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.

Cienfuegos, Cuba

After the continuous movement of Havana, the throngs of people, beaten out cars, and salsa music blaring from every corner, the empty streets of Cienfuegos with their colourful buildings that looked like they were made out of candy were a welcome and peaceful relief. Cobbled streets lined with cheerfully painted houses were picture-perfect and fairytale clean after the crumbling apartment blocks of the city.

The searing midday heat pounded me like a sledgehammer and I had to concentrate hard just to keep my eyes open as the fury in my head pressed against my temples. The lack of people in the streets was a telling sign that the best way to deal with a punishingly hot climate was to stay indoors and fan yourself. But I didn’t come to Cuba to stay inside my hotel room, I wanted to explore.... Although it has to be noted, “hotel room” is a generous term for the bed I am renting behind the net curtain in the back of the casa of the señora with the permanent curlers in her hair and thin lips permanently set into a stern line.

Renting rooms in casas particulares here is a mixed bag of experiences. There are few hotels outside of the main tourist zones and the ones that were available blew my budget to pieces. The only option was to rent a room in a house where you could play with the children, eat dinner with the family and learn more about their culture. Well that was when it was good; when it was bad you were renting from your wicked old Aunt that imposed a curfew and made you eat all of your greens. If you’re not careful they will drill you into spilling all of the details of your itinerary and then phone their cousins (every Cuban has a thousand of these whether by blood or not) and get you to stay with them in different places across Cuba, delivering messages and even packages as you go, and keeping the business in the family. I understand the need to look out for their own but I detest being moved around like a chess piece, especially by a woman as domineering and cold as the señora of this casa.

I had not even the most minimal desire to go back to the casa but something was wrong as I never suffered from the heat, relishing in its every last ray, soaking up its goodness like a sponge. I had to hang back in the shade for a moment, as my dizziness caused the streets to move.

Loud speakers cranked up in the distance and the atmosphere outside began to change a little as a small rabble of people dribbled over to the plaza, eventually joined by a few more until a sizable gathering was formed. A powerful song played loud across the town plaza and neighbouring streets, commemorating the lost compadres who had died in the revolution, while freeing Cuba from the Imperialists. I thought it must have been an anniversary or some kind of commemorative occasion, but the lady beside me with the ill-fitting leopard print lycra top confirmed that this was a daily ritual.

Suddenly the voice of Fidel resounded loud and bold throughout the parks as he began his daily discourse, encouraging Cubans to stand firm against the evil and cunning capitalists, shoulder to shoulder in defence of communism and the Cuban way of life. The enemy to the North may try to bring Cuba down but they would stand and fight to the death, until they had nothing left, not the shirt on their back or the food on their tables, “patria o muerte” (motherland or death!), he belted out with a tremendous force that rattled the speakers.

The citizens of Cienfuegos looked about as moved by these stirring words as an adolescent in a bible studies class when his friends are out at a disco, unable to disguise the fact that they hear the same speech, or some variation of it, every day at the same time blasting out from the scratchy speakers, and Fidel has a tendency to waffle a little. As emotive as his words may have been, we were contending with a relentless heat that must have been approaching 40 in the shade. The mothers fanned themselves while chewing on gum and the children shuffled uncomfortably from side to side on their feet.

What a riddle this country really is. With a spirited people that you would have thought would have risen up at any moment and said “enough”, in the same way they find his speeches dull, and his doctrine wearing thin, Fidel is like that grumpy old grandfather who you complain about bitterly but tolerate and love because he’s part of your family. Actually it’s like one big family in Cuba; this is the overwhelming sensation here. Living with so little has fostered the need to ask for help from your neighbour and to give it back regularly.

The taxi driver who took me to the beach yesterday said that in his opinion there were lots of good things about Cuba, about the system, about Fidel, of whom he spoke with the same sense of love and frustration as one would a close relative; dismissive and respectful, rebellious and obedient all at once. They may not agree with many of his ways and bit by bit they are gradually more exposed to the realities of life under different regimes elsewhere, but they love him all the same. “Es lo que hay” is a popular expression in this little Caribbean island... “this is what we have” they say while shrugging their shoulders and continuing their conversations.

