St Patrick's Day in Panama -or- Breakfast in Buenos Aires, Supper in Siberia

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There are some roads the very names of which conjure up pictures in the imagination. Take for example Route 66, the thought of which suggests rock and blues music (especially Taj Mahal singing “Six days on the road (and I’m going to see my baby tonight), a song which provokes my mother to ask, “why is he making that horrid noise?”); roadside diners and motels; and endless hardtop stretching off to a place where one can get one’s kicks. Do roads in Europe have the same resonance? The M1 North makes me think of travelling back to work in Nottingham on a Sunday night, generally in the dark and rain, full of one of my Father’s roast dinners yet empty of lunchtime pint, but always with “The Archers” on the radio. Driving west on the M40 I always looked out for a fence bordering a plantation outside London where the legend “WHY DO I DO THIS EVERY DAY?” had been painted in 3-foot-high letters. Did this ever become a slightly less philosophical version of the famous graffito outside Paddington Station, “far away is close at hand in images of elsewhere” for those who are born free but not everywhere in trains? After unification it is said that the German autobahns turned abruptly to cobblestones once one crossed the former border to the east and the main hazard turned from the Mach-1 Mercedes to horses and carts. Of course there is the motorway into Dublin, complete with traffic lights at which, according to a member of the family, “you only stop when the lights are very red”.

Here in Costa Rica I’ve experienced the Interamericana. This highway stretches from the tip of South America to Alaska, unbroken less a portion crossing into Colombia which has no been completed principally because of the risk of abduction and murder by assorted bandits and drug traffickers. Perhaps losing chunks of road could be a solution to traffic in Britain rather than GATSOs, the apparatchik’s lane on the M4, and Red Ken’s congestion charge with the added bonus giving gainful employment to various chavs, hoodies and gangstas, although from what I have been told there is a pilot scheme in place on the London South Circular already. The road runs through the most spectacular scenery - at one moment flat plains with the mountains in the distance, be they conical volcanoes straight from Costa Rica’s crest or magnificent ranges on fire with the red and orange of the sun and smoking with cloud, the next going through the mountains themselves with Jurassic trees arching overhead and then breaking out above the cloud layer and getting a sensation of flying over the valley below. On one particular day Ian the driver & I went from blazing sunlight to dank and freezing fog and rain within 30 minutes, none of which conditions seemed to curb the Latin American penchant for overtaking uphill on blind bends with plenty of horn action, that just by the buses and trucks. The climate also varies hugely between different parts of the country from the parched Pacific region with its startling red earth, via the balmy central highlands, to the moist and humid Caribbean. It’s astounding that even in the dry bits there is still so much of the ubiquitous green with no apparent source of irrigation. Our fellow road users are huge US tractor-trailer rigs with names from the movies like Kenwood, Freightliner and Mack with living-cabs larger than the average first time buyer’s flat in London, ancient cars resplendent with chrome and fins and of course agricultural traffic, the last generally engaged in glacial overtaking battles in the steepest and most winding sections of the highway. If you’ve ever wondered where old Landrovers go to retire it’s Central America. Ian, being a buff and expert in these matters, has been transported by spotting Solihull’s finest and speculating on how some of them have been cobbled together to look like the love child of a Series I and Series IV or whatever the case may be. On one occasion we were stuck in the mother of all traffic jams & Ian decided to follow the lead of a truck which overtook the obstruction belching black fumes and blaring at its horn like some kind of primeval beast. It was only as we passed the obstruction that we realised that it was a funeral cortege complete with be-finned and be-chromed hearse à la “Ghostbusters”. To cover my embarrassment I doffed my metaphorical hat.

