhood; or a brilliant career in medicine or engineering, or the spirit and confidence of an entrepreneur. I could never focus for too long on any one thing. I have a short concentration span. This goes for jobs... places... plants... pets... and (this is hard to admit)... people.

I had the freedom to chose and was never pushed or prodded or forced in any one direction. A privilege of abundance of choice that conversely goes hand in hand with a constant fear of making the wrong one.

I used to scoff at the ignorance of my compatriots who stayed at home in their comfortable lives, and feel pity for them trapped in a mental prison of their own making. I always strived for more and had to see what was further than the backyard, then beyond the woods; the ocean and more. But am I just shifting from place to place doing a random series of unrelated things? Or can I connect all the experiences together? If I wanted to study medicine or become a writer or a masseuse or simply sell jewelry on a beach in Colombia, would that make my MBA any less valuable?

Do I stay or do I go... I know the only person I have to ask is myself. I just have to learn to trust that feeling again.

El Paso 2001 The journey begins

The bus trip was long. I had watched out of the window as leafy green scenery gave way to dry soils and rolling hills of parched brown grass and, eventually, to desert. For forty-eight hours we had both been dying to get here, but now that the moment had come, I wished that we could continue observing our surroundings from behind the secure vantage-point of the coach window.

For the last two days we had been as if in a time-capsule. The outside world now seemed frightening and I found El Paso, with its dusty streets and foreign people, intimidating.

There was a knot in my stomach as we descended from the bus and went over to collect our backpacks from the hold. I had the distinct feeling that we were being watched and turned to see a group of dark-skinned men sipping beers in the café opposite the bus station, nudging each other and gesturing in our direction. One of them made a kissy face at me. It was difficult to pinpoint which of his features was the least attractive; the gut that spilled out over his shabby brown pants, or the fact that his fly was unbuttoned.

I stared the other way and wrestled with my pack to secure the straps over my shoulders. After so long of being cooped up in a small seat, my limbs felt weak and I knew I wouldn’t be able to carry it far in the desert heat.

So this was El Paso. Not exactly the homey Texan city that I was expecting. The kind that I had seen on adverts for fajita kits. America seemed to have given way to Mexico even though we were still north of the border. Without warning, everyone around had turned into Mexicans, including those travelling with us on the Greyhound.

As we made our way towards the centre to find a hotel room, the heat began to penetrate. “According to this,” said Anton, pointing at the guidebook, “there’s a hotel on East Stanton Street that’s really close to the bridge. I think we should go there. It doesn’t look much further.” He took off his cap and rubbed his head, his dark blond hair already scorched by the sun, had turned several shades lighter. Although he was tall, his frame was slight and his arms slender and I wondered if he had more difficulty carrying that weight than he let on. I smiled and dragged my feet along behind him, the reality dawning on me that this would be the first of many such treks.

I caught sight of myself in a shop window. I looked rough. My uninspiring shade of hair colour, which can sometimes look almost blonde, in the right light, was mousy and stuck to my head in places. My backpack was nearly as big as me and caused me to sweat under the arms on to my sleeves. I really needed a shower. The cooped up conditions on the bus had certainly done me no favours.

Shop workers and people strolling by mostly ignored us, although I probably eyed them with suspicion. Two days on a Greyhound bus was more than long enough to encounter some of America’s finest. Like the curious girl in front of us, travelling from Seattle to North Carolina (about a five day journey) with her pet fish in a small tupperware container. Or the alcoholic with the pungent smelling feet that nearly had herself ejected from the bus for steeling beer from a Chevron station, outside of Sacramento. There were two would-be gangsters on the final leg of the journey, calling everything and everyone a ‘motherfucker’, and the argument that took place between a fiery Latina and an even fierier black lady was particularly entertaining. The whole bus party was unable to continue its journey because the black lady had decided that she wanted the Latin lady’s seat. Sheer size gave her the upper hand and, eventually, she won, actually needing two seats to accommodate her large form.

For want of anything better to do (reading made me feel queasy) I had spent most of the duration of the journey trying to decide whether there was no truer representation of American life than this, or whether the Greyhound simply attracted all the oddballs and screwballs within the States. Perhaps the rest of America was comparatively normal and it was here on the buses that Jerry Springer found his contestants. It had certainly been an eye-opener and had made us both more aware of our belongings, and of our sanity.

El Paso is a well-laid out city, like the kind you could expect to find anywhere in North America, but there is an impoverished feel to it. Dollar clothing stores and fast food outlets line the sidewalks, and grand, modern buildings overshadow the falling down mini markets and laundries.

Loud Spanish voices filled my ears as we walked passed a thrift store. Two women were involved in a heated discussion, about what I could not tell, but their husbands stood in the background exchanging amused glances.