He showed me several of Havana’s 4 and 5 star hotels in which Cubans are allowed no further than the lobby. If I had wanted to get romantically involved with a Cuban during my stay I would have had to have gone to the police station and registered my consent, picking up a document to present to the police every time we were asked what we were doing and if it was allowed. The reason is simple; to keep Cubans away from the influence of foreigners and as in the dark as much as possible. Later on I would see the same thing happening in Venezuela, as Chavez removed English from the school curriculum and prevented the villages from having Internet.

This is shocking apartheid, especially within the white sandy paradise areas of Varadero, where the all inclusive species of tourists, wrist bands firmly in place, remain separated in their little patch of Cuban sand, eating imported food and drinks with no involvement in the country whatsoever, but for the fat Cuban cigar they smoke form the safe distance of their balconies. I shudder at the thought. Although there are easier countries to travel round and I have had to become extremely cautious being alone, I wouldn’t trade the real experience for any amount of paid-for cocktails or aqua aerobics in the pool.

Life is so difficult here. With a capped salary everyone earns the same; the equivalent of 15 dollars a month*, whether you are a doctor, a maid, or a technician. This money is paid in Cuban pesos, which clearly goes much further than 15 dollars would and is technically enough to subside on, but little wonder that the majority are continually scraping to make ends meet and that they see a foreigner as a chance to make a quick buck.

After my second day of non-stop intensity, where I was swept up by more than one Cuban, grabbed by the waist, invited out to dance salsa, proposed to and asked for money by more than fifty different people, I finally reached breaking point, screaming at the last man who had been so bold as to ask me for change that I was a backpacker and not a walking dollar sign, a woman alone and all I wanted was to walk the streets in peace. He was devastated by my reaction and profusely apologised afterwards, sensing I was on the point of tears. It turned out that he was a doctor. But why work his life away in service when he could ask 15 tourists for a dollar and make his monthly salary in an hour or so? You can understand the people’s frustration.

The taxi driver also told me how difficult it was to get hold of cars in Cuba, that usually they were handed down through the family or sometimes it was possible to buy one second hand, but never new, hence the antique Cadillacs and burned out Russian ladas, an echo back to the days of cooperation with the Soviet bloc. Nothing is thrown away in Cuba and even light bulbs, alarm clocks and things you would normally toss out are repaired hundreds of times.

There’s such a fading glory to Havana, the city frozen in time, the dull expression in so many people’s eyes reflecting the fading facades of the crumbling buildings. The stores are ill-stocked and most of the shelves are bare. In one restaurant I ordered a salad of vegetables “in season” and was presented with a saucer of 4 slices of cucumber. A portion of fries brought exactly nine and when I asked for ketchup it was rationed out, drop by drop, as the waitress returned with the bottle to the bar. There is a national shortage of absolutely everything and this is not the reality you see when you spend your vacation in a hotel.

Electricity is scarce and you have to use it while you can. There is only a supply some of the time and, apart from the 5-star resorts; they turn it off completely during the day. I had been trying to buy a writing pad for a while now, jotting down my notes on the back of a calendar. I went to seven different stores here and in the capital and with no success, having to line up for more than an hour, being bustled about, stared down, ignored, to at last be told “no mi amor no hay” (sorry love, we don’t have any). It’s frustrating and I have experienced three days; living with this reality must work away at the people like a drip, drip effect as they slowly descend into acceptance.

The floor starts to swirl and there’s a pain in my stomach so intense that I began to wretch and vomit. I feel my head hitting the pavement hard and everything goes black. A few hours later I awake and the son of the sergeant major señora is standing over me. “You’re going to be alright” he said soothingly, “take this” as he handed me a pill and pressed a wet towel on my forehead. It turns out that the skinny guy who hangs out on the porch of the house all day rocking in an armchair is a doctor too. This is a curious country. I need to find out more.

*I was in Cuba in 2005, when the dollar was still widely used and these details were correct.

