Central America 2026: Part One - Playa del Carmen to Antigua

 

Mexico 1992

At work one day I received an unexpected call from my university ex-house mate. He’s on Facebook and is a private person, so let’s just call him Vim. Why don’t you come to visit me? He asked between mouthfuls of eating toast, probably.

That evening, I asked Claire whether she minded going to Mexico rather than Turkey and she literally threw herself at me, in a good way. We sent a semaphore that indicated the potential week of our crossing.

We didn’t have the internet back then, so I hadn’t realised that October was at the end of the hurricane season. The poor taxi driver had to negotiate a waterfall of a road up to the outskirts of the crater that is Mexico City. We were expected but Vim was not there. His flatmate greeted us and then also promptly buggered off for a week.

The apartment was the size of a football pitch, our bedroom larger than my London flat, the walk-in wardrobe bigger than my bedroom. There was a jacuzzi in each of the monstrously-sized en-suite bathrooms. There was no food in the fridge, just a lot of beer and tequila, so we rang the single flyer on the noticeboard for a Domino’s Pizza. An hour later nothing had arrived, but we heard a strange tapping. I went down to reception, but nobody was there. Eventually, we realised there was a service door in the kitchen and this poor guy had walked up ten flights of stairs, not being allowed to use the lift. Jet lagged, we watched the sun rise at five a.m., a stunning view of the city, swallowed up by smog by seven a.m.

A few days later we went on a day trip to the magnificent Teotihuacan via the notoriously polluted Indios Verdes bus station. You could barely see out of the windows but I remember we passed over an hour of shanty-towns on the freeway, which are now Mexico’s third-largest city Ecatepec de Morelos. Coming back, we were notified by Vim that we would be joining him for dinner. I don’t know how we communicated back then. Perhaps he lent us a pager.

It was an exclusive restaurant populated by the white Mexican nobility. The doorman looked us up and down – Claire had ripped jeans, I wore a scruffy t-shirt and shorts and we were covered in dirt, carbon-residue and sweat. “Sir must wear a tie to enter the establishment,” he said with a sneer. “So, get him one,” said Vim who had seen us and come out. Throughout the meal everyone else stared at us in disgust. The other diner was some American hoping to sell Vim something, who paid the bill. The food was cold and yellow.

Perhaps because of this, Vim suggested we visit the Yucatan for a week. The flight was the most turbulent I’ve ever been on that didn’t crash on the return leg. Midnight in Merida I thought I was going to go mad because of the humidity. I must have drunk ten ice-cold beers each day that week, and I do not remember peeing at all. Merida was nice, we did a day-trip to fabulous Uxmal where, being in my youth, I scampered up the tallest pyramid only to turn around, think ‘oh, shit,’ and come down on my bum. Then we went to Chichen Itza, which was even better. We saw a huge scorpion and a rabid dog.

The bus on the deserted road a km from our lodge Itza was crowded when we boarded it and became steadily more congested as locals alighted with their chickens and goats. I gave up my seat to a pregnant woman. The bus broke down outside Valladolid. It took ten hours to cover the 196 km route.

Playa del Carmen was a sleepy village with a few thousand residents. Our typical day consisted of waking up in a hammock about midday, perhaps going to the beach or visiting a Mayan site in a hurricane where the rain hurt your head, and then going to a local bar for happy hour about 5pm. The two-for-one margueritas were not what we expected as you had to pay for two of them, but each was the size of a goldfish bowl. Then it was off to the beach bar where you drank cocktails barefoot sitting on a swing, then to our favourite restaurant where a bottle of red wine or two was consumed, then a nightcap at the bar next to where we were staying, which was in a treehouse accessed by a ladder. I say nightcap but it took a good couple of hours to drink their version of a mamacita – doubles of tequila, white rum, blue curacao, vodka, Kahlua and Malibu, sweetened by condensed milk and fresh pineapple juice and served with ice in a pint glass. I’m not sure how we ever made it down the ladder.

I have great memories of sleepy little Playa. Can’t wait to see it again tomorrow.

Friday 10th April (Day 1)

4:30 wake up, outrageously priced Uber at six. Claire’s small rucksack passes security for the first time. Her handbag does not. I can’t be bothered to complain about Gatwick anymore, but the prices are ASTONISHING.