After several wrong turnings, we reached the ‘Gateway’ hotel. Colourful beaded curtains were hanging at the entrance door and, apart from a modest sign, there was little to distinguish the place as a hotel. We walked into a room, where three men were seated – two at a sofa and one at a table – smoking cigars. They stared at us penetratingly and without warmth. Our eyes turned to the man behind the reception desk who greeted us in English, asking which type of room we were after and for how long. All I could concentrate on was the fly that had landed on his eyebrow. He made no attempt to remove it and I had an overwhelming urge to slap it off with my hand.

As we walked up the stairs with the key we heard laughter and I could feel their eyes boring into my back. As I had not used my Spanish for some months, it was rusty and Anton had no knowledge of the language and was armed only with a small phrase book, we knew the next few months were going to be interesting. Although I had not quite prepared for it to be like this on “the safe side” of the border.

It was still early, something like 8.30, but I felt as if we had been up for days already and, as soon as we put down our bags, I jumped onto one of the beds. I lay down and stretched, feeling every fibre of my body lengthen. I surveyed the room. The carpet was a faded threadbare red and the fan above oscillated slowly and squeakily, its attachment to the ceiling a little precarious.

I lit a cigarette and watched as the smoke was caught by the wind from the fan and made little serpent motions. Anton was experimenting with our water purifier at the wash basin. The water came out warm and brown. I got up and went over to the window, pulling back the barely-there net curtains and looking down on to the street below. A fine layer of desert dust hung in the air. It was more visible on the other side of the street where the sidewalk was drenched in the morning sun. The streets were busy with people going to work. A bus heaved passed under the window and two children cycled by.

I let the curtain fall and withdrew into the room, suddenly overcome with tiredness. “Voila!” Anton produced a blue plastic cup filled with water. I looked at it with moderate suspicion.

“Do you think it’s safe? I know the guy in the store said that you could filter puddle water with it, but… it’s warm.”

“I dunno, but I’m thirsty and if we get really sick we can always sue.” He took a sip and passed it to me. It had a slightly clinical taste, which must have been the iodine. I lay on the bed looking up at the ceiling, concentrating my energy on the rotations of the fan. I heard Anton saying he was going out to buy some water. I was asleep before he returned.

Strange dreams invaded my sleep. Images from the bus journey – I was still on the bus but we weren’t going anywhere until everybody ate five hamburgers. Then the lady bus driver turned into Anton and he was trying to tell me something but I couldn’t hear him. I couldn’t understand what he was saying. He seemed to be speaking another language. I woke up. It felt as if I had slept through the night and awoken to a new day, but the clock said that it was quarter after three. Anton was not in the room. There was a note on the table:

“Gone for a look around – back soon, A.”

I shrugged off the wave of sleep I still felt and took a sip of the warm water beside me. I could hear the Mexican men downstairs in the lobby and I wondered if they had been there all day. I took off the clothes that I had been wearing since we left Vancouver and jumped in the shower, which seemed to saturate everything in the bathroom apart from myself, on whom it dripped and spluttered. I washed the two-day grime out of my hair. I remember watching the Wrigley’s chewing gum commercials when I was younger – the ones that took place on the Greyhound. Then they had seemed so exciting and romantic. A wry smile came to my face as images of our travel companions sprang to mind: a psychiatrist’s dream (or nightmare, depending on your point of view).

There was a knock at the door – it was Anton with a coffee for me. I received it gratefully. “There’s free Internet access in the library. I just sent an email to Paul to let him know we’re ok.”

Paul was a mutual friend back in Canada, cynical, doubting and thoroughly expecting us to fail. “You don’t speak Spanish, you don’t have enough money, you don’t even know which direction to head in”. Paul had racked up a list of reasons why what we were doing was folly. “I know we’re heading South,” I protested, and Paul had just laughed in that patronising way of his that always made me feel totally ridiculous. Underneath it all I knew it was because he was worried. He had even forwarded me (and I swear this is true) a web link entitled “comebackalive.com”.

I could not help but wonder where all of Anton’s energy had come from, as I gladly sipped the coffee, rubbing my eyes. “So what’s it like out there?” I enquired. “It’s weird. The library was cool and there’s a square where I sat down and had a drink. But I went into a store to buy some smokes and the woman serving didn’t speak English at all.”

“I know, it’s like we’re there already, isn’t it? I suppose it’s a good way of easing us into crossing the border. I think I’ll go and have a look around too. Are you hungry at all? Maybe I’ll try and grab us something to eat.”

As I left the coolness of the hotel room, the heat outside hit me like a slap in the face and the desert air blew into my nostrils. The town square, as Anton had said, was where people sat and congregated. I was handed a pamphlet about Jesus as I walked passed.

I suddenly felt really hungry and decided to look for a supermarket. I made it my goal to find a grocery store, or at least somewhere to buy the ingredients to make a sandwich with. As I walked leisurely up and down the streets, taking in the sights and smells of the city, I was whistled at and catcalled, stared at and was even questioned as to where I was going. It is amazing the difference it makes walking down the street alone, or walking down the street with Anton. I knew there would be a lot worse to come, Mexican men had somewhat of a reputation to uphold.