It is entirely possible to take breakfast in Buenos Aires and supper in Siberia (two towns on the Interamericana…) and fit in some sightseeing along the way provided one does not get caught up in the aforementioned automotive Numbered Days Rest Home for the Terminally Bewildered. Elsewhere the roads are frequently unsurfaced and what appears on the map to be a major route and straight as a die (think Ermine Street less tractors, caravans etc) will invariably be a single-and-a-half track nightmare of steep hairpins through the jungle. On one of these Nina, our German Logistics manager said the scenery (we were in a deep gorge with a brook running down it) reminded her of when she lived in Western Ireland. I’m not sure where in Ireland this was exactly as while the stream and rocks seemed familiar the altitude of 2,000 metres and the palm trees with toucans sitting in them most certainly were not. Perhaps it was Craggy Island, or this being Central America somewhere Father Fitzpatrick’s houseguest would hide away. Some tracks are even mapped as “approximate alignment”, with the approximation generally out by a couple of country miles, or Ticometres as we call them because of the locals’ somewhat loose grip on distances. This is frequently where the a section of map marked “nubes” means that even the contours have been plotted on the basis of a SWAG as the aerial survey photos were taken on a cloudy day back in the 1950’s. There are also no direction signs to speak of, not because the Ticos fear an imminent drop by Nicaraguan or Panamanian paratroopers dressed as nuns (the invasion of large Americans in “safari” clothing is, however, complete), but because as explained to me there’s no need because if a local has to go somewhere they’ll know the way. If absolutely forced to drive here I’d insist on a Landrover, and probably a hovercraft in the wet season, which would cause much consternation and amusement to the Ticos who habitually make their puttering ascent of the tracks three-up on motor scooters powered by what sounds like a swarm of angry bees in a biscuit tin, or even on foot in their Sunday best (which for men means an extra fancy baseball- or cowboy- hat and a horse) and carrying an umbrella against the sun and occasional tropical downpours. During the working week local men tend to be seen on the tracks in the quasi uniform of hat, Wellington boots and with machetes casually swung in the manner of John Steed. Even in the middle of nowhere it is common to come across a couple of schoolchildren, immaculately turned out in the Costa Rican uniform of white shirt and blue trousers or skirts, making their way to a remote school house. Kensington & Chelsea mothers take note. We generally got either a cheery wave from passers by, a stiff ignoring or sometimes quizzical looks as if to say, “why do the gringos have a big antenna on their truck? Why do they need a 4WD vehicle laden with equipment to navigate the road that my family including nonagenarian mother stroll to church each Sunday and the children walk to school daily?”

The reason for tearing myself away from fieldbase was to visit our project groups on the ground, taking with us extra equipment, food, the post and the travelling shop, the latter hugely popular as after several weeks on trekking rations (porridge and dehydrated gunk) or rice-and-beans in the communities the melted chocolate (despite the advertisements in this heat M&M’s DO melt in your hand) and marshmallows we stock are seen as manna from heaven. When we turn up with cold Cokes I have occasionally heard Faustian pacts being made in order to afford a bottle or two to replace the tepid and chlorinated water the groups normally consume. Over the course of my trip we were to see a selection of groups, covering each of the types of Raleigh projects. First of all we met up with some trekkers. The initial thing to notice about trekkers is that after a week or so on foot in the jungle, and at the end of a hard day’s walking in the tropical heat they are a mite ripe and sweaty. They wondered why the (relatively) fresh and clean people who descended from the Landrover bearing gifts were not too keen on warm reunion hugs. It wasn’t so much the warmth as the accompanying aroma and moistness that I objected to. There was one exception to this rule: a glamorous young lady who on arrival in Turrialba had appeared to be game for nothing more strenuous than some serious credit card abuse in Harvey Nicks, darling. On the day we met her on trek she still looked absolutely immaculate and even after a 25km hike had nary a hair out of place. Later in the evening I caught a glint of something while the group was having some free time while waiting for dinner to cook. Most were flaked out or sorting out some nasty blisters and bergen rub - the young lady in question had compact in hand and was attending to her make up. Good work madam! On the visits I made we generally stayed on village football pitches which all had the extra added bonus of changing rooms with showers and porcelain fittings, so combined with my camp bed (which I’m ashamed to say I did not lend out) there was not too much need to rough it. Indeed one lavatory was so luxurious and had such a fabulous vista from its door over a wooded valley that anyone proceeding thither with furrowed brow and rolled copy of “Exchange & Mart” would not even get to the first ad in favour of admiring the view, and would provoke demands from the rest of the group to attend to the business in hand rather than watching the sunrise. The camp sites were also high in the mountains and therefore chilly at night at over 2,500 metres - I had not thought that I’d need a fleece and sleeping bag here but was very glad of them having come up from the baking plains, where even dozing like a lizard on a huge rock by a waterfall seemed like too much effort in the heat. The pay off was the privilege of falling asleep in silence disturbed only by crickets or babbling streams (and the sound of a group of trekkers having an impromptu karaoke session, or comparing flatulence levels) under the best display of stars I’ve seen since last at sea. On one night the site looked out over a valley to a mountainside which in daylight seemed uninhabited but which at night lit up with myriad lights from houses giving the appearance of the stars reflected in a black mirror. To wake to birdsong and a magnificent sunrise was fabulous, that invariably this was accompanied with a piping hot cup of tea prepared by the cook for the day sublime. Another campsite, at the end of a trek, was in mangroves on the shore and I eschewed the option of joining the group in their tents to sleep alone under a coconut tree by the sea. My sleep was only disturbed by the huge things that battered against my mosquito net and some splashing in the swamp that led to some rather vivid and disturbing dreams of a crocodile coming to get me. I blame the anti malarials, or possibly the cheese as, like Marley’s ghost, the crocodile turned out to be more gravy than grave.

