Coffee Bean Connoisseurs

Selecting only the finest beans for the harvest with Marlon in the coffee finca, Sontule.

Marlon lives and works with his family in Sontule in the Miraflor region, a couple of hours outside Esteli in the North West of Nicaragua, where buses only occasionally venture along the bumpy, suspension destroying road. Most inhabitants get there and back by horseback, or foot. A selection of children, dogs (one of which is confusingly called Chicken), chickens, the house pig (called, you've guessed it, Dog) and family members wander in and out over the dirt floors of his home over the course of the day.

Marlon (on the right) is a lovely chap with a great big smile and one of the key members of the local coffee cooperative and tourism project, which in their respective ways aim to bring a sustainable income to the community.

Lou and I visited for a couple of days on the tourism program after the reccommendations of friends Simon and Rachel, as Simon is teaching English in the community school a couple of days a week. Pottering around the stunning landscape of rural Nicaragua, empty out of season coffee beneficios (processing plants) and the various houses of relatives with Marlon, we were absolutely delighted with the friendliness of the people and tried as best we could to adjust to simple country living in our homestay, campesino-style for the weekend.

Sontule, Miraflor, Nicaragua
3rd October 2009

A Holiday From The Beach

The swell fled the pacific coastline, and with it left the surfing population of El Tunco, scattering to Honduras, Nicaragua and Guaremala. Far from keen to sit in the heat and insect clouds to savour the delights of a flat spell, I decided that a break from beach living was in order. A couple of sweaty bus connections inland from la libertad, the small town of Sushitoto resides beside lake X, a quaint colonial bubble seemingly unscarred by the groping claws of tourism. Languid mornings at breakfast in the central town square give no indication of foreign traffic, circumstances mirrored by wanderings around the town.

I arrived in the company of Sandra and Nico, Swiss and Argentinian and we checked into the tiny hostel Vista de Lago, that justified its name with stunning views over the lake from the comfort of hammocks, where I proceeded to spend long hours dangling and lazily shifting my gaze between my book and the landscape, occasionally distracted by the friendly hostel dog, El Oso, as he requested affection. Days were spent pottering to various waterfalls and streams to swim and cool off, the most impressive being El Cubo, a secluded range of falls and pools tucked inside sheer cliffs with a resident population of bats thankfully keeping the local mosquito population down. Everywhere we followed water, the streams, rivers and lakes bore thepresensce of litter, a sobering reminder of the price of progress (ie consuming more non decomposing products) without the stability of infrastructure to prevent fly tipping all over the incredible natural landscape around us.

Electricity in the evenings disappeared for hours at a time during fierce storms that rattled the town, the locals cheerfully going about business as usual in complete darkness with water pooling underfoot. Regular evenings at the local pupuseria (purveyor of the national staple food, pupusas) were conducted frequently by torch and candlelight as we shovelled red hot steaming pupusas into our hungry mouths. On each of these suppertime trips we were accompanied and guarded without prompting by El Oso, who sat faithfully outside during mealtimes and charged snarling towards any locals who he deemed a threat to us, namely everyone.

Sushitoto, El Salvador
1st September 2009

Surfing and Nowt Else

My bus snakes along the coastal road of the pacific, shrouded by jungle and dipping through tunnels carved into the hills when the calculations of the road engineers had presumably decreed that it was not worth going around. The almost incessent and, for the most part, incomprehensible chat of my driver, with whom I had "bonded" while having money extorted from me is occasionally distracted as the jungle surrounding the road opened up to reveal rumbling waves; point breaks, beach breaks, all clean and perfect, all completely empty of surfers.

El Tunco is a tiny collection of hostels and restaurants sitting just off the coastal highway, a 10 minute ride from the bright lights and conveniences of the two blocks of La Libertad, and with at least 10 other world class breaks within half an hours bus ride, three of which are right outside my hostel. Apart for two months of the year, there are always waves here, at around an average height of five feet; chances are that the local forecast update shown below will agree. In a nutshell, this is everything I could want for the next few weeks in which I plan to exercise a complete defecit of responsibility.

