The Atlantic

Setting off from Martinique at a late hour, neither of us were awake to witness our departure. When we finally stirred the Bonavia had long since left land behind, we were now making our way across the Atlantic. The voyage was scheduled to take over 8 days, it felt like a very long stretch having already been on the boat for the same length of time.

The first few days were spent peacefully enough, more reading, lots of sleeping, trying to fill in the gaps between mealtimes. One day we were party to a lifeboat drill, which was surprisingly fun. At 10.30 am the alarm went off and we grabbed our lifejackets. The steward appeared at our cabin ready to lead us to the muster station down on deck 2.

When we arrived most of the crew were already in place. Marco, as designated safety office, was busy shouting instructions when the Captain radioed him to say that he wanted the lifeboat tested. Which in practice meant we had to get in. Not an easy task given the acute angle of the thing, and as our seats were at the rear we had to go first. It was pretty comical attempting to manoeuvre down the boat, particularly as the sea was still a little rough, hut we eventually got to our seats, and had to sit in a position not dissimilar to astronauts at take-off as we waited for the rest of the crew to file down.

By the time we emerged into daylight, everyone was preparing for the fire drill. Presumably for his record keeping, Marco was firing off photographs all the time, as his colleagues went about their duties. The steward took us down into the engine room to watch as a crewman, feigning injury, was loaded onto a stretcher and carried out by his giggling colleagues, such was the "act" he put on. One of the designated fire-fighters was being instructed to wave his hose about as if actually extinguishing a fire as Marco took more photos. Meanwhile another fire-fighter couldn't get his oxygen tank working and looked as though he was about to suffocate, before having his head cover removed by a laughing friend. And then suddenly everyone had gone, leaving us alone in the engine room.

After the fun of the days drills, being a Saturday it was party night (the crew usually work a half day on Sunday so they can afford to let their hair down). The Bonavia didn't have a designated party area, so instead a motley collection of tables and chairs were set up next to the outdoor swimming pool, whilst the chef was busy barbecuing an enormous amount of meat. In the evening when we were called down to dinner we saw how busy he'd been. A huge table was piled high with chicken, ribs, spicy prawns and a Philippine tuna dish, as well as the usual trimmings.

Everybody tucked in, and whilst we ate the officers generously saw that our glasses were kept topped up with a disturbing amount of Vodka. Unusually, the conversation flowed that night (it can be difficult at mealtimes, as we have a separate table in the officers mess, so half of them have their back to us). Whilst Gemma was talking about our travels, I was locked in a debate with the Chief Engineer as to who Phil Collins took over lead vocal duties from in Genesis. By the time I had gone to the cabin to grab my ipod as proof, I was aware that the ship had taken on a whole new movement.

When I returned (triumphantly, I might add), we had received an invitation to continue the party in the crews day room, where most of the crew had gathered to sing on their karaoke machine. I have a hate-hate relationship with singing, but the vodka kept flowing freely, so without much protestation I found myself at the microphone. Those who have ever seen me in such a position will know of the terrors that that entails.

In fairness, I gave a creditable performance of Radiohead's "Creep", and I didn't need to read the lyrics for the Cranberries' "Zombie". But by the time I tried my hand at "Eye of the Tiger" I could barely stand, much less stay in time. Which might explain why I resorted to dancing around the cramped room shadow boxing like a deranged Rocky Balboa. For days afterwards this was how several crewmen greeted me when our paths crossed in the corridors.

Whilst Gemma gave her renditions of "let it be" and "wonderwall" with the crew singing and clapping along, I removed myself from the theatre of conflict (with my tail between my legs) and retired to bed. Except I didn't stay there for long - suffice to say that if you drink copious amounts of vodka at sea, a private bathroom is a necessity, not a luxury.I spent the whole of the following day in bed, nursing one of my worst hang-overs in recent memory, feeling every pitch or judder of the ship deep in my stomach. I didn't make a single meal time either, relying on nothing more than the toast that Gemma made me to see me through. It was a day from hell.

The following days were a lot quieter. We fell back into our routine of eating, reading, and the occasional trip up to the bridge to check on our progress. There was a small party one night to celebrate the Oilers birthday (I politely but firmly refused all attempts to ply me with vodka, and was somewhat relieved when the ships supply ran dry). By this time we'd been onboard for 2 weeks, and it wouldn't be unfair to say we were becoming a little restless, beginning to think of certain land based luxuries. For my part I was dreaming about stone-baked pizzas, for Gemma tiger bread and the Peterborough scores.

One evening as we neared Madeira we did hit a small storm, as the wind picked up you could feel the ship being tossed about on the waves. As it was late we tried to sleep through it, but without success as one by one everything that could fall down in the cabin did. One moment, laying stretched out on my back on the bed, I suddenly found my knees uncontrollably approaching my face at a rate of knotts - thank god I'm not flexible, I would have knocked myself out. It was not unlike trying to sleep in a flight simulator, the motion was neither constant nor rhythmic, it jerked you and pulled you about. Later on the bridge the second officer, Dominic, told us the old sailors trick is to line the sides of your mattress with bottles, so it forms a "U" shape in the bed, which keeps you safely inside.

As we approached the coast of Spain, our thoughts began to turn to our route home. We have considered several variables including Seville, Granada, Ronda, and Gibraltar, before heading inland to Madrid and Barcelona and then making our way through France and back home. We haven't quite settled on a final route yet. But having now finished our final sea voyage, we'd like to give you the benefits of our experience of the Pacific, Caribbean and Atlantic, our " 10 point guide to life on a container ship" if you like.