After about an hour of wondering in the heat I decided to give up – there was no supermarket in El Paso. I bought a packet of chips, two apples and some rather hideous-looking iced cakes from a lady in a mini market, who managed to serve me without looking at me even once. She did not look at the cash register either, but managed to carry on her animated conversation with the man slouched over the counter, who looked a lot like the one who had blown me a kiss earlier.

Feeling sleepy and in need of shade, I made my way back to the hotel. The roads were strangely quiet. The sun had crossed to the other side of the street. My stomach twitched with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. The eerie whistling of a western movie theme tune rang through my head and I felt that at any moment the sheriff would come around the corner with his gun in his holster.

The sun set rapidly at around 7. We discovered a fire escape on our floor and heaved opened the door. From there we watched as the sun sank, leaving a streaky trail of reds and purples behind it. We sat at the top of the rickety staircase staring across the border, just a few blocks away. The slums of Ciudad Juarez were twinkling on the hills.

The dark shades of evening disguised the uneven sidewalks and shabby shop faces. Crumbling facades of buildings and dusty streets were air-brushed out of the picture. From this distance and in the flattering light, the sparkle of lights from the hills looked pretty, Christmas tree-like. The harsh, stark daylight was gone. Tomorrow we would be over there.

Back in the hotel room Anton fiddled with the television, which was one of the most antiquated I had seen in a while, with a dial knob where the channels had to be tuned in. In shades of green and red we watched the only channel available – the news in Mexico. In Guadalajara, there were flash floods and we saw pictures of people splashing each other in the streets, with water up to their knees; in Oxaca there was a student uprising (about what we failed to decipher); in Mexico City there was a piece about a shooting.

We turned it off and took out a deck of cards from my pack. We were both strangely subdued. “You know what?” asked Anton, “that’s a real country, with real people and real problems. It’s not like Canada the wonderland anymore. It’s for real.”

“What are we doing?” I asked half laughing, half serious, with a sudden desire to be back in Paul’s apartment, digging him in the ribs about being so worried. I had a lump in my throat. We had some dinner (chips and iced gooey things) and washed it down with some iodineised water. At least I would lose some weight on this trip.

Chapter 2

The morning dawned hot and dry, as I expected it probably did every day in Texas. We filtered some emergency water into a little bottle and tried to memorise the instructions in the guidebook. Neither of us wanted to have to pull it out and consult its pages in the streets of Juarez; we may just as well have worn a neon sign shouting “I’m a tourist! And I’m lost! Please come and rip me off!”

We had read that only tourists in Mexico wear shorts and, not wishing to further differentiate ourselves from the crowds, we covered up in T-shirts and long pants. I don’t really know why we made such an effort to not stand out. The very fact of our huge backpacks, Anton’s streaked blond hair and our confused expressions would be more than enough of a job by itself.

Unlike Anton, a coffee and a cigarette was not enough to sustain me until lunchtime, which was probably why he was so skinny and I wasn’t. People say that they don’t quit smoking because they are afraid that they will eat more. It doesn’t work that way for me. Smoking has never been an appetite suppressant. If I have a cigarette, I still need a snack, or some breakfast, or something to make my brain believe that I have had food. I finished off some cheesepuffs, which had been exposed to the air and were slightly stale-tasting. I smiled at the thought of my mother back home, and what she would have to say about how I’d been eating the last few days.

With one last look around the room and a token checking underneath the beds, we made our way down the stairs and into the lobby, where the same men were already assembled in their places, viewing some early morning Mexican soap in which the characters wore excessive amounts of mascara and no amount of over-acting was too strong. There were no clues as to what their role in the running of this hotel was. As far as I could make out, they only served to intimidate people as they walked in. Lazy cabrones who sat around all day while their woman worked in the mini-markets, clothing stores and launderettes, before returning home and cooking the dinner. The man behind the counter asked if we were heading into Mexico and wished us luck, saying that we were about to go and experience another culture and country, and that we would have the time of our lives. Perhaps he wasn’t so bad after all. Or perhaps he had hidden a packet of drugs in one of our backpacks and we would be besieged at the border.

It is a strange thing, when fuelled by just enough fear and uneasiness, what great fantasies form in the depths of our imaginations. I did not normally have a suspicious nature, yet some defence mechanism in me made me size everyone up. I suppose it is just our fear of the unknown, irrational, like that of the dark, when it is impossible to see what is lurking in the shadows and our minds fill in the blanks with alarming possibilities. Part of me blamed Paul, who had filled my head with so many horrifying scenarios that, in Canada, were easy to brush off, and here, amongst the dusty, sultry reality, suddenly played on my mind. We stepped out in to the street outside and started to make our way towards the bridge into Juarez. I had mixed impressions of El Paso. It was not a place that you felt compelled to hurry back to by any means. It was not a must-see place to visit. It was simply the stepping off point into Mexico, its very name meaning ‘the pass’ in Spanish. The inhabitants were strange and the attractions of the town few, but still I would remember it fondly, as the start of our adventure.