El Tunco
16th August 2006

Slides and Freewheeling

Some 1500 vertical metres below Xela lies the wonderous water park of Xocomil (sounds like "chocomilk"), a theme park on a Mayan theme, resplendent with bright concrete "temples" that contain fast food restaurants and effurgies of glowering natives about to throw spears into the defenceless waterslide riders.

Through the local knowledge of one of the people that I had come to know I ended up freewheeling the vast majority of the route to the park on a rented bicycle over the course of an incredible hour and a half of high speed, steep corners on a road that dove through tunnels, of foliage through green rainforest and stone through mountains as stunning vistas shot past of towering cloud forests, deep ravines cut by fast flowing rivers and the impressive mountainous terrain of Guatemala.

I would be pompously self rightous about the rough riding of commercial opportunism for a Mayan theme park over cultural heritage if or weren't for the fact that the park is so much fun that anyone who spends longer than 10 minutes in it is reduced to a squealing childlike state. Personal favourites include the Speed Slide (shown below) and El Regresón, which spits the screaming flume rider some 30 feet up a large quarter pipe before gravity has a chance to do its thing.

Xela, Guatemala
9th August 2009

One Very, Very Good Reason to Visit El Salvador

Chetumal
15th July 2009

Guns, Knives and Short People

On the next brief stop-off from the high speed journey from San Cristobal to Belize, Lou and I booked onto a tour to pay a lightning visit to Agua Azul, a collection of Very Blue Waterfalls that had been reccommended by numerous people. Shooting past campesinos heavily laden with wood who trudged along the side of the paved roads in our air conditioned tour bus with tinted windows I felt the vestiges of a sinking feeling. The feeling grew to a nagging discomfort as we arrived at Agua Azul to find a series of well paved walkways between different "viewing galleries", crowded with tourists merrily elbowing each other out of the way to get their perfect photographs.

Persevering despite growing negativity, we continued up the hill alongside the sections of the falls with the hope that the vast majority of photo-goons would not see the value in trying to break crowd mentality. Hope became smugness as the paths became empty the further away from the carpark we got and we soon found ourselves trotting along beside electric blue water bordered by jungle and lush green banks.

Within five minutes our blissful wanderings brought us to a chap lounging by the side of the path wearing a "rural tourist police" t-shirt with a radio strapped to his belt, in the process of informing a Dutch couple that they couldn't go any further up the track. Fortunately for all concerned, my 6 months of spanish practise allowed me to talk with him and ascertain that it would be fine to go up the track, provided that he remained with us as an escort. With smiles all round and the smugness building, we continued to the end of the track where a large, foreboding sign proclamed that we we premitted to go no further, UNDER ANY CIRUMSTANCES. Merrily casting aside all possesions on the tiny fine sand riverside beach to be warily watched by our police friend, we tumbled into the water and spent the next half hour splashing around, basking on the large stones that sustained the small section of waterfall and throwing ourselves into the rapids to be spat out spluttering in the calmer waters.

Eventually following the example of the Dutch couple we retreated to the beach to towel off when, in a rather surreal moment, I looked up to see four figures heading out of the jungle in a running crouch; from the fact that they were all wearing either balaclavas or hankerchiefs over their faces and carrying rifles and machetes, I quickly ascertained that it was unlikely that we'd just recieved participants for a picnic. In a moment of uncharacteristic lucidity I threw Lou's waterproof camera behind me into the shallows with the knowledge that we were, at the very least, about to lose all our possesions. Meanwhile one of the group had taken up position next to our guard (whose radio proved to be a somewhat ineffective measure against a firearm) and had the barrel of a rife tucked against his skull. Our attentions were immediately directed elsewhere, however, as a remarkably short assailant with a knife that would have made even Crocodile Dundee think twice arrived within chopping distance and informed us in as many words that we would do very well to give him a lot of money.