Ten Truths About Life At Sea:

1. A ship does not need an ocean full of huge waves to be thrown about. On some of our roughest days the sea was flat.
2. Contrary to the holiday brochures, the oceans are not full of whales and dolphins. Inevitably, on the brief occasions when they are spotted, you will be in the toilet.
3. Sailors do not say "land ahoy", "batten down the hatches", or "hoist the main sail" anymore. Attempts to do so may be considered disrespectful.
4. Avoid all discussions which necessitate the need to google the answer. All parties will be left unsatisfied.
5. The "serious" matter of the abandon ship drill may well be the comical highlight of the week. Unless a land-lubber like you or I is given vodka and a karaoke machine.
6. Disney has lied to you, sailors no longer wear parrots and eye patches. They now have hard-hats. Do not attempt to elicit a "pieces of eight" from a hard-hat. It is frowned upon.
7. Soup will be served every day, but never a drop is spilled. You will rarely see fish on the menu, unless you catch it yourself. And forget entirely about sushi.
8. Sailors no longer drink rum - they drink vodka. In prodigious quantities.
9. Sailors are prone to extreme generosity when pouring you a drink.
10. The middle of the ocean is not a suitable place to be nursing a hang-over. In fact it's the worst place on the planet for that.

Back at Sea: The Caribbean

We were woken at 2.30am by the port agent assigned to take us to the dock. We piled our bags into his rundown car, and before we had the chance to locate our seatbelts we were being flung around the empty streets of Limon. We arrived at Puerto Moin in a disconcerting short time for 9km, but just as the car pulled up to the customs gates our agent received a phone call - the customs officer had overslept. So leaving us sat outside the gates he went ahead to begin his tasks.

Even at 3am the humidity was impressive, and our lack of sleep was starting to tell. From our position outside the port we could make out our ship quite clearly, potentially even our very bedroom which we longed to stagger into. An hour later the agent returned to take us inside, the customs official wiped the sleep from his eyes and took our passports, casually flicking through trying to find our Costa Rica entry stamps without a hope in such dim light. Leaning on the bonnet of the rusty car he stamped us out of the country.

We made our way over to the MV Bonavia and climbed the surprisingly sturdy gangway onto the ships deck. A member of the crew met us at the top and led us into the ships office, where we were introduced to two of the Bonavia's officers who needed to inspect our bags, even though they conceded we didn't look like traditional smugglers (I'd left my eye patch at home). After discovering nothing more incriminating than a few bags of coffee we were shown to our cabin, high up the ships tower, where we finally passed out.

Without much to do the following day except a brief tour of the tower structure and some safety instructions, I decided to take a stroll on the dock so that I could get some exterior short of the boat. I popped down to the office to ask permission. "One moment please sir, I must check with the master" said the steward. When he returned I was granted permission, with the important caveat that I must wear a hard hat at all times, and given what had just happened I must take extra care. Except nobody mentioned what had just happened.

I made my way down to the dock and began hunting for suitable angles to snap the ship. As I made my way about, carefully checking for moving vehicles and cranes I discovered what had just occurred. From the look of the scene in front of me there had been a terrible accident, it appeared as though somehow a container had been dropped on top of a stevedore. Several men stood about, some obviously in shock, while men in uniforms took statements, just yards away from a blood soaked blanket. I decided to return to the ship at this point, docks are dangerous places at the best of times and the last thing this poor man's colleagues needed to see was a snap-happy tourist waving his camera about.

Later we met the captain and asked him for the details. He explained that the crane drivers are often unsighted when moving the containers around, relying on radio instruction from the ground. In this case, one of the men on the ground, an experienced stevedore in his sixties, had dropped his hard hat underneath a descending container and dived under to retrieve it. It's little consolation, but everyone felt terribly sorry for the man, his family and of course the unfortunate crane driver.

Because of the investigation into the accident, all loading work stopped for several hours,and the crew spent the time preparing for the voyage, so we didn't have much of an opportunity to interact with anyone. Having experienced this before, we knew there would be plenty of time to meet everyone on the voyage, so we just relaxed in the cabin with our books, enjoying having our own room alongside use of the captains lounge and his private kitchen.

The following morning we were woken by the smell of bacon being cooked - five floors below us. We threw our clothes on and ran downstairs, enticed by the prospect of proper bacon (we're fed up of the American, glass-like bacon out here). Whilst we were tucking in two tugs began attaching lines to the Bonavia, and by the time we returned to our cabin we were leaving the port of Moin behind us. Within minutes the ship was bouncing around on the waves, and we both realised we were going to "feel" this voyage a lot more than onboard the Miami. Looking out of the porthole you could clearly see the ship dip, then ride the wave, then dip suddenly again. We moved a surprising amount considering how calm the sea looked.

Still trying to recover from the effects of our last night only land, we couldn't muster up enough enthusiasm to explore the ship, and it was too rough to wander to the bow anyway, so we spent most of our first day at sea in the cabin. We had two singles beds and a small seating area, as well as a small shower and toilet. It wasn't quite as luxurious as the Miami, and the interior decor as bit dated (the ship was built in 1995) but still more than sufficient for our needs.

As darkness fell over the Caribbean sea the wind and waves picked up again, we were both woken several times during the night as the Bonavia lurched awkwardly, causing us to roll, or objects in our cabin to fall. It wasn't quite a storm, but more than enough to hint at the power of the waves. By the time we woke, nearly lunchtime, we were both nursing sore muscles from all the movement in the night. I was starting to turn a little "green" but some food made me feel better.