Apart from the annoyance of refusing me an online check-in yesterday you can do a lot worse than TUI. Seats are reasonably comfortable and spacious, the screen and USB charger work for once and I learn two new things: (1) you can get people to watch the safety video if you make it a pastiche of famous action films; (2) don’t try to pee standing-up when the plane is ascending. There’s a bit of a 20th Century vibe though with the iPod connector, entertainment choices, age of the stewards and attitude towards vegetarianism. The chicken lunch is confusing for airplane food, could it have been…. good?

We’re on British time and temperature, there’s no pressure to attempt to sleep as we’re following the daytime, nobody’s being an arsehole, but ten and a half hours is too long and, because I’m watched the entire season 3 of the White Lotus, towards the end of the flight I’ve completely forgotten where we’re going.

Turbulent into Cancun, surprisingly quick though passports with a resulting lag for baggage. Customs don’t mince us over as threatened, or even bother to check I’ve paid the $25 each Quintana Roo entry tax, which I had.

But where’s the pre-paid taxi holding a sign with my name? Trouble is the airport wi-fi is weedy, roaming is only 3g and there’s a thousand other people using the internet. So, none of the dozens of WhatsApp get through, and when the sweet girl from the official Cancun taxi service rings the driver on her own phone, it’s pointless because they’ve replaced him at least four times. Then a guy arrives, 20 minutes late, ostensibly waving a board with my name. Where were you waiting I ask in the 30c heat, feels like 38? At the taxi Welcome Bar, he lies. More like the bar, I reckon. Welcome to Mexico.

Apart from a spectacular accident it’s a featureless hour’s drive on a dual carriageway, past the gates of many huge resorts, the sea hidden. I fear we might have looped back into Cancun but no, sleepy little Playa now has a population of at least 350,000, 30 times more than when we were last here. That doesn’t include the million or so tourists.

The hotel room is large, clean and soulless, like a Travelodge but without the love. Or a kettle. We venture out for a much-needed cold beer and then wander around lost like ghosts until deciding to go to bed at 7 pm, which is 1 am BST. I’ll reserve judgement on Playa until tomorrow.

 

Saturday 11th April (Day 2)

After what I would describe as a night of fourteen sleeps, kids screeching, mopeds speeding by, the curtains unable to obscure the floodlights of the adjacent basketball court, we miraculously wake at 06:30, which is almost 12 hours after we went to bed. There’s no hot water, I can’t get the internet to work and the tiny fridge is noisy and useless.

Almost nowhere is open for coffee at 7:30 in the morning, but the place we eventually find has a family of dickens – the parents being a duck and chicken, the offspring I don’t know what. We go to the beach. It’s not terrible-looking at this time in the morning looking if you ignore the metropolis they’ve built next to it – there’s clean artificial-looking sand, the Portal Maya – a 60-ton bronze sculpture erected in 2012 – and people are playing volleyball. However, you can’t swim in the sea because there’s a plague of sargassum algae caused by fertilisers washing into the Caribbean. Men on boats and tractors are doing their best to clear this up, but it’s a futile task.

I had thought about a day trip to the island of Cozumel, which used to be a diver’s paradise with Jacques Cousteau declaring it one of his favourite sites in 1961, but we can see its tower blocks across the water. Instead, we aim, along the beach, for some Mayan ruins called Xaman-Ha which we’ve not been to before. Trouble is that, although all beaches in Mexico are public, you can’t walk on them if they’ve built hotels to the water’s edge. Also, there’s a ferry terminal in the way and hundreds of hawkers trying to sell tickets. So, we get lost in a huge shopping mall and emerge in a gigantic private resort called Playacar where we’re told the ruins are now on private land. There’s a fresh juice bar that’s never seen a juicer in its existence, selling watered down ki-ora and cold scrambled eggs which they, of course, scatter with ham.

The beach hut where we stayed has gone, the treehouse and beach bars also. All swallowed up by Playacar.

Playa’s built on a grid pattern, nothing’s that old, especially the street of faux colonial houses. Trip Advisor recommends spas, extreme sport, clubbing and trips to Cozumel, but there’s absolutely nothing I want to do here. On the positive side, cars stop for you when you cross the roads.