The border between Mexico and El Paso is separated by a bridge, which is manned by a person in a small cubicle, and blocked to cars by a light wooden barrier. Before leaving El Paso, a small fee of 25 cents maintenance charge is levied. At least, this is what you could expect to see on a typical day, according to our guidebook. But today was obviously the guard’s day off. There was no one in the cubicle. We waited for a few moments wondering what we should do next, until a few ladies with large bundles and baskets casually side-stepped the barrier and started walking over the bridge, unconcerned. We shrugged our shoulders and did the same, checking first that no one was going to run around the corner with a shotgun and arrest us. Even though we knew that the Immigration office was on the other side, this lack of policing of the border seemed strange. Probably all the more so because we were subjected to such fierce interrogation by meaty officials with army haircuts at the USA border into Seattle.

Summoning up their most threatening and sullen faces, they asked us why we wanted to come to America, what we would be doing, when we would be leaving, and how we were going to pay for it. American customs officers always make me feel as if I have something to hide, spluttering through my answers and stumbling over simple questions, such as birth date or profession. Although, my birth date usually raises a smile from even the most sombre of them, falling as it does on the 4th July. Rarely has a customs official failed to inform me of what a good party I would have on my birthday should I spend it in the States.

My thoughts returned again to our surroundings, which were hot, dry and dusty. As we shuffled along the bridge over the Rio Grande, the straps of my bag began to gnaw into my shoulder blades. The noise and hub of our first Mexican city grew louder. We walked right over and into a busy street. The ladies in front of us had already been swallowed up into the scene of the city. Had we not known that the Immigration office was to the right of the bridge, it would have been easy to keep on walking and disappear into northern Mexico without anyone so much as batting an eyelid or raising a sombrero.

There were a few people milling outside a small office a few yards away. We walked in and put our packs down, which brought instant relief. I felt as if I had shed several pounds just from walking over the bridge. There were several officials behind glass panels inside. An overweight, cheerless woman, with a suggestion of a moustache at the corners of her upper lip, grunted at me to approach. “¿Hablas Ingles?” I attempted, smiling, expecting a warm smile in return as acknowledgement of my efforts. She stared at me with a look of repulsion and, not until she had made me feel as if I was physically shrinking in front of her did she answer “no” in a loud, aggressive tone. I turned round to Anton, who was looking worried. This did not happen in rehearsals last night. I took a deep breath and dug into the back of my brain for my Spanish.

I handed over our passports and asked the woman for a ninety day tourist visa and she did her best to not understand a word that came out of my mouth, visibly relishing my embarrassment, and letting me squirm for a few moments longer before, obviously aware of what we wanted, she eventually threw two visa slips under the counter and blurted at me in very fast Spanish. Evidently we were to go to the first bank we could find to pay for and have our visas validated there. At least I was ninety per cent sure that was what she had said. I did not dare to ask her to repeat herself.

Anton gave me a pat on the back as we stepped out of the building. I lit a cigarette and took a drag, leaning against the wall for support. “That was hard work”, I muttered, flicking a coil of ash onto the ground and smoothing it away with my boot. They probably see thousands of stupid gringos trying to cross into their country each year and resent them for their arrogance. I knew that I just needed a few weeks to refamiliarise myself with their language but hated not being able to speak fluently or with confidence. It was always so much easier to speak a foreign language in a bar, after several drinks, when your inhibitions have been dispersed. Anton let out a yelp of anguish, as he searched and researched his small day pack. His phrase book was not inside and he had evidently left it on the counter in the hotel as we paid our bill. Although not hugely useful for me, it was at least of some aid and I knew Anton really wanted to try and help with the hotel bookings and try learning Spanish. Now all he had to come to his aid were the three short pages in the back of the ‘Let’s Go’ guidebook, which were packed with useful expressions, such as, “marrying me will not make you a US citizen” and “you killed my father, prepare to die”. These expressions would definitely come in handy when making idle conversation in a bar or finding out train times. I inwardly cringed.

Once we had reloaded ourselves with our backpacks, we walked away from the office and crossed the busy road, where the sidewalk was heaving with people waiting for a bus. We were not planning on spending any longer in this town than necessary, as we had heard bad reports of it. Bob Dylan wrote ‘Just like Tom Thumb’s blues’ ** get this **, arguably one of his most depressing songs, about Ciudad Juarez.

The disorderly queue of people at the bus stop pushed and shoved each other as a bus pulled around the corner. We managed to pile ourselves onto it and found a seat near the centre of the bus. If we were on the right bus, we should be at the Rio Grande mall, where we were could catch a bus to Juarez’s main coach station, in a matter of minutes. There was no air conditioning on the bus and the open windows provided little ventilation. Sporadic palm trees grew in the middle of the road, ripping through the broken pavements. The chaotic streets heaved with traffic. Children on bicycles loaded with provisions passed dangerously close to the sides of the bus. The driver had a rosary hanging from the sun visor. The plastic brown seats made my skin sweat and feel sticky. I picked at the hole in the cover of the seat in front, rolling the foam I pulled out into little balls. Out of the window a collection of large shops loomed up. Anton jumped up and signalled to the driver. The bus stopped and we got out, trying not to knock people flying with our heavy luggage as we squeezed passed.