Then next couple of days passed peacefully enough, we fell into a routine based around the daily meal times (breakfast: 7am; lunch: midday; dinner: 5pm). On our third day at sea we spotted land through our cabin porthole, the island of Hispaniola (one third Haiti, two thirds Dominican Republic), and prepared for our first stop at Puerto Caucedo. As the afternoon turned into evening the lights on land shone like little beacons, so we put on our shoes and prepared our wallets. We were a little premature, however, not landing until nearly 8pm. By the time we had docked, and customs had cleared the ship it was gone 9pm, and no-one could give a definite answer as to what time the ship would leave.

Rather than spend 100 dollars for a taxi into Santo Domingo, we joined the Captain, his assistant, and the Port Agent on a dash to a supermarket. We were given shore leave passes as if we were crew, so the five of us raced down the gangway into the agent's pick-up truck. We sped through the modern, surprisingly well equipped port (more like a smaller version of Busan than dirty, dangerous Moin), showed our shore leave passes to the officials and raced out into the darkness. The Port Agent, our driver, constantly fingering his Blackberry whilst steering (I've noticed all Port Agents never seem to leave their phones alone).

We reached the Supermarket 30 minutes before closing, so while the captain and his assistant sped around grabbing all the fresh vegetables in sight, we did likewise in the soft drink and snack aisles. Without the time to evaluate our purchases we ended up with $40 of junk, but fortunately I had enough money left to lend the Captain $30 to pick up some cigars he had been hankering after, he'd maxed out his card on two entire trolleys of fresh food.

By the time we returned to the Bonavia the container operations were well under way. We fell asleep to the sound of mechanical cranes lifting and dropping those great metal boxes. Until we were woken briefly but abruptly at 5am when a random alarm sounded. As we staggered out into the hallway, our bleary eyed and half-dressed shipmates told us we could go back to bed, it was a false alarm. When we awoke naturally we had left the Dominican Republic behind us, and were once again bobbing about on the Caribbean.

We didn't see land again for another two days. For some reason I had imagined we would constantly be spotting little islands, trying to guess their names. Instead we'd spent most of our time reading. But eventually we were able to watch with curiosity as the mountainous, green island of Martinique fell into focus, appearing far larger than I had expected it to. Over dinner the Captain explained that we were not due to land until the next day, but he invited us onto the bridge to watch him "park"the boat.

Up six flights of stairs (not easy after a heavy dinner) the Captain was receiving his instructions from the port authorities through his radio, then issuing commands to a junior seaman stood at the wheel. We watched from the front as a huge raincloud enveloped the land, hiding it from our view, before creeping over the ship too. The rain lashed against the bridge reducing visibility considerably, thankfully the GPS equipment did it's job.

As soon as the anchor had been dropped the Captain excitedly asked us if we liked fishing, and told us to head down to the back of the ship. By the time we got there several of the crew and officers had already cast their lines out and were fighting over the best spaces. Someone had rigged a light so that it shone just above the surface of the water, and an optimist had already fetched the ice box from the galley.

Marco, the third officer, gave us his line as he was due to report on duty, so we took it in turns to try our luck. It was a crude form of line we used, but not without it's merits as Gemma landed two fish on her first attempt. I wasn't so successful, reeling in a large tangled mess of seaweed (and getting the line all caught up in knots), but perseverance paid off and I eventually caught myself a red snapper.

Amongst the Philippine crew members the fishing got quite competitive, with several lines becoming tangled during the proceedings, but everyone laughed, drank beers and shared in each others success - particularly as the Cook had promised to rustle up something special for lunch the next day. On top of our normal large portions he prepared us a whole Philippine style fish each, which was delicious, but there wasn't much of it because of the size of fish we'd caught.

An hour after lunch we docked at Port Pointe de Grive on the outskirts of Fort de France. Strangely the customs officials didn't even bother with the boat, so the Port Agent drove us downtown without any hassle. It wasn't how I'd imagined a French Caribbean town to look. There were odd touches of colonial France such as the pastel coloured shutters on windows, and splashes of the Caribbean like the Rastafarian themed t-shirts for sale, but somehow I felt the capital of Martinique was disappointingly ugly when viewed up close, it felt a little unloved, a forgotten outpost.

I wondered whether this changed the moment a cruise ship was spotted on the horizon. Does someone run around removing the graffiti whilst his friend repaints the shutters to look more like the postcards, and yet more people begin setting up stalls selling coconut or seashells in the grey expanse of the concrete car park. Does travelling in the way we are, as the only two passengers on the only cargo ship to arrive that day, give you the chance to see a town with it's proverbial pants down? Not that I either want, nor expect a town to put on a show for me. I just didn't feel any of the charm that has supposedly made Martinique a playground for the rich and famous.

Final Days In Central America

We set off from San Jose with a spring in our step, for two different reasons. Gemma was delighted that I had relented, agreeing to wait out the time for our boat by sitting on sun drenched, palm fringed Caribbean beaches. Personally I was really looking forward to getting our next boat, and relieved to be beginning our journey home. Not that I disliked Costa Rica, but with every passing day I am missing home comforts more and more.

As our bus took us through Limon, the town we would be catching our boat from, it was a good opportunity to scout the local area. We knew we'd be coming through laden with our bags and unsure of the safety situation here, so it helps to know what you are getting into. The Lonely Planet was less than complimentary, and in the words of one local resident "it's a shit-hole". We thought that description was unfair. It was a shit-hole with a beautiful cemetery.

Fortunately the bus turned off the main road and began following a twisting jungle road within earshot of the ocean. 60km further on the bus practically emptied when it stopped in Puerto Viejo, an ugly little town famed for drinking, surfing and more drinking. But we'd done our research, and stayed on for a further 6km to be dropped in Punta Uva, a sleepy hamlet just steps from a deserted shoreline.