The environmental projects we visited were different again, and different from each other. I only paid a fleeting visit to the group on (and in) Volcan Barva (noted in “Lonely Planet” as being unspoilt as it was difficult to get to) where Raleigh is -erm- improving access and paths. Doh! Oh well, if that’s what the National Parks Authority wants, that’s what they get. The route up was through the now familiar cloud forest, which is a bit like a mountain forest at home until one considers that the slope has been tilted an extra few degrees, elevated by several thousand metres and the trees put on a healthy combination of baby bio, spinach and steroids from their days as saplings. Our visit was too short to gain much of an impression of the project itself beyond the fact that the disused Ranger Station which was home to our group was a dead ringer for an Alpine chalet, down to the wooden build, the large supply of hot chocolate and cake, and the intense cold. If a large, jolly girl from the Home Counties named Arabella or similar had appeared to announce with a snort that she’d just made Spag Bog and that the glühwein was ready it would have come as no surprise. The second environmental project was, quite literally, in a swamp where the venturers were building a Ranger Station and digging a ditch in which would run a water supply pipe. Ian and I finally found the place to leave the Landrover, a feat in itself as our directions about how to find it were in Ticometres, and loaded ourselves up with the kit we needed to take down to the group. A bergen each packed with overnight gear is not too heavy. When this has added to it the food for 14 people for a week and a mobile shop full of kit which is so bulky it will not fit in the bergens but has to be carried slung around the neck and in total weighs about sixty pounds each it’s still bearable. When all this has to be carried down a 1 in 1 hill in the jungle on a track slimy with red mud and then along a river which has to be waded as the banks are overgrown it’s a bit more challenging, especially when the temperature is 30 degrees and rising. At one point we had no idea where we were going and on the basis that we needed to cross a river I suggested that we just follow a brook downstream as eventually it had to feed the main channel. This -ahem- expert piece of junglecraft paid off as we eventually found a rude shelter (how rude I couldn’t tell as I couldn’t read the Spanish graffiti on the walls) with a Ranger Service boat tied up alongside. Just as Ian and I were debating whether to TWOC the boat or settle in for the night the beaming features of Oscar the Ranger appeared atop a horse and with a combination of my (now improved) pidgin-Spanish and hand gestures we gathered we were to manhandle the boat, up to the plimsoll line with our assorted kit, down the tributary to the main channel and paddle to the far bank. I’m glad that Eduardo the Ranger who came with us did not tell us about the crocodiles in the river until we had established a bridgehead on the far bank as I was enjoying the sight of the trees reflected perfectly in the limpid water like stars and houses in the mountains. The walk in to the site was thankfully short and assisted by Oscar’s horse which had plainly walked on the water to the other side or taken the horses only bridge, on which under no circumstances did I have a quick ride as to do so would have broken Raleigh Rules. We were welcomed by the group in rather surreal circumstances. As, in common with many peers, my sister and her fiancé have just bought their first home (in which they put up with a dissolute big brother camping out in the spare room) I’m used to tours of inspection of the facilities from proud homeowners. On jungle camp we had even admired other groups’ hole-in-the-ground lavatories. I have never, however, been greeted by a pickaxe-wielding mud-caked 18 year old in Wellingtons, shorts, bikini top and moderate sunburn who wanted to show me her newly dug sewage system. Ian made an immediate hit as he’s a practical sort of fellow and was able to make polite conversation about secondary filtration tanks and the like. We left the group to tidy up the site while we carried the packs into base camp, where the two people on camp duties were doing less in the way of duties and more in the way of lying around smoking and bickering aimlessly. Ian and I delivered a quick clip round the ear and a little attitude adjustment and were rapidly presented with a brace of cups of tea. The workers came in and used their newly installed “shower” (the end of the pipe they had just finished laying); dinner was prepared and the shop raided when it began to rain. And rain. And rain. And then for a bit of variety absolutely howl down with associated thunder and lightning. One of the project managers suddenly got a glazed look in her eyes, muttered something about becoming, shall we say, excited by thunderstorms and was last seen clad in my Gore-Tex and hat heading out into the inundation through the pitch black jungle, all the time making small gasping noises. As the forest flooded I sincerely thought about finding some hunny pots in order to fill them with messages begging for rescue, but eventually the rain eased and Eduardo reappeared with a torch to deal with various creepy-crawlies which had invaded the group’s bashas. The group were delighted he had done so, especially as he reassured them that “this one not very poisonous… this one only deadly if you allergic to it… not sure what that one was but it’s gone away” and so on. As the area dedicated to me and Ian to lay our swedes was now three inches deep in water we opted to go and sleep in the wood shed (devoid, we hoped, of “something nasty”), where a good night’s sleep was had by both, except during the nocturnal foraging foray by a group of very large pigs. One of the piglets with them was an endearing little chap in fetching caramel and green stripes so we forgave them. Crossing the river back on the following morning was thoroughly relaxed, but the big slimy hill as big a challenge to ascend even when relatively unladen as it had had a good drenching in the night and humidity was now in the very high nineties.

