Say it with Flores

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In the Lunas Castle I shared a dorm with seven others and I had to struggle up and down a top bunk. There was no hot water, and there was nowhere to hang clothes. Despite being upgraded to business class by Copa Airlines and booking a couple of nights at a hotel in Guatemala City at $45.00 per night, as opposed to $12.00 per night in the Lunas Castle, I still felt I was leaving my comfort zone when leaving Panama for Guatemala City last night.....and so it proved.

After complimentary wining and dining in the Presidential Suite at Panama's Tucuman International Airport and being fawned over during the two hour flight I got into a battered taxi and headed to the Cantabria Hotel in Zona 1. I selected this hotel at random on the internet after failing to secure accommodation at a few of the places recommended in Lonely Planet which were around the $15-20 mark. They were either full or just didn´t get back to me. During this trip I had planned along the way to take time out at a few more upmarket establishments rather than the more bohemian crash out places like the Lunas Castle and exchange camaraderie for comfort and to recharge my batteries.

If you use the human body analogy for Guatemala City the taxi driver was taking me the arsehole route into town. We veered through dark, spooky, unlit desolate abandoned streets. Then I spotted signs of life. On most corners there were, in ones and twos, what seemed ghostly ladies of the night until one of them glared straight into our passing cab displaying a grotesquely made up face showing that they weren´t ladies at all. "Transvestites" pointed out the driver proudly as if they were an object of civic pride. This was a scary, seedy, twilight world I would have preferred not to have witnessed at midnight within twenty minutes of arriving in reputedly one of the most dangerous cities in the world. As I was thinking that I could not wait to get to my hotel away from this nightmarish world the taxi driver stopped and said "Your hotel·" I thought there must be some mistake but there it was, The Cantabria Hotel. For $45.00 per night in Guatemala I was expecting a salubrious area with bellhops and maybe a personal manicurist, but this... surely not. I got out and banged on a door of a house. A little old lady appeared after taking twenty minutes to unbolt. She spoke fifteen to the dozen in Spanish and the taxi driver didn´t have change from my $20.00 note. I stared at the sky thinking "Why has thou forsaken me?" While she was prattling on the taxi driver who owned me $8.00 after my tip offered me a note of local currency stating that it was worth $7.00. By this time I had moved sharply into cynical mode. A man of my world weary experience knows that crumpled well thumbed noted of a pinky hue are never worth more than 20p. Higher denominations have the virile gravitas of bluey or greeny colours. I reluctantly took the said note and followed the chattering old lady inside.

It was a house if rather a large ornate house. The old dear continued to chatter away nervously as we stood at "reception". I had this overriding sense that she and I were the only two people in the building. I signed the register. Mine was fifth name on the page: so there were four others. Even better the signature above was from the USA. Things were looking up: someone to talk to and exchange information and pleasantries. Then I noticed the date...May. I was the first guest for nearly three months!! I slumped despondently on my bed. I was trapped alone in God knows where with no means of communication, and I´ve just been flimped by a taxi driver. Why didn´t I just book a week in Bournemouth? Then I thought hang on I´m not a tourist I´m a traveller. When somebody said to Paul Theroux, probably the best travel writer before he set off on his Patagonian Express Journey " through this part of the world "Enjoy yourself" he explained that wasn´t the point and went on "I craved a little risk, some danger, an untoward event, a vivid discomfort, an experience of my own company, and in a modest way the romance of solitude" Well I´m not that spartan but you get my drift.

After a good night´s kip I was woken by the sound of gunfire. It seemed that nearby there was a military firing range...or squad. I drew the wide curtains and revealed a beautiful second floor veranda. I stepped through the large French windows sat at the ornate table and looked over the city skyline with the backdrop of the most perfectly shaped volcano. It was like a huge isosceles triangle with a bit chopped off the top. I checked the Guatemalan quetzales currency with smug confidence to discover that scruffy pinky note was actually worth $7.00. At least I gave him a good tip even if it wasn´t with good grace at the end.

There was a TV programme a few years ago about the violence and lawlessness of Guatemala City. The police didn´t pursue murder investigations because of a combination of the huge number and apathy. Women were especially vulnerable. Back in Lunas Castle the few who had been here said the threat was exaggerated and you have to be sensible. My Turkish friend advised me to jettison any sign of being a tourist. Wear long trousers not shorts, keep any ostentation well hidden such as cameras and watches, and don´t wear tell tale T-shirts. So with that in mind I set out to find my way around this den of iniquity. The area was run down but not threatening as it was the previous night. The night people had gone back into their caskets. Eventually I found my way to one of the main plazas wearing jeans, a plain T-shirt, Panama hat, and to make sure I was incognito my rather cool shades. When I got to the corner of the plaza three limb challenged beggars homed in on me. It was like a qualification for the paraplegic games. Well I thought I had blended in quite well but maybe being covered in a thick layer of sun-block which made me looked like a refugee from the Walking Dead was a give away.