Our hostel came with a good rating, and we were disappointed. It was a wooden structure, half treehouse, half beachcombers shack set a little way back from the beach in amongst the abundant foliage, where humming birds routinely buzzed the open air lounge and the distinctive call of howler monkeys can be heard from your hammocks. In fact the only downside to this tropical paradise was the weather - pouring rain being the overwhelming feature during our stay.

There wasn't a great deal to do there except while away the hours on the beach, in the hammock, or take a stroll through the jungle to the nearest supermarket. But that suited us just fine. The few attractions that did exist were very expensive, so we treated ourselves to just one.

The Jaguar Rescue Centre, half-way between Punta Uva and Puerto Viejo, was something I had read about before we arrived, so I was determined to go. We caught the morning bus and arrived in time for a guided tour of the centre. Robbie, an English Biologist, greeted us by introducing us to their fine snake collection which included an open fronted exhibit of bright yellow eyelash pit vipers. The snakes here are often bred, sent to a research institute in San Jose where their venom is collected for use in making anti-venom, and then returned to the wild. Apparently San Jose makes so much anti-venom now they are able to export it to several other countries in Latin America.

We were also shown a beautiful Margay which was fed a live mouse (not for the faint hearted) and breakfast time in the toucan cage. The frog pond was fascinating, we were both delighted to finally witness a green tree frog. I take that back, we'd seen thousands, on t-shirts, hats, post-cards, even shot glasses, just no live ones before.

But the exhibit we had really come for was the Howler Monkeys. I knew Gemma was still disappointed that she hadn't been able to interact with them at Arcas, so to get the chance here was fantastic, although I'll admit I juggled with the ethics of such an experience.

Entering the enclosure the monkies seemed a little shy at first, albeit with curiosity of the giants (us) who had just walked into their home. But soon enough they were happily jumping, sitting and swinging about us. One little fellow mistook my arm for a branch and dangled from it by his tail quite happily for a minute, while his friend tried to nibble my Casio watch. Another sat on Gemma's head while a fourth jumped onto her shoulders. I'll admit it, it was a hell of a lot of fun.

In fact it was the opposite of our teaching at Arcas. There they had preached to us the need for minimising human contact, banning talking to, or playing with the animals whilst working in their enclosure. Here, for fifteen minutes we had the opportunity to play with these enchanting animals. The two sites also had a different approach to releasing the animals. At Arcas they would form social groups to be released en-masse, the whole group undergoing to "re-training" together. Here they would take the older monkeys on a jungle walk every afternoon to allow them to interact with the jungle, and the wild monkeys. It was effectively up to each monkey to decide if they wanted to return to the centre or stay with their new friends.

Being no great expert, I couldn't begin to debate which was the better strategy. I can certainly see logic in both. The Arcas ideal makes a lot of sense, as the monkeys are likely to encounter poachers in the wild, so they shouldn't get to used to human contact, having said that the ones which get released here will have no choice but to live next to the humans who have made this coastline home, and I also like the idea of the monkey being free to chose when he wants to stay in the wild, and the chance to join an already established social group must carry some benefits too.

Politics of animal rescue aside, we also got to see lots of sloths up close (both the two toed and three toed variety). The guide asked how you could tell them apart, which saw me lurch dangerously close to a comedy answer (I resisted). One particularly cute sloth got a little camera shy and covered his face with a blanket. It was a pretty wonderful place to visit for a few hours, our last chance to enjoy some of Costa Rico's unique wildlife.

Back at the hostel we made contact, via email, with the port agents. They had copied in several different people, with segments of useful information coming from each: "the boat is due to arrive at 6pm"; "you must be in Limon at midday"; "you need to meet this person"; "he is at this office". All missing the vital information, the address. Whereas in Korea one man took charge and arranged everything, here the old adage about "too many cooks" felt like it was conning true.

Expecting the boat to dock at 6pm, we made our way to Limon on a local, slightly decrepit bus, driving at breakneck speed along the beautiful coastal road. In town we walked to the agency office (I found the way courtesy of google maps) to meet one of our many contacts. He greeted us with the news that the MV Bonavia's docking time had been delayed until midnight, 12 hours away. "Be back in the office by 11pm" he said before shuffling us out of the office, minus our bags.

Eleven hours was a lot of time to spend in Limon, too much. We didn't find it quite as scary as the Lonely Planet had suggested, but by 8pm we had exhausted all possible activities. Lunch and dinner had come and gone, we had wasted a few hours in an internet cafe, and bought a few last minute provisions, so we returned to the office to sit out the last three hours.

But when we returned we discovered the gates had been locked and all the lights were off. Fortunately the night-watchman heard our loud (and possibly uncouth) protestations! He allowed us inside and made a phone call, informing us the boat was now delayed until 4am. It's in the very nature of this kind of travel, so we weren't too disheartened. Instead we fashioned crude makeshift pillows from our belongings and settled down on the tiled floor of the darkened office to steal forty winks.

Panama: Our Furthest South

After finishing our tour in Costa Rica we spent a few more days in the capital, San Jose. Having just booked our return voyage home through Strand Travel, we needed to complete some paperwork. Getting all the necessary forms together for Container Ship travel was hard enough back in London. But out here it necessitated numerous trips between internet cafes - some had printers but no scanner, others a scanner but no printer. On top of which we needed a form signed by our doctors.