In the afternoon we walk the entirety of the seemingly endless pedestrianised Avenida Quinta. The fast-food restaurants give way to a section of designer shops, malls and then there are many souvenir shops, tourist restaurants, tequila and smoke outlets. It’s very humid and by 12:30 we’ve given in to the inevitable two-for-one happy hour beer offer.

This turns into four beers for two and then we find that Calle 38 is actually very nice and full of great bars, so long as you can ignore the trio of VW Beetles with huge sound systems in their front bottoms. After lunch at a craft beer pub, Claire declares, for the first time ever, that there was nothing wrong with her meal. On the walk back to the hotel we decide we don’t dislike Playa after all, a feeling that lasts until the evening when we enter utter chaos in our search for a quiet cocktail bar.

There are 16 of us on our small group tour with Intrepid - six male, 10 female - and a mix of ages, unlike the Southern Africa one, the youngest being just 18, the oldest in their late sixties. Ten are British, two unrelated Aussie women, a Kiwi couple and another couple who could be from Switzerland, but I’m not sure as a woman is walking past with a mobile disco. The group leader is Toño and he’s Belgian but passing himself off as Mexican. There are no Trump supporters in the group, I hope.

We should have stayed at the restaurant and been sociable but it’s too hot and noisy and we’re full from lunch. The night market on the square is disappointing. Not quite used to the time difference yet, it’s another early night.

Sunday 12th April (Day 3)

Up at 6:30, there’s nowhere open for coffee apart from the adjacent bus station. The others emerge two by two and we try to remember names. Then we’re off in a van, reaching Cenote Azul by 9 am to beat the crowds.

Cenotes, a vast network of underground pools that are occasionally accessible on the surface, were formed millions of years ago when a meteor struck the Yucatan and wiped out the dinosaurs, maybe. They were sacred to the ancient Mayans and are still the main source of drinking water in the region. Cenote Azul consists of a few connected small pools, very blue and beautiful. Unfortunately, the locals have nabbed the one with the deep water and sandy floor which they’re diving into from great heights. Ours is very rocky, slippery and full of jeopardy, which of course we love at our age. You need to enter it in sandals and crawl across it on your hands before dropping head first suddenly into a chasm from which you may never return. There are also little fish that exfoliate your feet and ankles, without the ferocity of the piranhas we encountered in Vietnam.

It’s a good group – very gregarious and chatty and, of course, everyone’s been everywhere, but it’s difficult to get to know fourteen new people while standing waist-deep in a mildly-warm lake. Toño gives us up to four hours, which is ridiculous as most of us are ready to leave after one. We were supposed to stop for lunch on the way back to Playa but it’s too early so we’re left to our own devices.

Toño agrees that the restaurants and bars are best at or beyond C38 so, being hungry and unimaginative, we return via Avenida Pharmacia to Chela de Playa where we went yesterday. The number of pharmacies is unbelievable – each peddling prescription drugs such as Azithromycin, Amoxicillin, Sildenafil, Tadalafil, Viagra and Atorvastatin over-the-counter. Semi-legal drug tourism.

Mexico, or at least Playa, is not as cheap as you’d expect. At the next bar Claire brushes up on her Spanish by watching the subtitles of what she thinks is a fantastic Mexican soap. It’s The Matrix.

In our previous African tour our leader was insistent that we all eat together on the occasions we went out for dinner. While he does check on us Toño, who looks like a young David Cameron, is more relaxed, flexible and democratic, although some might call it indecisive. Nor does it help that the hotel has no café, bar or other point of social focus, so arranging anything involves WhatsApp to 17 people and overlapping conversations. Aussie Ann manages to get six of us out for dinner.

I say dinner but, because we had a big lunch, mine is four chilli margaritas and some onion rings. Karen from Cheshire joins in with the margaritas and Matt and Niamh from Luton are there, Matt introducing me to the concept of pub golf which sets pars for the number of mouthfuls taken to consume drinks. There’s an enthusiastic duo on stage doing Fleetwood Mac covers and a table of twenty 14-year-olds dressed to the nines, on their best behaviour. It’s fun, but we’re not tempted to continue the night past ten.

Because tomorrow we leave Playa, thank goodness, and the adventure hopefully begins.