It was good to step out into the outside air again, even if it was close and seemed to coat the back of the throat. A busy, wide road lay between us and the mall, and we took several attempts to cross, eventually deep breathing and running over as fast as we could. There was no sign to say that this was the ‘Rio Grande’ mall. In fact, most of the shops seemed to be closed. We crossed over the car park, and into the mall, where the cool air soothed around us.

I asked a young lady with large golden hoops in her ears and a high ponytail if this was the Rio Grande mall. She looked at me blankly. That is what I thought I had asked her anyway, but I had probably just told her that she was a big river. We looked at the mall planner. No where on it did it state ‘Rio Grande’. I looked up and saw the unmistakable glimmer of a golden arch. To my dismay, there was a McDonalds here. Like an octopus, its tentacles had stretched into most countries in the world. Dishing up its own brand of tasteless, generic burgers and cardboard fries. Fast food that contained some kind of McNicotine, enticing the poor addicted masses back through its doors, clogging their arteries raising their blood pressure, and impacting on the local competition. I turned away in disgust.

After attempting to ask a few different people where we were, we got the distinct impression that this was not the Rio Grande mall. We went outside again and decided to go into the Holiday Inn, as there would be counter staff there that spoke English. Sweaty, dirty and not looking in the least bit like hotel guests, we traipsed up to the reception desk and explained our predicament. The lady behind the counter spoke perfect English and was very helpful, although she did not know how to direct us to the central depot, or to the Rio Grande mall. We did learn, however, that we were still a long way off and, in fact, had come totally out of our way.

She placed a map which had the bus routes listed on it on the counter and the three of us managed to work out which combination would get us there. We wondered out at least now having some perspective of where we were and which direction we were heading in.

We found a bus stop and leaned against it. Knowing from experience that the best way to make a bus arrive is to light up a cigarette, I did so and a few seconds later a bus rumbled around the corner. Routa 8A. it seemed to be the one that we needed. I crushed my cigarette out on the floor and we jumped on to the bus. This time we had managed to board the right bus and we only had to change once before we arrived at the main depot.

We stepped inside and saw a counter marked ‘Omnibus Mexico’. I recognised that name from the guidebook and felt slightly relieved that we seemed to be in the right place at last. By a combination of sign language, fumbled Spanish and pointing at the guidebook and the departure board, we eventually managed to get two first class one way tickets to Chihuahua. She told us the bus trip was about five hours, which was nothing compared to the last trip we had taken, and would pass by very swiftly.

We had half an hour to wait and we bought two coffees, sat down and surveyed our surroundings. It was much the same as any bus station you could expect to find anywhere in the world. A point of transit filled with people sitting, waiting to catch their next bus to a different city, and people reunited with family hugging and gabbling fast and cheerful greetings. Most people had large bags and bored expressions. No one eyed us with suspicion, as though we didn’t belong in this picture. In fact, they didn’t look at us at all. Just normal people going about their everyday lives. I started to feel more relaxed at last. People are people wherever you go. There is nothing more dangerous or scary about Mexican people than your congregation at church or fellow publicans, even though I had had visions of them all wielding guns and being somehow intimidating. I don’t know why I felt so frightened in the hotel room that morning. I started to feel more at ease and able to observe people without the same level of suspicion as before.

We handed our backpacks to the driver and he placed them in the luggage hold underneath. We stepped onto the coach, which was very plush, air conditioned and had enough leg room to stretch out. It was twice as lavish as the American Greyhound and 48 hours in this baby would have been a relative pleasure.

As we pulled out of the bay and drove along, I again looked at the outside world through a pain of glass. I felt secure and comfortable and knew that we would not have to move for at least another few hours. Every so often I caught the driver’s eye in his mirror and he smiled at me. It wasn’t a sleezy smile at all, more a kind of comforting, fatherly type of smile. I felt ashamed for ever worrying about coming here.

We passed through the outskirts of the city and watched as shackle-style houses gave way to barren and open landscape. Soon we were driving through desert where there was nothing to be seen apart from open spaces and dry desert ground, dotted with the odd brush or desert fern.

A violent crash of rolling thunder filled the sky, invading the rhythmic vibrations of the bus in my ears. This was followed up by a giant flash of fork lightning. The rain fell out of the sky like a dam released on a river. The sky darkened and the water beat against the windows of the coach. I felt very snug inside, and stared out of the window with a childlike excitement. Watching, anticipating, gasping as the rain let up none of its ferocity and the booming thunder echoed across the wild desert ‘scape.