Last time, our regular doctors surgery in London took three weeks to sign the medical certificate to say we were fit to travel - and that was with us chasing them regularly. We didn't fancy our chances of waiting on them to complete and email the forms in a shorter turn around, so instead we set out to find a doctor nearby in San Jose. After entering a few private practices to be told the doctor was out, we did eventually find one at home. A Gynecologist. You can imagine my nerves being sat in the waiting room.

The receptionist showed us into a large room, behind which sat our doctor, a huge man with (I couldn't help but notice) the chunkiest fingers I've ever seen. I've never had to visit a Gynecologist before, but I mentioned to Gemma that in the unlikely event that I would need to in the future, I'd enquire about the size of their fingers first! Fortunately, a practical was not necessary. Did we have yellow fever, dengue fever, malaria? No. Form signed, and $80 lighter than when we entered, we had finished our paperwork.

The good news is that we will be returning to Europe by boat, leaving from Moin, Costa Rica on 2nd February, and scheduled to arrive in Algeciras, Spain about 15 days later. Our new ship is called the MV Bonavia (Details at Marine Traffic), a Liberian registered vessel quite a lot smaller than the MV Hanjin Miami. And quite a lot more expensive it must be said. In part this is down to the fact that the trip is 3 days longer than our previous voyage, and in part because we will get two stops - in the Dominican Republic and Martinique. We are both delighted to know that we will be returning by ship, and will have travelled around the globe without flying.

Once our documentation had been submitted, and our hefty bill paid, we decided to head down to Panama. We booked our Tica bus seats on the overnight drive and set off at 1pm. We arrived at the border in the early evening, but it took nearly 3 hours to get through customs on both sides, so we arrived in Panama City at 5am the following day. Normally arriving at a new bus station in the dark can be a painful process, but the Albrook bus station was a huge, clean, modern building with a line of waiting taxis (normally the drivers are hussling, crowding, even grabbing you).

 

We jumped into one and set off for our hostel. The drive across town was a real eye opener, Panama City is a huge, sprawling modern town with the biggest sky scrapers we have seen since leaving the US, some apartments and others office buildings with names like Citibank and HSBC. Even the road network was impressive, huge fly overs and causeways built over the ocean. Of course, good roads do not necessarily mean good driving, but that's true anywhere in the world!

Arriving at the hostel at 6am, the owners allowed us to go straight to our room and crash out, so we didn't wake up properly until the afternoon. People have often commented to us that catching the night-bus is a good prospect because you save on a nights accomodation, which is true to a degree. But it is rarely a good nights sleep, and there are often stops which necessitate waking up - borders and police checks are common in Central America. Which in turn means that you tend to waste the first day in a new city, catching up on sleep.

We did manage to wander down to the nearby ruins in Panama Viejo later that day. There are a surprising amount of foundations still visible, despite being left unloved and open to the elements in the 340 years since Welshman Henry Morgan plundered the town. Apparently old Panama was a wealthy transport hub on the route to Europe for the Peruvian gold, which made it a focus of pirate interest. Despite sacking the city Morgan is probably less famous here than another old British rogue, Sir Francis Drake, who was allegedly buried off the coast of Portobello on the Caribbean side of panama - divers continue to flock here in search of the lead coffin in which his body supposedly resides.

We had only been admiring the ruins for a few minutes when a policeman on a bicycle peddaled over to us and warned us, in a curious mix of English and Spanish (Spanglish?) that the slums behind the ruins were just about the worst part of panama for us to be in. He told us to head down to the visitor centre instead, so we braved the afternoon sun and strolled away from the better ruins. By the time we reached the office, it was quarter to five, so we decided not to pay for 15 minutes. Instead, freshly concerned about walking back through the slum we caught a taxi.

The next day we caught a taxi to the Panama Canal, specifically to Miraflores Lock, one of three such locks along the 80km of canal, which stretches from the Caribbean sea to the Pacific. This particular lock is the closest to downtown Panama City, hence the most regularly visited, which is why they have built a large visitor centre, complete with a balcony with football stadium style seating. Just try getting a seat! It was packed when we arrived in the early afternoon, so we stood staring into the blisteringly hot sun to await the arrival of a ship.

We didn't have too long to wait, a small catamaran moved into position, followed by a tug, then a large cruise ship and finally a sizeable cargo ship edged down the second channel. We watched as the water level dropped, allowing the ships to move between the locks before heading the short distance out towards the Pacific Ocean. Actually I found it a bit underwhelming, here was one of mankind's greatest engineering efforts, yet it was neither as dramatic as the Corinth canal, nor as beautiful as any one of a number of small locks in the English countryside.

Back inside the air-conditioned visitor centre (it was approaching 40 outside) we had a brief look around. The movie room took it in turns to show Spanish and English versions of a film about the construction of the canal, but we had just missed the version we might understand. Instead we had a stroll through the small museum, with it's collections of artefacts from the construction. It was quite nicely presented, and the aquarium showed us all the creatures which lived in the canal - namely dark, dirty looking fish. Apparently the ships have to pay for passage through the canal based on weight, and in 1928 one man was charged 36 cents for the right to swim through. I don't know if I'd fancy trying the same today, the water looked distinctly murky with a layer of covering oil.

After seeing the canal we felt we'd do some shopping the next day, I needed an extra bag to carry all the bits we've picked up on route, and we needed to find Gemma a birthday present. We asked at the hostel, who directed us to a mall in the city. The taxi driver dropped us off at the entrance and I nearly fell to my knees and wept - the first two shops were Cartier and Louis Vitton. And from there it got worse, Armani, Versace, Rolex, Omega, all the luxury brands had a presence here. When Gemma had said she wanted a watch, I hadn't envisioned we'd be looking for something that would cost us more than our entire trip!