In the evening I went to a Mexican restaurant near the plaza. I was tucking to what turned out to be an excellent meal when I noticed a young lone woman of mid to late twenties sitting just across from me. I was convinced she was British by her poise, deportment and pale complexion. She was attractive rather than beautiful and had an intelligence about her, not that I was staring of course. She is or would have been just my type. The mystery was what was she doing GC alone. I was hoping she would say something as I´m too self conscious of my age to start chatting to young strange young women. When I was young and in my prime thanks mainly to the RAF I found myself in exotic places but did any of these chance meetings take place? Did they fff..., no they didn´t. Last year I experienced two brief encounters with mysterious young women both occurring thirty years too late. Earlier in the day I checked to see what Dating Direct had produced since I´d been away. Two Amy Turtle lookalikes both with a GSOH. Oh fate why doth thou mock me!!. Kismet has been taken the piss out of me all my life.

Anyway where was I? Oh yea back to the lady of the house. She was a sweet old dear of 76 and her hotel was beautiful in an austere way. Although I wasn´t overly aggressive the first night I think she sensed my disquiet. It was blatantly obvious I couldn´t understand Spanish and I repeated "No comprende" monotonously. But despite this everytime our paths crossed she engaged in lengthy nervy monologues. When it was plain that I hadn´t understood a word she took a deep breath furrowed her brow and repeated it slowly and with greater intensity as if it would make a difference, then when this didn´t work she search another away of expressing herself seemingly totally unaware of the futility of exertions. I felt my stay had ruffled all her feathers and as left I could see her metaphorically putting her head under her wing until the guest arrived probably in late October.

I found wandering around GC that although being a poor country even by CA standards the city was vibrant and the people seemed pretty relaxed and were certainly very friendly. Leaving the restaurant I thought of getting a taxi back as is generally advised but I kept walking until the noise of el centro slowly faded behind me and I had about four dimly lit blocks to go. The trannies hadn´t arrived so inspired by Paul Theroux I strode purposefully back the hotel. In these situations I carry no more than $50.00 which I would gladly hand over, however if I´m carrying all my gear and cash then it´s a fight to the death.

I´m now in Copan in central Guatemala. It´s a quaint little town and a stopping off point to my next stop, Flores, which is in the north east. Flores is a large island in the middle of a huge lake which is accessed by a causeway. This may sound reason enough to visit but the island acts as a village that houses visitors to Tikal just over an hour away. Tikal is the most important and most popular Mayan site in Central America. It has the highest pyramids and what sets it apart from other sites is that they tower above the thick equatorial jungle canopies with the sights and sounds of howler monkeys, toucans, parrots, and tree frogs.

After business air travel it´s chicken buses fro the most part now until I get back to Panama in five weeks time

My route to the Canal

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The worst part of these long haul expeditions is getting to that part of the world that's to be the focus of attention for the next six weeks. I know that I'll experience some trauma or disappointments, major or minor, while I am here but they're unpredictable and come with the territory. These setbacks will be more than compensated by unexpected positive encounters. But what's more predicable than the Heathrow hassle, and a lot of paranoid officiousness and a certain amount of chaos at Newark International in New York which resulted in a delay of nearly four hours? I knew I would be physically and mentally knackered by the time arrived at my hostel at 1.30 am (8.30 am UK time.)

Actually the flight from New York to Panama City was quite eventful. While flying over the area popularly known as The Bermuda Triangle I thought of Ben when he was younger who had a fascination for the mysterious disappearances in this vicinity. I raised the porthole shutter after a doze in the dark to witness an amazing electrical storm. A gathering of two dimensional dormant clouds were suddenly given three dimensional life by an injection of venomous electrical energy that lit them up across the sky every few seconds like huge light bulbs with the arcing fork lightening acting as the giant filament. There was no sound and I thought that this spectacular deserved a score specially written. While we were experiencing the spectacle the fire alarm went off in the plane. After a bit of concern by the attendants (and us of course) we were informed by the captain that the continuing din was due to the electronics which had been affected by the storm. This was far from reassuring as we were about to land. Anyway we landed safely although the airfield spookily just had a few old Dakota turbo props and at the corner of the airfield I thought I spotted a flying boat with Spruce Goose written on the side. What was really peculiar was walking through Arrivals and spotting a calendar on the wall showing 1937.

When I arrived at the hostel Lunas Castle at 1.30 a.m. I found a group of young people totally rat-arsed. I enquired about the whereabouts of reception and staff and they informed after a fashion that they were the staff. Eventually one of them roused himself shuffled to the computer and attempted to key in my details. As both our brains were like melted cheese for different reasons there was a breakdown in communication. He reminded me of a young hirsute Eliot Gould: thick black hair covered everything but his eyes which were almost totally closed. His slurred speech made communication almost impossible. I was so tired that I just agreed with everything I almost heard him say. So to those at the Lunas Castle and its environs I'm known as Derek H. Crockett. If this is what they're like on Mondays what's Saturday like? In their defence I discovered it was a party for a special occasion.