Monday 13th April (Day 4)

The girls A&E (Abi and Emily), who only met two days ago via an Intrepid initiative called ‘Sleep with a Stranger’ in order to save on single supplements are the last to board the minibus. Last night they went to CocoBongo which they declare amaaazing. It’s a cabaret/night club of sorts with circus performances, tribute acts and drag queens. The fighting midgets that Toño told us about are no longer part of the show. The girls wear ankle tags so their parents can track their movements at all times.

The road isn’t great and we’re at the back so it’s like riding a horse. The only respite comes at the numerous police checkpoints and Tulum, the town built to service the resorts built around the ruins, which has 142 speed bumps on its main road. It takes 4 hours to reach Bacalar, the 70km long inland lagoon ‘of the seven colours’ which run the spectrum from light to dark blue.

Toño persuaded us that we should do the boat trip first, then have the inclusive lunch, but the boat is late due to rats having eaten the cables. The two replacement boats depart at 2pm. ‘There’s no point trying to organise anything round here,’ he says mildly disgruntled. ‘You mean Mexico?’ I ask. He thinks for a moment. ‘Yeah, Mexico, Central America…’

It costs US$45 each as an additional excursion, but should have been included in the tour because otherwise what would be the point of coming here? The lagoon is fed by surrounding cenotes, but there are several of these within also, which explain the mildly different colouration. Each of the murky cavernous devils is waiting to despatch swimmers, but there are safe shallow areas in which to swim. This is a picture from a brochure.

So, I’m paddling around on the calcium deposit and feel a slight nick, then notice a reddish colour in the water. I stand up and there’s a chunk of my arm missing. A small lagoon shark swims guiltily away. Somebody sees it and screams and our captain Daniel and the other captain who looks like the rhythm guitarist from Tinariwen, drag me on board and fix a belt around my shoulder to quell the blood flow, all the time pumping my heart…

Actually I jumped one foot off a small flat-bottomed catamaran into two feet of water and caught my left underarm on the exposed metal hull. There’s a nasty wide graze and slight cut, and then a huge bruise the size of a saucer which develops rapidly with ever-changing psychedelic colours.

They plug me with beer so I don’t sue them, and the occasional tequila shot. At the disembarkation point there was a big sign outlining the rules for entering the lagoon and within two hours we’ve broken all of them except the harvesting of the chivita snail. It’s 4:30pm and the Familia are getting hangry. The captains cut up some fruit. Best mango ever.

We’re at the restaurant for our free lunch at 5:30. The food is fine, except the service is in completely the wrong order and we don’t get our complimentary drinks until 6:30. I order a jalapeño mescal cocktail and Toño’s not complaining.

Chetumal was founded as Payo Obispo in 1898 and became capital of Quintana Roo in 1902. It was built with wide avenues and grand buildings in the Spanish-Mexican colonial style, changing its name in 1937. In 1955 it was completely devastated by a hurricane and subsequently rebuilt. But nobody was interested by then and all the money went north to Cancun.

The hotel’s okay, a bit crumbly, and Toño takes us on an orientation walk to the sea for 20 minutes down a straight avenue. He’s promised us food, but what he really means are marquesetas - huge waffles stuffed with whatever fruit you want, so long as it’s bananas and strawberries, and topped with some kind of chocolate and cheese. I’m guessing he really likes sweet stuff.

It’s a real Mexican port, there are no other tourists and all the locals seem happy. But it’s humid so me and Claire search for a beer. There’s a small bar 400m or so along the seafront. The beer is cold and very cheap, which is a disappointment because we’re trying to use up as many pesos as possible. Stumble back convinced we’re lost, but there’s only one Avenida here. It’s 22:00 and the streets are deserted.

Tuesday 14th April (Day 5)

There’s an inclusive breakfast which consists of fruit, an omelette and the ubiquitous black beans, whether your request them or not. Sitting outside of the dining area with a black coffee and cigarette, the hotel looks like a university hall.

We’ve a private bus to the dreaded public bus. At the tiny station they have clear instructions on how to fill in your immigration form, and the bus isn’t really public at all, just shared with another tour. In fact, it’s the most comfortable so far. At the Mexican border we queue to pay our bribe of US$60 each for the privilege of leaving the country. Then to Belize immigration where we have to take our suitcases off the bus for no apparent reason. Do we stand in the slow queue, I ponder, or the quicker one where everyone’s form is rejected as incomplete?