We had a brief look around, but there was no chance of us buying anything other than a drink in the food court. Instead we went to a different mall on the outskirts of town called Los Pueblos. This was were the people shopped, here we were able to pick up a bag, a watch, and some t-shirts for a few dollars each, far more like a backpacking budget!

After a few days of doing nothing except trying to find some relief from the relentless heat and humidity, we decided to return to Costa Rica. Gemma did take a train along the length of the canal one day, but she'll explain that in more detail later. We headed back to the bus station at 11pm one evening for our return trip on the Tica bus. The ride was as bumpy and twisting as before, and we were woken several times before we reached the border at 6am. Being the first time we had driven north in central America, we watched as sniffer dogs checked our bags thoroughly in both sides of the border. The second time the dog took a liking to my bag and I was hauled out to have it checked, but the strongest drug they found were several packets of Costa Rican coffee!

We eventually returned to San Jose at 4 in the afternoon, and walked the short distance to our hostel, to the dismay (and annoyance) of several taxi drivers. This being our third time in Costa Rica's capital, we resolved to do some of the things we had kept putting off, so the following morning we caught a bus downtown and found the Museo del Oro Precolombino (Precolombian Gold). The entrance price was a little steep, but there appeared to be several different exhibits, so we forked out $11 each and stepped inside.

Heading down stairs, you are obliged step walk through huge vault style doors to where the gold is kept. Inside is one of the best presented museums we have seen in Central America. The displays were well set up, with thought going to the presentation, especially lighting. But it's no wonder the curators have made such an effort, because they are the guardians of a wonderful collection of treasures. Little golden figures of humans and animals of all shapes and sizes, incredibly detailed and beautiful, these Precolombian people were true artisans.

I was particularly impressed by the sheer range of creatures, from the almost compulsory worship of jaguars through to the unlikely representations of a lobster or a crab. The museum also contained exhibits of the homes these people lived in, through to little models showing how they lived their daily lives. There was also a movie room which showed a video concerning how they created the gold.If you are ever in San Jose, this is a must see attraction.

The other thing we wanted to see was an Orchid garden called Jardin Botanico Lankester, about 25km outside of San Jose. We took a taxi to a bus station (there are over 20 here, so you have to know which one you want to go to before setting off), and caught a local bus to Cartago for $1. In Cartago we jumped in another taxi, and we were soon at the gardens to which Gemma has a family connection.

Charles H Lankester moved out to Costa Rica to farm coffee in the 1940's, and in his spare time cultivated his passion for orchids, which grew perfectly in this climate. When he passed away, his gardens were left to the care of the University of Costa Rica and the American Orchid Society, and survive to this day. The same Charles H Lankester was the second cousin, twice removed of David, Gemma's Dad.

Unfortunately having a family connection didn't save us from the entrance fee, so we headed inside to see what the Gardens looked like. The first area was dedicated to the Orchids, and they had a huge range. Most of them weren't in bloom (wrong time of year) but those that were looked stunning. We spent a long time admiring (and photographing) them inside the greenhouses.

They also had several other areas dedicated to different plants, including bromeliads, cacti, and a slightly disheveled Japanese Garden, so we spent an hour wandering around the pleasant paths, before returning to the reception. Gemma tried to get some information about Mr Lankester, but besides a few photographs inside the staff offices they didn't know a great deal, so we walked back down a dusty road in the afternoon heat to begin our return to San Jose.

In the next few days we will be heading down to the Caribbean coast for some sun and sea, and we'll be anxiously waiting the call from the Port Agent in Moin informing us of the embarcation procedure, but all being well we should set off on the 2nd February and expect to arrive in Spain 15 days later. Until then!

Costa Rica: La Pura Vida

We caught the ever reliable Tica bus from Granada to San Jose. The changes as we left Nicaragua and entered Costa Rica were startling. Within half an hour we had spotted a huge shopping mall, several well known Western fast food chains, and an abundance of new or nearly new cars parked in the lots. Advertisements for world brands littered the roadside, plastered onto modern offices and apartments. But it wasn't just the obvious appearance of wealth which struck me, in fact the whole country basked in a green glow from the sheer number of trees and plants. Costa Rica is clearly rich in finance as well as nature.

Arriving in San Jose, we made our way by taxi to a hotel, our first once since leaving Belize. Checking into our room was almost overwhelming, a huge expanse of luxury on the sixth floor with a view across the city. Two huge double beds covered in pillows and cushions, a large flatscreen tv, and best of all a hot water shower! We hardly managed to leave the room for a few days - except to re-familiarise ourselves with a Taco Bell. We did manage a walk in a nearby park, and a short stop at the art museum (housed in the beautiful former airport terminal). Otherwise our time was spent catching up on a few chores - finding a laundrette and an internet cafe from which to book up our journey home.

After having a relaxing few days to ourselves, we met up with our tour group. Instead of a welcome meeting we had a one hour Spanish Language lesson. Initially we were skeptical of it's usefulness, everyone else had no Spanish and by this time we had been using ours with some success - but we had to admit that it was interesting to hear the difference in pronunciation between Costa Rica and Guatemala - for example they really hit the "J" pronunciation in the word "llamo"much harder the we had been taught.

The following morning the group set off for Sarapiqi. It was great not having to worry about how we got from A to B for a change, we were able to sit in the minibus and chat to our fellow guests, an eclectic mix of people; Rob from north London; Muniza from Toronto; Mayu from Yokohama; and Sally and Meg from Austin, Texas. On route we were stopped by a police checkpoint, the smiling officer cheerfully inspected our passports and wished us a pleasant stay in Costa Rica. Another contrast to the surly officials we have met in the last few countries.