A Strange Place To Buy An Alarm Clock

It was about 3am when the bus pulled into Campeche and I took a taxi straight to the budget hostal I had circled in my guide book, that apparently had 24 hour service. As we rumbled over the cobblestone streets and past the zocalo (town plaza) I smiled to myself at the familiar flags that drape every Mexican public space; the cheerful colours of the houses and the balmy late-night air evoking an infectious warmth throughout my body, despite the tiredness after a nine-hour bus ride. Campeche is striking at first sight by night, ringed by an ancient fortress wall, gloriously illuminated by powerful flood lights.

As we veered away from the centre and towards a back street, the destination of my choice was a fairly daunting site with its prison-like doors, robust with iron bars, and bells that required several rounds of ringing before a middle-aged man, grunting and cursing and scratching his head, came down.

I was instructed to wait while he readied the room, and I did so for about 15 minutes, with my heavy pack on my back. I studied the cracks in the walls and the insects that giddily danced about the open light bulbs. At last he made his way grumpily down the stairs and inclined his head, leading me, with no offer of help to carry the luggage, up the rickety staircase to the most spartan room imaginable.

The impossibly high ceilings made the empty room even more intimidating as the naked walls bore no sign of paintings or drapes or, in fact, any attempt at decoration at all. The large patches of open cement, where the paint had peeled off completely were accompanied by a ceiling fan that screeched with a desperate howling capable of waking the dead, and there was an awkwardly-placed wardrobe in the corner with a door hanging off.

There was no sheet on the bed and I received a thunderous look when I asked for one, as this far-from-welcoming hotelier growled off muttering loudly, with no attempt to conceal his clear dislike of me. There was no mirror in the room and when I went to the bathroom at the end of the hallway to take out my contact lenses, there wasn’t one there either. I took a deep breath and wrestled with my fear as I walked along the creaking hallway back to my room, pulled the sheet up to my ears and tried to think of something else until sleep finally relieved me from my nerves.

When the morning dawned a few hours later, the shadows that the moonlight had cast on my bed and across the walls, wreaking havoc in my over-active imagination, were gone. I had to arrange my trip to the ruins of Uxmal and I walked off in search of the bus station, which took me past the plaza, the market, and beyond the city limits as I sweated copiously and unbecomingly in the furious, unrelenting heat.

It is quite amazing the difference it makes in Mexico walking the streets alone or walking with a man. Having decided to part ways at this leg of the journey, my male friend and travelling companion, Paul, was now on his way to Cancun. Walking with Paul, the men around me were somewhat subdued and all I attracted were a few muted stares. Walking alone provoked overwhelming scenes of whistles, catcalls, bus drivers beeping their horns as they juddered past, old men asking me where I was going and inviting me to drinks, offers to carry my bags, and constant, omnipresent, ill-concealed,lustful stares.

It can be a little scary being a woman alone and I can’t deny that it’s a challenge but I’m getting to know a side of myself that I wasn’t aware existed before. There’s something empowering about ploughing through an unknown terrain in a foreign land that most people I know are either frightened by or have never heard of, and actually doing it – travelling it – feeding off of the colourful streets, the heady smells of boiling corn and fried tortillas, the broken sidewalks, pot-holed pavement and just... life – pure provincial Mexican life – exploding with music and vital energy before my eyes.

Exploring the streets and nosing about the markets, I don’t feel lonely at all. Lying on the “beach”, which in Campeche is really nothing more than a gravel pit with children’s play things and some patches of grass, that drops off sharply into horribly contaminated water (its name – playa bonita – (pretty beach) somewhat undeserved), I am quite content with my own company. My life in Madrid is such a frenzied blur of social activities, parties, outings, chat and company, it’s slowly dawning on me that I haven’t been alone for a very long time. I think I had almost convinced myself that I couldn’t be alone. I had forgotten about the solitary, reflective side of myself that likes to observe sometimes, happy to not be the centre of attention. Sitting here watching the kids play and the chubby Mexican lady at my side cackle with embarrassed delight as her husband places a cheeky hand on her buttock doesn’t make me miss anybody. It just makes me smile.

Plus I was still processing the curious event that had happened as I was walking back from the bus station. Paul had gone off with the alarm clock and I had no cell phone, or watch, or in fact any way of ensuring I made the early-morning bus tomorrow, so I stopped by the market that spread over the narrow streets, stand after stand that promised to satiate every sense of the body from pungent smells to florescent colours, delicious tastes of melt-in-your-mouth beef tacos and loud, relentless merengue music.