With visably trembling fingers the Dutch couple handed over 1500 pesos and were relieved of their camera, pleading for the memory card and trying to enlist my help to get our diminutive new best friend to take the time to locate the card slot, perform the complicated operation of extraction (which would require self-disarmament to facilitate the use of both hands) and allow them the gift of the 300 photos that were stored. My Spanish capabilites, already somewhat under stress from the situation, ground to a halt as I briefly considered and then discarded my capacity as bi-lingual negotiator. Aside from dynamics of practicality with their issue, I was also distracted by the worsening problems of Lou and I; having run our financial resources slowly down in anticipation of leaving the country and transferring currency we only had 120 pesos, not deemed a sufficient enough haul for the risk undergone through armed robbery. Drawing himself up to his full height of almost my nose level, our masked aquantence took Lou's day bag from the ground, rifling though it and growing incresingly frustrated as he encountering items of value such as personal journals, mobile phone chargers and ladies personal effects. With a noise of frustration somewhere between a grunt and a squeak, he scuttled off cradling Lou's bag, the camera and money to retreat to the safety of distance where the rest of his companions were waiting, presumably with the mentality that somewhere in the bag, eventually, he would encounter untold riches and ignoring my jumbled requests to return something of little value but great importance, during which I'm pretty sure I accidently referred to him as a "señora".

Sadly for us, the bag contained Lou's passport. Without the benefit of time to reorganize her stuff, this cruicial jigsaw piece of our Belizian picture was disappearing into the undergrowth in the hands of a group who almost certainly had absolutely no use for it. And disappear it did, leaving our slightly shell shocked group standing on the small crescent of sand criss crossed with the footprints of the past couple of minutes. Our wide eyed guard leapt from the log on which he'd been sitting and let fly with a tumbling stream of terrified language, disavowing all responsibility, blaming our actions, cursing all and sundry for the ill luck and the looming possiblity of their imminent return.

With eyes cast fearfully towards the opening in the foliage we collected the scattered remenants of our belongings; mercifully our wallets had been left, containing our identification and bank cards to finance the impending lengthly administrative process of insurance claims and obtaining a new passport that sat like a black cloud in the back of our minds; the Dutch couple through a blessed twist of fate had managed to retain their bag which contained both their passports and wallets; I retrieved the camera from the shallows of the river, a minor triumph that would prove to be short lived when it would, at some point, slip from the bundle that I was carrying and fall to the trail never to be found again; and began the walk back down the hill past groups running the other way driven by radio alerts that had come too late, to a new and painful phase to our freshly begun travels.

Palenque

9th July 2009

Bad News for Democracy

I've just indulged in my first surfing excursion for two months, escaping in the twilight weeks of the teaching semester to the coastal town of Puerto Arista. Now, you would think that the experience of thrashing around in the turbulent, hurricane fueled waters of the pacific under steely grey skies would be a fine subject for discourse. One would assume that conveying the experience of swimming in warm ocean water whilst the seasonal rains pound the coastline and strong storm winds bend the palm trees would be a priority, and under any other circumstances I would happily oblige this focus, but for the unfortunate incidents of Saturday afternoon.

Having climbed out of the sea with a powerful hunger, I advanced with the two teachers with whom I was traveling, Willow and Lewis, to the nearest restaurant in sight. Within seconds of arriving we were purchased beers by a stringy grey haired chap in a standard issue Mexican vest sitting amongst a group of men. Despite the amiability of the gesture, alarm bells were ringing in Teacher Willow's head, warning of impending sleaze. This, unfortunately, turned out to be a perception of painful accuracy.

Swaggering over, our new (and fairly sozzled) acquaintance introduced himself as a figure of Great Importance in Local Government, sat down with us and proceeded to pester Willow with comments about how beautiful she looked, requests for her phone number and eventually (in sotto voce so neither Lewis nor I could hear on the other side of the table) complimenting her on the size of various parts of her anatomy. Willow, at this point shell shocked and disgusted, told The Towering Pillar of Sleaze with incredible restraint that his company was no longer required, sentiments that I echoed to him as soon as I realized that some fundamental boundaries had been crossed. The Excuse For a Human Being unapologetically apologized and wandered back to his group, leaving a trail of slime in his wake.

The whole incident passed time no greater than 5 minutes, but it cast an unpleasant air over the rest of the weekend trip. Up until that point all of us had been treated for the most part with respect by the people that we had encountered and such a disrespectful violation of said respect (by a figure of authority in government, no less) left us all raw and distrusting of how others might treat us for the remainder of our trip. It is unfortunate that the kindness which is received and trust which is bestowed following the actions of so many others can be shaken by the inconsiderate ramblings of a single pendejo drunk on alcohol and their own position of power.

In advance of the national elections on the 5th July, not a vote swinger for the resident political party methinks...