After throwing our bags behind the reception we made our way to La Selva, an ecological research station in the lowlands of the North East, a place where scientists from around the world gather to collect data on the wildlife of Costa Rica's rainforests. It's easy to see why they chose this place, within a 2 minute walk of the reception we came across a huge iguana sitting in a tree, several bats sleeping under a branch, whilst a curious howler monkey followed us across the entrance bridge.

We spent a pleasant couple of hours walking around the site, being shown around by a knowledgeable guide who pointed out plenty of things we might have missed, although we didn't need any help spotting the peccary which stumbled across our trail. Because of the research credentials of La Selva we were told that an incredible 250 scientific papers are published each year from data collected here.

We returned to our hotel for the evening and began to inspect the our lodgings. Located on the edge of the jungle, Hacienda Pozo Azul consisted of a number tents scattered around a bamboo lounge area. Clearly attempting the "hidden jungle retreat", they fell slightly wide of the mark - I could see a concrete basketball court through the gaps in the foliage.

But, it was still an interesting place to spend a few nights. One afternoon an ant-eater was seen in a tree just above one of the tents, and that night we discovered a bright yellow and black frog in our bathroom. Having just had a lecture about frogs, and being acquainted with the concept of the poison dart, we called reception. Fortunately the security guard advised us our little lodger wasn't dangerous!

The next day, after wandering through some jungle trails by ourselves, we were taken to visit a chocolate farm (I can hear the murmers of jealousy from here - and I have to tell you it WAS that good). After crossing a disturbingly high and wobbly bridge, we hiked through the forest to the chocolate trees! Here we were given an interesting demonstration of the making of both hot chocolate and chocolate bars, along with a potted history of the cacao tree.

I could tell you some interesting facts about the history of chocolate now, but what you really want to know is how did it taste, right? Well, the answer is "delicious". I'm not really one to moan about the merits of a mass produced chocolate bar against a supposedly "premium" brand, but I can assure you neither comes close to the taste of chocolate which has just been made in front of your eyes. Fortunately this was a "practical" lesson! The smell alone was enough to make my mouth water. Rather amusingly, Gemma asked the chef if he liked chocolate, his reply was negative.

On the walk back to the bridge we also spotted another ant-eater, this time carrying her baby on her back (I'm proud to say I was the spotter in this case). So the walk back took twice as long, stopping for photos and my knees knocking as we re-crossed the bridge. As we waited for our bus we were kindly given a small bag of fermented seeds, so we'll be able to try making our own chocolate on our return.

The following day we moved on to La Fortuna, a town situated in the shadow of Volcan Arenal (one of the worlds top 20 most active volcanos). Our first port of call was the home of a lady called Doña Mara, for a lesson in making tortillas. Once we were all gathered around the work surface, Doña Mara showed us how to mix the ground corn with water, salt and (surprisingly) grated cheese. Now we had a huge bowl of dough, the real fun began.

Taking a clump of the dough we made small balls, which were placed onto a plastic mat on the work surface and then gently patted down into a tortilla shape (some more successfully than others) before being thrown onto a large frying pan and fried for 2 minutes on either side. We were then allowed to eat the fruits of our admittedly small labour. Accompanied by soured cream, beans and cheese, these warm tortillas made a delicious snack. Fortunately the kind lady had also prepared a meal for us, a chicken stew with rice, accompanied by roasted yucca. After the fast food experience of San Jose, Doña Mara's homecooked lunch was perfect.

After such a delicious meal we retired to our new hotel, the Mountain Paradise. What a contrast to our lodgings of the last few months. Not only did we have a hot tub on the patio (looking out towards a view of the Volcano, but a choice of two hot showers (one a traditional power shower, the other a themed waterfall). To top it off we had a bed bigger than some of the rooms we had previously stayed in, and a towel folded into the shape of an elephant. Apparently it takes months to get used to hostelling, but minutes to get used to luxury!

In the evening we paid a visit to one of La Fortuna's famed hot springs. Our guide had chosen the Baldi Location, an expensive top end site. The natural springs had been twisted and turned, with the aid of many props, to resemble something you might find in any expensive hotel around the world, which I felt was something of a shame. Where I had been hoping for a natural experience, everything felt too "planned". Still, Gemma enjoyed exploring the different pools and water slides, whilst I lounged around, enjoying spot of my favourite hobby, moaning to myself.

The following day we had some free time, so we caught the bus into town. La Fortuna is a small place, and besides the numerous gift shops there wasn't a great deal to explore. So we made the best of it by grabbing some lunch in a popular Soda (small restaurant) then returning to the hotel to enjoy our hot tub, air conditioning and live Premier League.

Our next stop was Monteverde, a town settled by Quakers from the US in the fifties (when they fled the draft for the Korean War). To get there we were bussed to Lake Arenal, and sailed across in a private boat. The view of the volcano completely changed. Where it had lush green slopes on the La Fortuna side, it now had a dismal gray ashen tone, the result of an eruption some years ago. The lake was also a haven for birds, our guide Danny spotted several which he proudly identified for us.

Continuing by bus uphill, we made a brief stop when we saw a sloth clutching the branches of a tree, and another when we saw a cow riding a horse, and arrived in Monteverde early in the afternoon. The town wasn't quite the mountain paradise I had been imagining, there were plenty of ugly modern buildings. Meg, who had been here 15 years previously commented upon the transition from colourful wooden buildings to what we now saw, a beautiful natural spot populated by bright plastic and glass facades full of posters promising the greatest adventure sports "ever".