I challenge you to imagine of the most innately bizarre item you can think of and can say with absolute confidence that, in a Mexican market, you will find it here. From sex toys to steaming pigs’ ears and chilly-fried grasshoppers, flashlights and door fastenings, anything you could possibly need is taken care of in the mercado.

I stopped at a small stall that had batteries and watches, and little plastic dogs with heads that wagged up and down when you flicked them, to ask a lady if she sold alarm clocks, at which she called her husband over from the table behind, where he was swigging beer and playing cards. They engaged in a heavy discussion, arguing back and forth about something that seemed to be worthy of great debate. After a few raised eyebrows and smouldering looks between them, the lady turned to me, composed herself, and smiled, indicating that yes; they did sell alarm clocks and if I would be so amable, to follow her husband where he would get one for me.

He led me out of the market and down a narrow street far less populated and noisy, the throbbing music somewhat muffled in the distance. The Mexican Senor looked me up and down with a gap-toothed smile revealing a golden crown, as I continued to follow him further away from hub of the market and into his house.

With his instruction I waited in the living room, which was about as kitsch as you can imagine with a hideous infusion of tastes (bad ones) from ornate multi-coloured plastic feather birds on the walls, to a trickling fountain with neon lights in the corner and fake flowers in a vase on the crocheted tablecloth. He went into his bedroom and came back out, emerging with something that definitely resembled an alarm clock –theirs.

It wasn’t really a travel alarm clock and its analogue design and juddering hands inspired little faith in me as to its effectiveness – Mexico isn’t really famous for its punctuality – but he assured me of its flawless performance. You know when you walk into a small store and you’re the only person inside and the desperate shop assistant is stalking you, jumping out behind a railing with an offer as you’re trying to subtly look around? I didn’t really feel I could refuse this purchase, however strange it was coming in to their house and buying pieces of it.

He opened a fridge full of beer and pulled down a wooden flap on the dresser to reveal a perfectly stocked liquor cabinet with glasses, decanters and the whole works, offering me cerveza, tequila, ron, or anything I wanted, eying me in a slightly inappropriate way. I decided that perhaps I had gone as far as I should have, seeing as I was in a perfect stranger’s living room in a city suburb in Mexico and it might not be the best idea. I decided to say my polite “thank yous” and make my exit, chuckling to myself as I made my way back towards my hotel, examining the alarm clock in my hand that would always have a story behind it whether it worked or not.

I’ve certainly done my share of travelling alone. I’ve felt just about as lonely and frightened and desperate as it’s possible to feel and then – even worse – returned to my own country, even more of a foreigner, with friends I can no longer relate to and with little tolerance for listening to what I’d been up to so many miles away. I’ve reckoned with the stark realisation that most of my adventures will only ever exist inside my own memory and only live as long as I do, or as long as I am conscious enough to remember. The beating orange sun that dissipated over the fortress of Campeche that night, the salty smell in the coastal air and the story behind the alarm clock will live inside of me only. That is the sad thing about travelling alone.

I remember one time in New Zealand, on an impulse I decided to do a skydive, free-falling over a vast expanse of volcanoes, lakes and steaming geezers, the wind penetrating my ears and rushing through my nostrils as I plummeted at more than 200km an hour towards the earth. My heart literally jumping out of my body and the adrenaline pumping through my veins for the entire day and I had no one to share it with. Such was the time difference I couldn’t call any friends in England and I certainly wouldn’t have called my parents, having promised not to do anything risky while I was away; my poor father exceptionally paranoid after my parachuting instructor in England died a few months before I left because of a mal-functioning shoot. So I just ran into the little shops in the sleepy town of Lake Tekapo yelling “I just did a skydive!! I just did a skydive!!” as the bemused assistants smiled blandly back at me; absurd foreign teenagers doing outlandish things was nothing unusual for them.

Today I’m on some fake beach in the South East of Mexico, my current home a God-forsaken cell-like room that would evoke fear in the hearts of the bravest of men and yet I feel strangely, spine-tingly alive... Viva Mexico!