Puerto Arista
22nd Julio 2009

Come and See the Brown People

Two weekends ago, I teamed up in San Cristobal with a couple of friends from Semana Santa with the intention of indulging in a spot of meandering about town and participating in some good tourist activities to try and curb the loathing that was developing inside me, fuelled by my Canyon Sumidero experiences.

One such jaunt that we signed up to following the recommendation of a very sweet and diminutive elderly lady was a horseback ride to a local indigenous village, San Juan Chamula, that was purported to have a good local market and an impressive church that was worth visiting. Nervously mounting our unashamedly flatulent horses, we swayed throught the outskirts of the town and proceeded for the most part along a winding concrete road, apparently recently installed and greatly diminishing the intended adventurous feel of the trip despite the guide's best efforts to diverge from the road at all available opportunities. Despite this setback, positive experience prevailed as the outfit was run by very sweet, well meaning Mexicans who made every effort to provide us with a good time.

The rub came when we dismounted our horses and wandered, stiff legged, down the hill to investigate San Juan Chamula. The concrete road wound its way down into a settlement of concrete block houses that didn't do much to differentiate the village from the suburbs of San Cristobal (those areas that were suitably distanced from the tourist quarter to incite any coherence to the finely crafted aesthetic evident in the town centre). The market, sitting raggedly in the midst of the town square, was a sad looking collection of stalls vending almost identical wares, a limited display of plastic goods, handicrafts and fruit and vegetables; this, in all fairness may have been due to us missing the morning action having failed categorically to rise early to head out on the earlier trip. The wonderful church of which I had heard so much sat looming on one side of the market square, which after purchasing a huge entrance ticket, we entered.

It's plain colonial exterior matched the architecture of the high, curved ceilings inside, but the difference lay in the huge amount of candles that lined tables fronting row upon row of glass cases butted up against the walls of the church that contained the effigies of white faced saints and martyrs. The multitude of opportunistic local children that had been pursuing us relentlessly for change began dispensing facts about the habits and rituals of the scattering of indigenous people that moved sedately about the interior, as our heads rotated every which way trying to take in the draped decorations, twinkling chandeliers that reflected the candle light, and the thousand dancing and flickering points of light that studded the church.

It was at some point that I learned that the the church, far from being an ancient building of worship, was actually a construction of recent times, and the realization of things began to swim into focus. These dignified, distanced and very, very closed people were being showcased. It seemed like some sort of degrading anthropological zoo; tourists were being shuttled to and from buildings financed and fabricated by supporting local authorities which provided a platform to allow easy viewing access to the religious practices, trading and living environments of the indigenous community. It was no wonder that any words I exchanged between the people there were either as the basis of an attempted transaction or the abrupt finalization of one. The people there no doubt were aware of their role, acting as unwilling portrait photograph models and required to represent an insight to authentic village life, and the weariness with which they conducted themselves served to illustrate it.

It is a sad thing indeed when the effects of tourism not only define an experience, but the livelihood and way of life of those that it seeks to provide experience of. I have begun to feel the same way about native communities tourism that I do when they bring animals into the ring at a circus. Livelihood for entertainments sake should surely be left in the domain of those who proactively choose it, and I am not sure the people of San Juan Chamula have had much choice in their fate.

Needless to say, my impression of tourism has not evolved favorably of late.


San Cristobal De Las Casas
14th Junio 2009

Professional Plummeters

Last weekend the Great State of Chiapas put on a free high diving event in the mouth of the Canyon Sumidero.  After following numerous directional red herrings, I found myself crouching in the bushes alongside my companions and a sizeable representation of the rest of the town opposite a giant orange structure that allowed an international selection of high divers to drop 25 metres into the water and be duly fished out by a selection of jet skis.  After an extended wait in which we were peppered with propaganda about the Great State of Chiapas whilst the mosquitos had their fill or our exposed arms and legs, the competition commenced, an incredible display of skill, grace and balls-out stupidity.  

Out of the field of international competitors, I'm delighted to say that the gloriously pasty Brit gave everyone else a jolly good kicking and walked away with first place.  How did we ever get to be so good at throwing ourselves off high things?

