Well, today we board our final ship home back to the UK from Costa Rica. We've spent the last few days enjoying the country's Caribbean fringe...where a largely black, english-speaking Creole population has reminded us strangely of home back in Brixton, South London. Hopefully our journey back across the Atlantic will be a little smoother than that of our ship's sister vessel in January when a huge wave all but capsized it in a storm off the Scilly Isles -
BBC Report. The ship lost 90 containers over the side and the Captain and several passengers suffered serious injuries and had to be air-lifted off by Navy helicopter in 25foot seas...not my idea of fun.
Fingers crossed the sea will be a little gentler with us, and you can monitor the conditions and empathise with our fate by clicking
here on
Ocean Weather Data, which has up to the minute information on average wave heights so you can see exactly how much we are tossing.
In the meantime, here's a sneaky preview of this week's Observer column which finds us receiving an odd welcome in Nicaragua and attending a rather wild-eyed party in Granada with the Devil himself in attendance...
27th Observer columnWe left San Salvador at 4.30am, the typically anti-social hour that international buses in Central America seem to favour for departure times. This meant a relaxing taxi ride through the dark, menacing streets of a city with a murder rate twenty nine times higher than that of the UK. I repeat, twenty nine times higher. Whilst this grisly figure is largely attributable to a vicious gang culture, we were highly relieved to leave the outskirts behind us as dawn broke over El Salvador’s misty volcanoes and we headed south.
The international bus station in Nicaragua’s capital, Managua was in another seedy suburb. After a dozen stiff-legged hours on the bus, during which the air-con had chilled us to a temperature more appropriate for unpasteurised goods, we emerged sweating and blinking into the late afternoon sunshine of the Barrio Martha Quezada. A feeding frenzy of taxi and hotel touts then descended. As our chosen hostel was barely twenty yards away we politely declined their services. They rather testily threw an egg at us in response.
I didn’t see the funny side of this particular yolk and Fi was so livid I had to physically restrain her from going
‘Glaswegian’ on them. At the hostel our steely-eyed proprietress sighed wearily, muttered something about
‘security’ and warned us not to step out of the gate with any valuables on us. We involuntarily acquired an informal bodyguard called Francisco, who was armed with a natty set of nunchuks. He continually emphasised the ‘muy peligroso’ (very dangerous) aspects of the district in order to make himself indispensable.
We suspected the reality didn’t live up to the hype when our taxi-driver to the local bus station tried the same
‘muy peligroso’ line about the journey to Granada. Whilst offering to drive us there at a very reasonable price of course. It was an entrepreneurial approach to capitalising on tourist paranoia but we weren’t buying it. He was half right however, as the sea of shouting faces and hands snatching at our luggage at the terminal meant it was as much as we could do to ensure we, and our bags, ended up on the same bus.
Another glorious colonial style town, Granada now hosts a number of estate agents catering to North American buyers. It seemed perversely ironic that Nicaragua was so royally shafted by US foreign policy and then, with the country’s economy on its knees, Americans swoop in to buy up all their quality buildings.
The next day in Doña Elba’s cigar factory Fi tried her hand at rolling a fat corona (though not between her thighs I hasten to add), stuffing roughly chopped tobacco leaves into a pressing mould whilst a couple of enormous brightly coloured caged-parrots looked on disparagingly. In the factory shop there was a huge photo of Silvio the owner with Arnold Schwarzenegger, almost as artificially blown-up in size as the great
‘Governator’ himself. Silvio informed us of his own intentions to run for Mayoral office in Granada.
‘I have a 70% chance of winning too’ he added with an air of confidence that belied the usual vagaries of democracy. Strange as an association with the tobacco industry is usually a massive political dis-advantage back in the UK.
We couldn’t leave Granada without sampling the local delicacy
‘vigoron’. A banana leaf piled with warm, mashed yukka (the root vegetable not the house plant), crispy curls of crunchy pig skin and spiced, vinegary cabbage salad. The Granadans have taken the humble pork scratching and elevated it from lowly bar snack status into a revered regional speciality. Inspired.
On our final night we wangled an invite to a very bizarre private party. The theme was
‘Angels & Devils’ and the old courtyard house was a red-draped vision of
‘Hell’. A polished Nicaraguan band played
‘Doors’ covers, muscular acrobats tumbled and jugglers tossed flaming clubs and great balls of fire. An oil drum inferno had the legend
‘Heaven can wait’ etched into the side. Later there was a bout of nigh on naked wrestling in a paddling pool of red coloured baby oil.
‘Satan’ was sat on a throne idly dispensing punishments to the fallen. At his feet a suited man on all fours was being flagellated by a She-Devil with a bullwhip. She was gradually getting the hang of her stroke and was scoring a series of increasingly brutal hits across his buttocks. It was hard to tell whether his expression was one of joy or pain as he had a dog-toy gripped tightly between his teeth.
‘Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you lot’ Satan addressed us threateningly in Estuarine Essex
‘You’ll get yours later’. Strange, but I always suspected Satan would have an English accent.