The following morning still feeling a bit jet lagged and suffering from sleep deprivation I wandered around Casco Viejo, and what a tonic it proved to be. Casco Veijo is a squared jawed peninsular jutting out into the the Bay of Panama. It was a glorious day and the area has been described as being similar to old Havana with cobbled stoned streets and crumbling Spanish colonial architecture. The locals I passed all wished me "buenos dias" and as I was thinking I should get a hat to protect my head from the beating sun I ambled passed a bloke selling, amongst other things, Panama hats. So resplendent in my new acquisition I strolled on. I stopped off at a street cafe for liquid refreshment conversing with some difficulty with some locals and then moved on. As I turned towards the direction of Lunas Castle down a narrow street one of the locals whistled to me then shook his head and drew his finger across his throat and suggested I stick the the wider main drag. So it seems that my state of well being and sense of security was false and that you have to keep your wits about you at all times.

The following day I went to the Minaflores Locks just outside Panama City to see the Panama Canal. Much of the travelling I do now is inspired by my boyhood and teenage imagination. In St. David's Primary I collected chewing gum cards of national flags including basic information about each country and Panama and its Canal struck my imagination and was placed unconsciously on the back burner for fifty years. The Canal is one of the great modern man made wonders of the world and a heavy human price was paid to complete it. There is a very impressive four story visitors' centre with an elevated viewing gantry, film show, and an excellent museum. In the blazing heat I watched several container ships pass through which became hypnotic as each time I went to leave to visit the museum I kept thinking "just one more ship and then I'm off.

Ben and Jo would love the Lunas Castle Hostel. It's located in huge crumbling colonial building with cavernous rooms. Last night I was talking to a Turkish bloke now living in the US and was the only person who wasn't at least three decades younger than me. It has a hippy atmosphere (bandannas are very popular) where scores of young backpackers pass through after spending a few days chilling as part of their various Central and South American itineraries. Most are just about to go to or have just been to Bocas del Toro on the Caribbean coast where there are great beaches and to dive pirated wrecks. There is a large kitchen where we cook pancakes in the morning before plonking ourselves down on a long wooden table ladened with fresh bananas. The chill out rooms are very large with lots of settees and soft furnishing and where travellers crash out if all the beds are taken. Last night there was a great jam session. The resident guitars were plucked from the wall, a pair of maracas appeared from somewhere, and an ancient organ which I previously assumed was part of the way-out decor was skillfully put to use. It wasn't a thrash but a gentle unplugged interpretation of the songs we all know and love. Before chatting to my Turkish|American friend I sat with a beer on the long balcony which overlooks the Bay of Panama with its bobbing fishing boats with the backdrop of the silhouetted uptown Panama City across the bay looking like a scaled down Manhattan.

After being surrounded by youthful physical beauty and athleticism which was countered by their inability to string a sentence together, "Holy shit I've run out of beer man" was average articulation followed by "awesome man" when the said beer arrives, it was a heavy relief to chat with my Turkish mate. He is a software person who looked bookish and was a bit of an intellectual. We discussed the religious divides across the globe, Byzantine art, the rise and fall of the Ottoman Empire, alternate energy sources until exhausted I tried to lighten the proceeding by extending the question "Britney or Kylie,.....another beer man?"

I've experienced two already of what I hope will be many firm handshakes on this trip. The first was at Newark International while waiting an inordinate time for our baggage. I had quite a long chat with a bloke of about my age from New Jersey and then Tim a young tree surgeon from Porthcawl who'd been travelling for six months around CA with his girl friend. Tim convinced me to change my itinerary by swapping Honduras for southern Mexico.

Tonight I fly to Guatemala City.

Am I too yellow for banana republics?

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My blog site as laid relatively dormant in recent times. This is due largely to the fact that I expect Thunderclap Newman has had more hits than me, so why bother. However it's that time of year for my unlikely expedition and it's an efficient way of informing family and friends of my progress.

My destination is Central America. Those that have seen the latest Indiana Jones film may recognise the Mayan culture on offer although they decided to locate it in Peru instead of Guatemala. It's obvious that the intrepid Professor Jones bottled it when it came to entering what is regarded as one of the most dangerous places on the planet. If the hurricanes and earthquakes don't get you still have to survive malaria, and dengue fever as apparently Guatemala is a hot spot for both. Then there is the fact that there is on average 5,000 murders a year many of which are in the capital Guatemala City. When I booked my flights several months ago I dismissed such dangers as a mere bagatelle now my arse is twitching somewhat as I count down the few days left.

My first destination is Panama City. I've booked several days in a hostel called Lunas Castle which seems to be highly recommended. The main attraction is its location in an area called Casco Viejo which apparently has all the charm of old Havana and overlooks the Gulf of Panama. A good place to start especially with a trip through the Panama Canal on offer.

Hasta Luago