Bedbugs & Volcanoes...

The countdown continues...only 11 days to go till ´B' day when we hop aboard our banana boat in Costa Rica. We're currently in Granada on the shores of the vast inland sea that is Lago Nicaragua, though we're heading south to the world's biggest lake island - Omotepe today to stay on a co-operative finca for a few days as the journey draws to a close. Another bonus has been an additional ´Slow Traveller´column for the Observer which this week covers our seat-of-the-pants adventures on the crater of a live volcano and an unfortunate few nights wrestling with voracious bedbugs. No me gusta.

26th Observer column

One of the constant challenges of travelling is finding a place to stay. We've had to do this over 120 times during the last twelve months. The task is made harder by the fact that you are invariably tired, ratty and hypoglycaemic when you’re doing it. After passing through 31 countries we’ve learnt that ignoring the guidebook and going with a local tout is not always a bad idea. Often finding that a trustworthy face in reality is better than a second-hand opinion on the page.

So when we arrived in Antigua, the picturesque former capital of Guatemala – all cobbled streets and red-tiled colonial courtyard houses, we were happy to take a room in Estella’s Guesthouse. We try to support locally owned businesses whenever we can and our room was spick, span and even had cute family photos on the shelf. So we paid upfront and nested in for our four-night stay in town.

Antigua is dominated by the dark shadows of monstrous volcanoes that tower over the low-rise buildings. The scars of the earthquakes that accompanied previous eruptions are also evident in the numerous shells of shattered churches around the city. No visit is thus complete without scaling one of the volcanic peaks for a glimpse of the blood of the earth up close and personal.

In the village at the base of Mount Pacaya we were met by a mob of kids ‘selling’ walking sticks, a no doubt profitable racket for this charmingly persistent mini-mafia. The princely sum of one quetzal (about 7p) bought you the use of a stout pole with which to prop yourself up on the treacherous lava surface. They weren’t ours to keep however as became clear when descending in the darkness after sunset we were ambushed by the same tiny throng reclaiming their wooden bounty for the next day’s ‘sales’.

A steep 90minute climb to the crater followed during which another group of small boys on disproportionately large horses called out ‘Taxi? Tuk-tuk?’, hoping to extract a fare from the more breathless members of the group as the going got tougher. Before long they had a couple of takers and shortly afterwards we came over the rim and peered down through the passing clouds into a scene of devastation below.

The basin was a twisted mass of menacing black rock, riven by canals of bright orange lava pushing up through the splintered surface. Descending onto old lava tubes on the (relatively) cool side of the flow, the rock sounded spookily and unnervingly hollow and we were glad of our sticks as the jagged edges were lethally sharp. In the refreshing, but also mildly concerning, absence of any safety briefing whatsoever, we marched merrily towards the red-hot action. As we approached the temperature rose and blasts of superheated, dry air swept up from the cracks beneath our feet, like the breath of Hades.

‘How thick is the rock here?’ I asked Arturo our blissfully blasé guide. ‘About 5m’ he replied. I wasn’t convinced having seen and felt the orange glow between the rocks not two feet below us. It was like traversing the skin of a lethally hot rice pudding - consumed by the fear that the brittle crust could crumble away at any second, dumping us to a hideous fiery demise in the liquid hell bubbling away beneath.

As we gathered beside a lethargic tongue of oozing molten rock the lava began to bulge threateningly. The ballooning magma then dislodged a cascade of half melted rocks in our direction sending us scurrying backwards over the serrated surface. It was an intense and humbling experience to be so close to such powerful and dangerous forces, and a relief of similar magnitude to get a safe distance away from them again. It can only be a matter of time however before some unfortunate tourist becomes marshmallow.

The next morning we awoke covered in itching red bites. I had around 45 wheals across my shoulders and we feared the worst. Bed bugs. I showed my impressive display to Estella and raised our concerns. ‘You went to the volcano yesterday?’ she shot back, blaming our bites on the horses, dogs and forest insects we’d encountered on the mountain. Somewhat mollified and not entirely convinced we let the matter drop.

The following day we’d been bitten again and stripping the bed, plucked several blood-fattened beasties from the mattress to prove our point. I even, rather dramatically, squished one between my fingers to show Estella the scarlet contents of it’s bloated belly. To allow fumigation we moved rooms, awakening on our final morning to find we’d been eaten a third time. ‘Everyone says they get bitten here’ she repeated, clearly in denial. Funny that.