Our final visit was to a community project in an indigenous reserve in the south west of Costa Rica inhabited by the Guaymi people. For visa reasons Ian and I had to make the journey via Panama in order to be stamped in and out of Costa Rica so we made our way to Paso Canoas and the border. Every stereotype about Central American border crossings was fulfilled here, from the hustlers wanting to charge the gringos $5 for the privilege of having them standing near us, through the handicapped beggars to the seriously heavily armed border guards mounted (on the Panamanian side) on Hummvees. We left the Landrover in the most secure place we could find, a set of cabinas presided over by an elderly woman with two teeth and a milky eye who was plainly waiting to meet her weird sisters upon the heath once the eye-of-newt delivery had come in, and made mental prayers that it’d still be there on our return several days hence. Having negotiated the hustlers and mendicants and negotiated the border successfully we loaded ourselves onto a bus for Puerto Armulles where we were to meet our guide, “a dude with a horse”, the following morning. The journey was uneventful and the scenery rather uninspiring after Costa Rica, enlivened only by beer halls (which we were not allowed into) and Jehovah’s Witness Kingdom Halls (into which we would have had to have been dragged kicking and screaming). Ian explained that this was something to do with intensive agriculture, but I’m not sure whether he was referring to the barren fields, the pubs or the JoBo hangouts. I’m pretty sure General Noriega was sitting behind me on the bus on an incognito visit, either that or a close member of family. Puerto Armulles (or Puerto Armpit as I rapidly rechristened it) is not somewhere top of my list of places to re visit. It was very hot, very dusty and very full of more hustlers who had plainly taken fast cabs from Paso Canoas to get ahead of us and have another crack at our wallets. Its saving grace was the Pacific and I insisted we had a paddle as I have a thing about dipping my toes in each new ocean or sea I go to and also in a bid to shake off a particularly persistent hustler as I hoped he’d be too concerned about his tin leg rusting to go near the sea. This fine specimen of the Panamanian tourist board was indeed wary of salt water (and, I suspect, clean water) and his cries of “you give me five dollars, I your friend” faded into the distance, becoming all the while less friendly. We eventually found a place to stay in a fishing lodge owned by a very hospitable but slightly half-cut Texan who could not understand why our first drink, which was to be on the house, could not be alcoholic but eventually dredged up some mixers for us to drink unleaded. We tore ourselves away from the hospitality and air conditioning and took a stroll back into town to find dinner. In my case I was highly satisfied by a plate of fresh prawns; Ian being keen on his food and having a rare hunger on him was less impressed by a “hamburguesa” which was made of chicken and was so small as to disappear in two bites. We took a quick trip to the supermarket, which was so American as to be run by Koreans, in order to find a telephone card and some snacks for the next day. It was here that our adherence to the Raleigh Rules was sorely tested when Ian found Guinness in the fridge, and as St Patrick’s Day was fast approaching a wee devil appeared on my shoulder saying, “you’ll take a drop. Go on, you will. You will, you will, you will. Go on, go on, go on, GO ON!” Visions of breaking this rule, failing in my personal test of lasting the project completely dry, and the fear of being packed off home in disgrace won out and Ian and I came to the decision that even if we had partaken and no one could possibly have found out WE would have had to have lived with the guilt. I restricted myself to wistfully cradling the cans for a while, before tucking them up nice and cold in the fridge and bidding them a fond farewell. On our return to the lodge our ever hospitable hostess bade us to join her guests for dinner and would not take no for an answer. I was pretty full of prawns, but after his bonsai hamburguesa Ian’s eyes lit up and so we tucked in. The group were well travelled Americans so we were spared the “is Scotland in Edinboro” type comments I had feared, although we were regaled with tales of how one of the fishers had discovered the world’s best Scots whisky which he had imported into the States at the special price of only $45 a bottle, and I knew almost as soon as I’d asked what it was that his answer would be “the one with the bird on the bottle - you know, The Famous Grouse”. I was also fascinated by another guest’s tales of how he had spent a summer camping in the real English backwoods, in the forests near Leatherhead, Surreyshire. Saying all this they were a lovely and welcoming bunch who eventually accepted that not only were we not 4th and 5th in line to the throne but also did not know Prince William personally. One we dubbed the “’man, dude’ man/dude” because he was so enthusiastic about Coaster Rica (as he called it) and started every sentence with, “man, in Coaster Rica….” and ended it with, “…it’s like totally AWESOME, dude.” Totally awesome to have something the size of a country to put one’s glass on and avoid getting damp rings on Panama. The only people unimpressed by the whole set up were the two teenagers in the party who were plainly delighted to be spending Spring Break fishing with their parents in Panama rather than getting scr****d, blued and tattooed with their friends in Cancun or similar. Ian and I became minor celebrities for the evening, as none of the assembled company would accept that anyone in their right minds would walk into the jungle all the way to the Guaymi village, especially not bearing in mind the size of our rucksacks. I repaired to bed feeling like a cross between Dr Jones, Dr Livingstone and Ray Mears with a bit of Tarzan thrown in for good luck.