Two minutes later, the sun came out and shone across the land as if nothing had happened. The windows of the coach dried off and almost no evidence remained of the rain. I was reminded of my childhood, growing up in Saudi Arabia and the freak weather that could occur there too. Flash storms of great intensity that would disappear as quickly as they had come. And the evening sun that set with no twilight, going from light to dark, as if someone were turning a dimmer switch down.

I turned to Anton in the seat next to me. His eyes were closed and he looked relaxed. I looked again out of the window at the beautiful, barren scenery and let out a smile. At that moment I could think of no where else I would rather have been and I closed my eyes and leaned back in the seat.

Border Crossing Honduras / Nicaragua 2001

Although by now we should have been seasoned professionals at crossing boarders, they still filled me with apprehension. It wasn’t the thought of the unknown that made me hate boarder crossings. That was the most exciting thing about entering a new country. It was the fact that wherever there was a boarder, indeed, wherever there was a tourist, there was also a rip-off merchant lurking in the shadows. It was inevitable that these two things went together. They seemed to always come out and try to hit you when you’re at your most vulnerable- i.e. when you didn’t know where you were going or what the currency was worth. Running so dangerously low on money at this stage, in one sense, we had less to lose, but because of that, every time we did lose anything, or over-pay for something, it’s loss was felt more sorely. And with our back packs appreciating in value every day from all the souveniers we had picked up, I became less and less willing to hand them over to the bus workers and watch them disappear from sight onto the roof above.

After yet another morning of me having to play “alarm clock Nazi” and Tony doing his usual “shifting-into-reverse-gear-mode”, I eventually managed to husstle us out of the hotel. A little late, but in time to make the wlak to Mi Espiranza bus depot (or so we thought). After last night’s torrential downpour, which caused a power-out (and some of the most voilent thunder I had ever heard) the morning was far from cool, even at 8.30: infact it was swealtering hot. The walk to the station was not ‘quatro cuadros’ as we had been told, but more like fifteen.

We hurried along the dusty, busy streets, descending further and further into the worst district of town in the Capital of one of Central America’s most dangerous countries. With the weight on our backs, we sweated and were told “si, recto, recto, recto!” every time we asked for directions, assuring us that we were on the right track, even though we appeared to be getting nowhere. After at least 20 minutes of walking (and several near-death experiences attempting to cross the hectic streets), we eventually saw a bus swinging around the corner, bound for Choulteca.

“That’s the bus!!” I closed my eyes and let out a howl “it must have already left.” Fearing an hour of waiting on the pot-holled sidewalk by a taco stand, being stared at by passing alcoholics and loco Hondorans, I started to whimper. Tony took the initaitive and started frantically waving his arms in the air. The bus pulled over on the other side and we (rather recklessly) managed to navigate our way across the street, darting in and out of cars.

“Es para Choulteca?” I panted at the bus driver. “si, si, si” he yelled back, and we bundled ourselves on to the bus. It is hard to describe the sense of relief that washes over you every time you succeed in securing yourself a seat on the bus or finding a place to stay after hours of travelling in a foreign country. It’s something like the few seconds after awaking from a nightmare, where you realize that it was just a dream, and that you don’t actually have 2 heads after all. When that backpack is lifted from your shoulders and plonked down on the seat infront of you, a mental weight as well as the physical one is lifted from your shoulders. I sat back in my seat and panted. Tony winked at me “alright babe, we made it.”

The bus began to make it’s way painfully slowly along the same road we had just struggled down, it stopped every few minutes to let people off. I din’t notice any thing out of the ordinary abou this, until Tony asked “why are people getting off?”

“what do you mean, why are people getting off? It’s a bus. It stops”

“no, but it’s going to Choulteca, so people wouldn’t be getting out here in Tegus, would they?”

it was then that we realized that the bus was actually coming from Choulteca, and we had to endure a tedious loop through Comayaguela’s frantic back streets and markets, before changing buses at Mi Espiranza’s other depot, about 4 blocks away from our hotel. Beyond the initial irritation about having to walk unecessrily along the bad streets with our luggage, as long as we were safe, the only real nuisance about this unprecedented scenic tour, was the hour that we lost in time. It was to be the blue print for the rest of the day.

We prepared ourselves for the three hour journey to Choulteca which (although closer to three and a half), passed without any major incident, and invloved the usual vendors leaping on every time we stopped, selling anything from flash lights to clothes to Coca Cola and full blown comidas.

I noted with interest the subtle changes in culture from country to country, down to the very simple things, such as the way they speak, or the food they eat. A taco in Mexico is soft and small, an enchilada, similar to a taco, but a bit longer and a quesadilla usually just plain cheese sandwiched in between 2 tortillas (although, if they were feeling creative, it could involve an assortment of ingrediants, such as onions, peppars, and meat).