Later that day we took a tour of a coffee farm. The guide took us through the process of growing and producing coffee, along with the processing of sugar cane. Apparently the Costa Rican government banned the cultivation of all coffee except Arabica, which probably explains why I am drinking so much of the stuff here. We keep hearing that all the best produce is exported, but I've never enjoyed coffee with so much flavour. Interestingly, it had never occurred to me that coffee was native to Africa, while Cacao indigenous to Central America. In modern times the two continents have made a swap, and Africa now produces more chocolate whilst Central America more coffee.

After our tour, I was dropped off at the local Serpentarium, Gemma opted to miss this one and carried on back to the hotel. Inside I marvelled at the collection of exotic snakes, with one in particular catching my eye. Neither the most beautiful, nor the biggest, the Terciopelo (more commonly known as the fer de lance) is responsible for 46% of all snake bits in Costa Rica. This is hardly surprising given it's apparent prevalence near human habitations, along with it's recorded irritability, speed, and unpredictability. Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on your preference, I didn't manage to get a good photo of it!

The next day we were taken to a reserve in the Cloud Forest a short, bumpy drive from Monteverde. I considered calling trading standards, because we didn't see a single cloud! So effectively it was another pleasant walk in a forest. We didn't see a huge amount of wildlife, apart from a rather shy sloth, so the guide brought our attention to the plants of the forest. If I'm completely honest, I find it hard to get as excited about a tree as I do a wild animal, and palms and ferns were hardly new to us in Costa Rica, let alone Central America.

The guide did his best, but I think a few of us were feeling a little underwhelmed, and combined with the altitude, the effect was to render me a little morose. The afternoon was earmarked for adventure sports, which for Gemma and several others involved zip-lining in the forest canopy, whilst for me I had planned a swim in the pool. That didn't go to plan, as my head hit the pillow and I fell asleep. Gemma had a great time playing Tarzan, but I will let her tell her story on her next blog update.

The following morning, the last full day of our tour, we drove out to the Pacific coast, to a town called Jaco. Jaco is a disappointingly ugly town, with a long beach which appears unloved and dirty. The tourist industry appears well developed, alongside the sort of hotels which litter the coastline of benidorm there was a collection of the detritus which "progress" washes up on too many beaches, mainly in the form of plastic.

Whilst some of the group went for a paddle, we wandered into town and found a cheap local restaurant to eat at. I've previously mentioned the Soda's, they are a good way to eat inexpensively in Costa Rica, although the fare can sometimes be a little inconsistent. They are usually not much to look at, but appearances can be deceptive, We discovered a better one, and after lunch strolled around town trying to avoid the touts and hawkers.

The drive to San Jose took us over a large river. The bus stopped and we were told to walk across, with our cameras. We followed Danny's instructions and were treated to the sight of around 20 large crocodiles lazing in shadow of the bridge. It was an awesome sight, and while snapping away merrily with our cameras, none of us thought to ask why these territorial wild animals congregated here. It turns out a local man comes along to feed them so they cast aside their differences for a regular meal, which I found slightly disappointing. Although I'd be willing to bet the local fish hold a contrary position.

We arrived back in San Jose, 8 days after we had set off with a great deal of respect for the natural wonders that Costa Rica offers, mixed in with a slight disdain for the direction that progress appears to be taking. Costa Rica is a beautiful and varied country, from the Caribbean lowlands to the volcanic highlands, full of amazing sights and enjoyable activities. But as with all edens, care needs to be taken to ensure that what attracts the visitors does not become that which keeps them away. Just by one example, we were told by several people that we were lucky to have seen so many wild ant-eaters. Apparently even now it is more common to see them dead by the roadside. The roads which everyone, us included, travels on to see the sights are guilty of causing the deaths of what we came to see.

It is not uncommon to see "eco" added before the name of a hotel or attraction, but when you step inside you discover huge great plazas of concrete or rubbish strewn around the ground. There are people here who are aware of the impact this might have, but whether they are able to influence the policy makers remains to be seen. Given the tone of previous blogs throughout central America, it might sound like I am being overly harsh on Costa Rica, and I'd have to agree with that. I didn't really go into the effect of humans in other countries through which we have travelled.

I'd suggest this is probably for two reasons. Firstly Costa Rica is evidently fiscally better off than anywhere we have been since Mexico. By way of comparison, GDP expressed per Capita in Costa Rica is over $10,000 per annum - compared to $5000 in Guatemala, $2500 in Nicaragua and $1500 in Honduras. Maybe this doesn't mean they have any more or less responsibility to the environment than anywhere else, we all have to live here so we should all share the same level. But I do think that financial wellbeing ought to make it easier to implement strategies that can lessen our impact on mother nature. We did briefly visit a recycling centre in La Fortuna, which is a promising start, but they need a great deal of support just to cover their area. In other areas the rubbish overflows from unemptied bins.

The second reason I think I am being critical is that I absolutely loved Costa Rica. From a wildlife perspective, it is second only to east Africa in my list of places to spot animals. There are so many beautiful creatures here that it seems such a shame to have to risk squashing them under a 4x4, or altering their natural behaviours for our own enjoyment. I'd like to think that future generations will be able to come here and stare giddily up a tree as a mother ant-eater carries her baby through the branches, rather than have to look in a book to see what it "used" to look like.

And my critical thought doesn't end there, it extends to my own actions too. The next time someone dangles a crocodile in front of my lens I'm going to ask how it got there. The next time I check in to a hostel and discover a caged parrot or toucan I will check straight out. I'm definitely going to make more of an effort to consider my own personal impact, and how I can go about making a positive change.