It was incredibly difficult to drag myself from my huge, cool, firm bed in the air-conditioned darkness of the lodge at an ungodly hour the next morning. I had the nth shower of the previous few hours on the basis that I hadn’t had one for a while and would not be due to have one for even longer. Thank goodness water is a commodity as plentiful as dollar-demanding “friends” in Panama. Shouldering packs which had become heavier overnight (partly because of the supplies we had bought for the group in the village) we trudged into the centre of town for our rendevous with the “dude with a horse”. Sadly the central square remained both dudeless and horseless, but familiar cries of “hey friend, five dollars” did greet us. Eventually we found the promised 4WD taxi and a dude who while horseless seemed to be expecting us and explained that he had horses up in the hills, or at least that’s what I understood. We than sat and waited for action in the rapidly soaring heat while random loads of bananas, spare tyres, cigarettes and pop were thrown on around us. Our RV had been set for 7am, so when by 10:30 or so and a couple of calls back to fieldbase nothing had happened I was having visions of our villainous-looking driver stroking his luxuriant moustache while making a ‘phone call to his accomplices saying ¿Pablo? ,,Aquí Manuel. Si, jo tengo gringos… Si, dos gringos.’’ ¡Si, mucho dólares ransomo! We were rescued by two events. Firstly someone who spoke more English than I spoke Spanish (not difficult, I come out on the losing side against deaf-mutes on occasion) came up and explained to us that our truck was waiting for the tide to go out to get round a headland to our destination and we would be off at 2pm. Alarm bells immediately started to ring as the one certain thing about our journey was that it was to be made over the mountains inland, avoiding the coast by many Ticometres. As Ian and I hurled our bergens off the truck from under the stack of bananas, tyres, cigarettes and bottles, much to the horror of the driver who saw his ransom disappear before his eyes and the disappointment of our friend still demanding, with menaces this time, “five dólares” from us for pointing us in the wrong direction, the second deus-ex-machina appeared in the shape of José, our guide who while horseless was certainly our dude as proven by the Raleigh T-shirt which he proudly revealed from his bag. Deciding that as José looked about 12 it was unlikely that the T-shirt had been ripped from the back of a previous Raleigh staff member who was now held in a bamboo cage in the woods while family and friends (made destitute by helping out with their fund raising in the first place) held cake sales and coffee mornings to raise the ransom, Ian and I set off for a gentle bimble into the unknown.