Chiapa de Corzo

3rd Junio 2009 

Por Fin, el Canyon Sumidero

So, after some five months spent at the foot of the majestic Canyon Sumidero in my sweaty little pueblo, a visit from some of my aquaintances from Semana Santa finally prompted me to take an eco-tourist eco-boat ride down the eco-canyon.

Sumidero was an incredible spectacle, sheer rock faces rising up out of the muddy, sluggish river and bursting through the covering of trees that lined its edges.  However, it wasn't long before I started to feel somewhat jaded by the process of experience, shoehorned onto a fibreglass motorboat with a selection of Mexican and foreign tourists, all armed with cameras and camera phones who took every opportunity to point and shoot whenever our tour guide, acting with the token weariness of a seasoned driver, would point out the "features of interest", which regrettably paled into insignificance in relation to the Canyon itself.  We cheerfully drove up to members of the local crocodile population to sate the lust of the tourists for wildlife shots, bringing the boat within feet of them to prompt a grumpy shuffle back into the water or submergence out of sight to prove that they were more than inanimate models placed for the benefit of photo hungry tourists looking for a genuine experience (oh, the irony).

It got me thinking about the nature of tourism; why would I seek to experience things in such a manufactured and predestined way?  What personal significance and sense of development does it instill in me?  Aside from the memory of impressive vistas, the only tangible product that I take from the experience is photographs, and what is their purpose; to be shown to other people?  

So with this in mind, I hope you enjoy the photos for this entry.  They are probably much more impressive than wherever you are.

Chiapa de Corzo

3rd Junio 2009

Welcome To June, We Hope You Enjoy Your Sunset

Chiapa de Corzo

2nd Junio 2009

...And Then The Rains Came

Sitting in my cuarto in a grump following a frustrating lunchtime interaction with the language barrier and the two tweenage girls of the household, I suddenly hear the patter of raindrops against the window pane. Within a minute the patter has turned to an uproar, and the rainy season begins. I've heard this seasonal change mentioned by various people and decide in a flash that I'd sooner go outside and risk a soaking than be inside with myself for company.

Grabbing a waterproof and the camera, I duck out of the house and tiptoe my way around the block under the awnings of the houses as the rain lashes down, heading for the central plaza. The stories I've heard are fully substantiated; the cobbled streets have become rivers, torrents pouring through the town, paying attention only to the inexplicable variation of gradients. Eventually I stand at one of the block intersections, facing an ankle deep, fast flowing stream as cars thrash up and down the street and the detritus of the town drifts lazily by, heading for the river. Finally tired of waiting, I step into the tide and feel my shoes instantly saturate, slopping big, wet footsteps across the intersection as I am watched by the curious townspeople from the shelter of their windows. Once again, I misrepresent foreigners as a bunch of curious eccentrics that would sooner be soaking themselves in the filthy first rain of the season than sheltering in warm and dry interiors, waiting for the storm to pass.

And pass it does, the forking lightning and loud, violent rumbles of thunder diminishing to nothing along with the pounding of the rain. Sopping wet and dripping in the shelter of the vast town fountain in front of a curious crowd of Mexican tourists, I watch the skies clear. The rapid turn in events of the weather permits the rest of the teaching staff to forge their way to afternoon classes without having to wring their socks out and leave them to dry on the desk at the front of the class.


Chiapa de Corzo
15th Mayo 2009

Mexican Sunday League

Following an invitation by my Mexican friend Manuel and a couple of friendly 11-a-side games in the blistering afternoon heat at the Centro Deportivo on the outskirts of town, I was asked by Octavio, the team manager in his machine gun chatter if I would like to play in the local league. I graciously accepted the tenure of novelty international signing and began jumping through the flaming hoops of procuring tiny photographs for my league ID card and copies of all my particulars (in the eventuality than the authorities would conduct an on-pitch inspection, I suppose) and purchasing the "uniforme" of a green cotton t-shirt with a number on the back and a fetching pair of white short shorts and matching socks of the finest polyester. Unfortunately, despite my slavish attention to process I turned up for the first match on the Sunday for a 12pm kickoff, already sweating in the shade, without the necessary regulation moulded stud boots; essential for running on rock hard, dry earth.