In Honduras it’s not the same. An enchilada is what a tostada is in Mexico (a crispy shell topped with meat and cheese). A taco is larger and backed, giving it a crunchy texture, the quesidillas they were selling on this particular bus were another thing entirely. Strange cookie-like objects that cause the jaw to ache after several bites, laced with a sweet, syrupy gel. I think they’re the kind of thing you would get used to and eventually even like if you spent any length of time in Hondoras. I couldn’t quite claimed to have reache dthat point yet. But seeing as these appered to be the only snack thing on offer, and with both of our stomachs rumbling, we decided to part with a couple of limpiras, and put up with an aching jaw.

We arrived at Choulteca, and boarded a microbus for Guasale, the boarder town to Nicaragua. Although our luggage was on the roof, and the spitting rain drops and black clouds threatened to drown our packs, we luckily made it to the boarder with dry luggage. As the bus pulled into Guasale and I climbed out, I was encircled by at least six men with bicycle taxis and dollars and cordobas, all pulling and harassing me into changing money with them and chosing their vehicle to take us to the frontiera.

Afetr about five hours of travelling, it was utterly over-whelming and I had to grab my back pack from the clutches of more than one over-eager bicycle men. I changed some money and waited for Tony to get out of the bus. Five minutes of chaos ensued, as they yelled their prices at us and tried to explain why their’s was the best way to get to the boarder. I had to keep pleading “uno momento, uno momento” and stepping back while I caught my breath. After the ripping off incident at the Mexico/Guatemala boarder, I was determined not to be had again. Eventually, we chose one guy to take us there for 10 cordobas, and I foolishly tipped him one US dollar (which more than doubled his original price). But with four countries and four currencies inside of a week, I was perhaps understandably a little confused- in fact, my brain was fried.

Anyway, we were at immigration. Feeling pleased and surprised that we were not charged on exiting Honduras, our spirits fell when we discovered we had to pay UD$7 to get into Nicaragua. And they only accept US dollars, which, considering how many miles away we were from the United States, seemed quite bizarre to me. Anyhow, that’s the way it was and we were forced to change seven dollars worth of cordobas back into dollars (having just changed them moments before) and Tony lined up in the bank while I chatted to the security guard in my best broken Spanish.

If I thought Honduran Spanish was a little hard on the ear, then Nicaraguan Spanish is even more so. They miow when they speak and miss the ends off of words, which is terribly confusing with prices and numbers (something we had tried so painstakingly to learn).

A few stamps later, a few dollars poorer and another sweaty walk to the bus station, we were bundled on to another bus. This was a “Leon express” bus which only cost 15 cordobas and would omit having to cambio autobuses and Chinandega. All these boarder town seem to begin with “Ch” I wondered if there was any significance in that.

With our back packs safely behind us on the bus (infinitely more comforting than strapped onto the roof and out of sight) and both seated, we awaited the departure of the bus. We sat and waited. And waited. And waited. As the sun streaked through the windows and the bus became more crowded, I had the sensation of being a fly trapped in a jam jar. I also needed the toilet. But it would only be another 2 hours to Leon when we eventually got going. I could wait. I looked out of the window at the dusty, dirty area where buses congregated and under-fed horses and over-fed pigs mingled about with the people. Our sixth new country.

During the wait (of not far short of an hour) we were at least kept entertained by the chaos around us. I was awe-struck by the number of fat people (most notably women) with huge behinds, in this poor country where much of the population could scarcely afford to feed themselves.

As they attempted to squash past each other up and down the bus, on more than one occasion did two huge arses become tightly wedged in between two seats in the narrow corridor of the bus. And then a very large lady, with an even larger basket on her head hauled herself into the bus with all the effort of a man attempting to pull an over-size truck up a hill.

Her purpose, and therefore the purpose of her basket was explained a few moments later when she produced a pile of tortillas and began to slaver them with sour crème and onions, rolling them up into plastic bags and handing them around the bus. I have to say, they would have been slightly better had they been a little warm, but, not having much in my stomach, it was not an unwelcomed snack. And still the damn bus stood stationary.

Being left with a plastic bag of sour crème and onions on my lap, I was faced with a predicament. Of having it soak through onto my lap, or following the example of our fellow passengers and tossing it out of the window. Being, at some times, almost anal in my disposal of litter, it was a hard choice to make. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and let it drop down the side of the bus into the seething pile of pig shit below. “I’m really sorry” I thought. I wasn’t sure exactly to whom.

The engine spluttered into life at last and within a few moments, we were finally on our way. We had scarcely covered two or three kilometres when we encountered a policia road block and the bus was forced to come to a grinding hault. Pandemonium reigned, as armed policia jumped onto the bus, checking for goods and forcing people off. Apparently, the bus was laden to the gills with good brought in from Honduras. Goods for which the owners had evaded paying the duty on. We wondered what they could be checking for at first- drugs? Weapons? Counterfeit money? I stared up at the “PELIGROSO” skull and cross bones pesticides around us and at the bag of the lady with the sweaty, hairy, fat armpits beside which was choked full of tablets, and decided this must be what they were after.

But after they ushered more passengers off of the bus and found more of what they were looking for, I realized it was more cans of pop and boxes of chips. The pesticides and dubious-looking tablets were not even afforded a second glance. These are such strange countries.