We took the correct 4WD taxi this time to where José’s horse patiently waited and after some business tying the bergens to the poor beast’s back set off into the ulu. The walk was at first very pleasant, following a stream up a narrow gorge shaded by trees, although by this time very hot and humid. Periodically we stopped for water at springs where we drank from cups improvised from the tops of lemonade bottles which were tied to the trees. This pleasantness was soon to end. Ross had said that the route in was “a bit up and down”, but I had not expected to be climbing from sea level to in excess of 500 metres over even higher intervening peaks. At one point I entered my own personal hell as I found myself in a dried up water course, a yard or so wide at the bottom, several yards deep and no more than a couple of yards wide at the top with loose sand underneath and a withering sun above, all at a 45 degree incline. I’m told that the walk is most scenic, but will have to take your word for it as for most of the way I was cursing under what breath I had and blinded by sweat which was breaking out in unexpected places like my eyelids. Meanwhile José skipped along in his Wellingtons, urging on the by now weary horse by throwing stones at its rump when he could not reach it with his stick. Ho-hum, what can one expect from a culture where a fun day out is to watch people dressed like idiots engaged in the competitive teasing of farmyard animals.

We did finally arrive in Carona, the Guaymi village, in the record time of four hours and ten minutes (previous best being six-and-a-half hours) and after a superb lunch of rice and chicken I wondered why the group had been moaning about the food and demanded all sorts of seasoning and sauces to be brought to them. I soon realised why a day later when the meat ran out and the diet changed to plain boiled rice and beans. For every meal. Three times a day. It obviously did the locals no harm as when Ian and I were finally drafted into helping the group with their work of building a community centre they hammered, chiselled, and planed with many times the energy of the Raleigh team with the honourable exception of the volunteers from Costa Rica who were every bit as efficient and made up for their extended disappearances on cigarette breaks with some really frantic building. God alone knows where they got the energy for the endless games of football they played with the village children each evening. I for one (and for once) was glad of the early start to the day which allowed us to have an extended siesta in hammocks at lunchtime in order to avoid the heat. Mad dogs and Englishmen might go out in it, but there’s enough Irish in me to make me see sense. It was fantastic to brush off the long unused carpentry skills from school (where admittedly I was the boy least likely to build anything lasting) and be part of the team building the village’s soon to be largest structure. Ian has a very sound knowledge of building things and combined with my ability to knock a nail in with only a couple of strikes (easy when holding the hammer by the end of the shaft and delivering sturdy blows rather than holding the head and tapping as if fearful of breaking something) and to shape and level planks with a machete (something I’d learnt two minutes before by watching one of the villagers) the visitors gained some respect from the group. This status was only slightly spoilt when I dropped a huge baulk of timber on my left hand, taking a chunk out of it. At least I can truthfully say I’ve bled for the Guaymi people. Unfortunately unlike Harrison Ford in “Witness” I did not meet a Kelly McGillis-alike but Ian and I decided to prolong our stay in the village because the building was so much fun and there was sufficient time before we needed to make our next food drop. At just the right moment for me the time to leave came as the aroma of the long-drop had reached my hammock even in the relative cool of the night and the addition of a drink made of oats in cold water had not improved the diet significantly. Accordingly, after a village meeting when we were invited back at any time we chose (a great honour as all the guidebooks state that visitors are not welcome in the communities, bear traps awaiting the unwary), we planned to leave at an hour so ungodly it was positively profane the following morning, or the same night as I looked at it. Again we waited for some time for our horse-equipped dude to appear, although this time even more perturbed as time went on as we knew that to make it round a particular headland on the beach before the tide we had some fairly tight timings. We eventually got under way, initially scrambling down an almost sheer cliff where the horse showed that one of its ancestors must have got beyond first base with a goat in the distant past, before hitting the beach itself. The beach is nearly 20 straight kilometres of sand with only the occasional headland to break the view to the horizon. To start we walked past high cliffs topped with jungle and with waterfalls pouring down to the sea, then passed mangroves and finally the clichéd but nonetheless beautiful palm trees growing right up to the high tide line. To my left the ocean rolled in, each wave forming as a perfect turquoise roller before breaking in a flash of silver then turning deep brick red as it churned up the sand from the sea bed. My only worrying moment came when having fallen behind Ian, horse and dude I came to the second crucial headland as the sea lapped at its base. Seeing that the tide was coming in rather rapidly I opted to climb to avoid the waves, but having reached about twenty feet it became evident that there was no safe way to traverse round. I was going to have to get wet or wait for the tide to go out, so ended up half-wading, half-swimming to get round the point. The sight of Punto Banco, where we were to get the first of our transport back to Paso Canoas and the Landrover was one for sore eyes (and even more sore feet) as Ian and I had cut three hours off the previous best time for the beach walk, out of necessity, mainly, as the guide had been so late.