Thus I found myself watching, and not participating in, the epic battle of my team against a considerably more professional looking and organised opposition (their replica shirts had sponsors and everything). Despite the fact that I was thousands of miles away from the green and very uneven pitches on the Bristol Downs, I was surprised at the similarities; both teams labored around the pitch, veering between periods of enthusiastic capability and utter ineptitude; a gaggle of devoted spectators, substitutes and "managers" screamed completely contrary advice from the touchline and sporadically lapsed into laughing and joking from bulging eyed abuse hurling and, synonymous with my Bristol days, I was none the wiser as to why some players were deemed to be having had a fantastic game and others worthy of a death sentence when for all intents and purposes everyone seemed to be doing as well as each other.

The only difference seemed to be in the diverse and frequent circumstance of injury that plagued the game; the included photo depicts one of countless additions to extra time that the players no doubt cursed as they waded through the heat of the day. I can only put this down to the fact that the players were tottering around on regulation studs on a surface akin to a basketball court, but with dust.

Sadly (no doubt due to my absence on the pitch), my team received a resounding 3-0 beating which led to the familiar British post-match rounds of backslapping and joking about how awfully we played/what a bunch of bastards the other lot were, punctuated by occasional involuntary silences and shaking of heads. If I can last 90 minutes without expiring in the heat, I think I'll have a great time with this for a couple of months.

Somewhere outside Chiapa De Corzo

10th Mayo 09

Meanwhile, in the rest of the world...

I´ve been subscribing to all manner of blogs and websites over the last couple of months to see just what the most crazy types of this world up to at the moment. Two fine items crossed my inbox over the last week, demonstrating wonderful examples of what can happen if you are prepared to do things a bit differently.

The first was a great find from The Adventure Blog, one of my favourite daily digests. It´s a video of some crazy and very entertaining French chaps (are there any other type?) climbing a peak in far flung Pakistan. The film is about 20 minutes long but I´d recommend watching every second. I have no idea how you build up to having the skill and insanity to do this kind of thing, but I'd love to give it a bash some day...

Elsewhere, the Bristol based loonies known as the Adventurists have opened entries for their latest race, from Peru to Paraguay. In typical Adventurist style, racers are permitted only to carve their route in a motor taxi of the poorest quality. Well worth your attention if you are chewing your arm off with boredom at your desk and are looking to opportunities to get away...

Image courtesy of The League of Adventurists International Ltd.

Chiapa de Corzo
13th March 2009

Messin´about on the river

This weekend, in the vague pursuit of physical activity and a taste of the outdoors (I´ve been cowering inside avoiding the heat of the day for weeks now), I decided to take up the offer of a friend/brother/cousin of my family (as far as I can tell everyone in this town has a connection of some kind with everyone else) to use his canoe to explore the wide river that flows past the southern edge of the town and into the Sumidero Canyon.

I managed to procure a kayak of a most modern design with relative ease, and within a short space of time hopped over the malodourous bank to the river and launched into the water.  It was a great experience, paddling solo alongside the banks; as it was a Sunday, all the families and mobs of kids were out in force, splashing around and generally deriving a great deal of amusement from an inquisitive foreigner paddling past them.  As I got futher down the river and the only signs of life were the occasional tourist motorboat hurtling past and causing near capsize inducing wake, I got one of my first feelings of proper solitude since I arrived; a welcome break from the relentless noise and attention that awaits me every day in town.

It transpired at roughly the furthest point from my intital location on the whole trip, that I was sharing the boat with a squad of very sociable ants.  When these friendly beasts decided to put in a appearance, I can only imagine the sense of value for money that a boatload of passing tourists must have felt, watching me suddenly and inexplicably paddle furiously for the bank and leap from my craft, slapping myself repeatedly all over my body whilst hopping around frantically.  The ants and I eventually reached a truce mostly instigated, I assume, by the act of ant genocide that I committed, dragging the boat out into the river and giving it a bloody thorough washing, inside and out.

Chiapa de Corzo

9th March 2009

Another Top Notch Weekend

Just outside town, Im fortuate enough to have a very nice selection of waterfalls and natural climbing walls. These have provided me with an excellent couple of weekends, and adequate training for my adventure based future existence post teaching, no doubt hacking through jungle, scaling mountains, looting ancient temples etc.

Somewhere outside Chiapa de Corzo
21st February 2009