After nearly an hour, a slightly lighter bus and most of the passengers reboarded, we again attempted to set off for Leon (the police apparently satisfied) I breathed a sigh of relief until we were flagged over again after scarcely pulling away. The policia waved at the driver to stop and the whole of the bus started yelling at the driver to carry on and ignore the police. The bus nearly did until, the police statrted to shout at the bus and raise their guns. Bigger police with bigger guns (AK47s) boarded the bus. Confiscationg more boxes, ordering more passengers off. We sat and watched as the people started playing games with the police. Waiting until they were on the bus, to throw themselves over our seat and fling bags and boxes out of the window at their friends. The woman with the sweaty arm pits kicked her bin liner of prescription drugs under our seat. Surrupticiously, Tony pushed them under the seat of the fat arsed lady in front.

After a couple of hours of delay (the time was now a quarter to five) the bus was ordered to return to the boarder. With admirable speed and strength, we managed to haul our backpacks out of the seat and squish past the obstacles in the path of the exit (one of which included and armed policeman) and jump out of the moving bus.

“FUCK!!!!!!!!!” we both resounded. Our skin was sticky and wet and I could feel sweat beads coursing down my stomach. There was now no way we would make it to Leon before dark and I had lost count of the amount of times we had promised each other not to arrive in a strange city after dark again.

Standing on the side of the Nicaraguan highway, with our packs at our feel and rain clouds beginning to form, I felt suddenly a long, long way from home. And still I needed the toilet.

We hadn’t been waiting too long however, when a bus for Chinandega rumbled along the dirt road and we were able to squeeze ourselves onto it, with our packs hauled on to the roof. As I melted into the seat, whacked out from heat exhaustion and frustration,, I made a little mental deal with God. He was allowed to let the rain saturate our baggage, as long as it was still there when we reached our destination. The rain drops fell. He atleast was keeping his part of the bargain.

Ten minutes into the journey and we encountered our third police road block. Absolutely everything, it seemed, was conspiring to keep us from reaching Leon. At least this bus was relatively empty of goods and we only had to wait for a few minutes while objects (probably including our back packs) were hauled off of the roof and checked. We were on our way again.

Sharp pains were beginning to form in my stomach from holding my pee too long. It had been hours and it was to be at least another two before I found a bathroom. I am sure that my expression on that bus must have been one of absolute misery as we bumped and swerved our way along the pot-holed, unpaved road, every movement jiggling my bladder.

The sun set dramatically over the volcano, painting the sky with vibrant pinks, reds and oranges. I would have thought it devestatingly beautiful, had not it’s presence indicated the ensuance of darkness. Many bumps, swerves and stops later ( and at one point a dangerous over-take which saw us sandwiched in between two huge lorries) and we finally rolled into Chinandega. Our luggage was there- and it was covered too.

I left it with Tony and went off in search of a bathroom, in a nearby cantina. I took a deep breath and walked in. my entrance was greeted with silent stares of pairs of dark eyes belonging to men with too much drink inside of them. I walked up to the bar and asked for a bano. I was pointed through some beaded curtains.

I walked straight into a large room of pool tables, gambling, and horny men. A gringa in the midst of a huge, men only cantina. I pulled at the dilapidated door of the bano and was greeted by a man sitting taking a shit. Suddenly a plump and kindly old lady arose out of the hammock she had been occupying and came to my side. She was gentle and grandmotherly and spoke to me in broken English, most of which I couldn’t understand, about her family in Texas.

She banged on the cubicle door at minute intervals, yelling at the man in Spanish to come out. He grunted back momentarily in reply. She vanished. I was left with fifty pairs of eyes bouring into me.

She re-appeared with a roll of toilet paper and a smile, then turned back to the door of the toilet and proceeded banging again with great force. Eventually, the man came out and grunted something under his breath. The lady went in and before she would let me enter, she grabbed a buvket of water and poured it into the bowl. “It’s OK now”. She handed me the paper. I closed the door and relief flushed over me as the liquid flowed from my body and my stomach pains began to subside.

As I went to leave, I walked over to the lady and thanked her. She gave me a hug and wished me safe and happy travels. I felt like crying at this point. Her kindness over-whelmed me. As I emerged from the cantina, I found Tony speaking in English with some Nicaraguan guys outside. They were so friendly and so cool and pointed us in the direction of the micro bus to Leon. We thanked them and walked off towards the bus, and as we did so, one of the men ran up behind us and pointing again as to where we should go. These people were so friendly and so kind, and I couldn’t believe that we could have found such shining lights in a day such as this.

Forty-five minutes in a microbus, one taxi ride, and a short walk later, we finally reached Casa Ivana, our sanctuary in the dark streets of Leon. Twelve hours to complete a four hour journey. I lay on the bed and closed my eyes. Against all the conspiring odds, police blocks, boarder crossings and potholes, we had made it through one of the most testing days of our trip.