Our transport back to Paso Canoas was a minor adventure but adventure all the same. A friendly and totally horizontal American gave us a lift as far as the nearest bus stop, at the superb surfing beach of Pavones. Here I nearly blew raspberries at the Raleigh Rules as we had to wait for the bus by the village beach bar, where tanned and toned surf bunnies (and surf yummy-mummies) were wrapping themselves around long, cool things clinking with ice and generally being relaxed as can be, with no spreadsheets or cash boxes in sight. The arrival of an ancient Bluebird school bus saved me from chucking it all in and staying, and Ian and I loaded ourselves and our bergens into its load space. A change of bus and a taxi later and we were back at the border. After making sure we crossed into Costa Rica in the correct direction, largely involving getting lost in Central America’s largest lingerie department (please forward my Golden Cleric award to my home address) we were reunited with the Landrover, pleasingly unmolested although I suspect it might have had a couple of nights on the tiles with a macho Latino Hummer, and set off for a night in a motel before meeting our next group to deliver their food. What a way to spend St Patrick’s Day.

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Photos

Slightly drier than Ireland!
London Irish went on to beat Pests at the same time as this pic was taken. Some say I should stay in CR rather than come to the MadStad so Irish can go on winning...

St Patrick
I've now found the Panama pic, but wanted to keep the Ninja Turtle one...

Costa Rican Traffic Jam
Even on the smallest back-roads we would encounter school buses and as in this case trucks.

Fording Spot
Ian could not be persuaded to use bridges. Ever.

River Crossing - The Dry Technique
S*d the Raleigh Method as used on jungle camp - the Ampibious Landrover does the trick.

Grafitti
Good to see that when a Landrover gets mucky the Tico sense of humour is similar to the UK...

Road Map
The Costa Rican AA's handy set of road maps would not catch on until they were issued in a handy pocket size and a new medium rather than concrete and mosaic had been found.

On the Interamericana
The way to Amarillo not pictured.

We're your friends...
...to the bitter end (the biiiiter end).
Vultures by the road waking for a Trekker to fall behind the group.

When Bugs Attack
The cheeky s*d who hitched a lift in the 'rover (on my arm, not me!). It might not look that big, but when buzzing round the cab it seemed huge.

Tyre Change
An example of the sheer quantity of kit required for mobile operations.

Trekking Group Food Drop
Red Cross Parcels successfully delivered to the fragrant people.

Danielle & Alison
Not my road trip, but my readers demand pretty girls. Danielle & Alison after their first trip out together - I'd call it a food drop, but one of these people (observe hair colour) forgot the food. Loose translation of the grafitto "wish these girls were as dirty as the truck"