The difference between Mexico and Belize is immediately clear at customs. ‘Hey mon,’ the Belizean official asks. ‘You carrying any weed?’ ‘Er, no.’ ‘You want some?’

The road is decent, much better than in Mexico, but there are numerous tiny villages to negotiate with their huge speed bumps. There are many heavily-laden palm trees. Toño said that the difference between Mexico and Belize would become quickly apparent with the English-style gardens, but I can’t see any rhododendron bushes, privet hedges, duck ponds, croquet lawns, fountains, grottoes and follies. Then again, I haven’t been able to see out of the window since Playa.

Impoverished people sit by the roadside selling measly amounts of vegetables, like we saw in Africa. The difference is, they’re all white - very pasty white, and wearing straw hats. I find this out later from Norrie and Diane. The Mennonites are pacifist Protestants of Dutch/German descent that escaped persecution in Europe in the late 19th century and fled to North America. Over time, the authorities in Canada, the USA and Mexico demanded they be conscripted into their various armies, and so the whole shebang found refuge in British Honduras in the 1950’s. In modern day Belize they make a significant contribution to agriculture, producing most of the country’s poultry, dairy and grain produce. They have no role in government, nor do they seek it.

Apart from them, most that I see from the window are mestizo, until we get to Belize City, where the majority are Afro-Caribbean. The city, the former capital and largest in Belize with a population of 65,000, is one huge traffic jam and not pretty, although to be fair we’re heading straight to the port. We’ve an hour in the water taxi terminal where it’s okay to smoke, drink beer, eat ice cream and meat pies and everyone speaks English.

Toño said the water taxis hold up to 20 people but, like many things he says, this is inaccurate. It’s 140 people. So, it’s not an idyllic cruise but a high-speed hour-long ferry across to Caye Caulker.

 

The first thing you notice is the stench of rotten eggs - decaying seaweed. The hotel is immediately across from the ferry port and the rooms are lovely. I wonder if I can close the windows though, as there’s some very deafening terrible music throbbing through the room. They are closed - there’s a huge sound system at the port and it’s pointed directly at us. The song goes something like this: ‘Belize, Belize, I’m in Belize, you’re in Belize, we’re all in Belize, we all love Belize…’ and I realise we’re in Belize. The music only goes on for another hour. It’s supposed to be part of a protest against government corruption that nobody bothers to turn up for.

Toño gives us an orientation tour which doesn’t take long as the island is tiny. There’s a Main Street about half a kilometre long where most of the bars, restaurants, supermarkets and tour operators are. Then there’s another street behind it and, apart from a few outlying cafes, that’s it. Not sure where the beaches are.

This might sound a bit underwhelming, but it’s actually all very charming. The bars and restaurants all look inviting, everyone is super laid back and nobody hassles you. When you get used to the rotten seaweed, the smell of jerk chicken and seafood grilled on the streets is heavenly. Frigatebirds and pelicans glide or plummet overhead. In the ‘Sip and Dip,’ part of the bar is in the water. Happy Hour is ending in 30 minutes and it’s two-for-one on rum drinks. I ask the guy whether we can mix and match and he says that’s fine. So we get two rum punches and two rum and pineapple each, which is an auspicious start because I have never been anywhere that encourages drinking so much.

Spiked already, we all meet for dinner at 7 which is just as well as the food doesn’t come until 8:30, by which time we’ve consumed two for one margaritas and mojitos way past Happy Hour as well as a bucket of Belizean Guinness which I share with the table. Toño says don’t order the jerk chicken because we’re having it for lunch tomorrow on the snorkelling trip, but we’re not going on the trip. Claire wasn’t confident with snorkelling even back in the day, and I’m an accident-prone catastrophe at the moment. I hadn’t even realised I’d banged my head getting off the boat yesterday until today’s shower revealed a crust of blood. So, I have my jerk chicken Belizean style, which is like a stew with meat that looks and tastes like pork and a complete waste of smoke and jerk.

‘When are we going to the karaoke?’ I joke at 10:30. ‘Reet now!’ demands Norrie, sounding like Spud from Trainspotting. So, this unlikely group - six of us in our fifties or sixties and four in their teens or twenties, heads up the road. The volume is too quiet at first because they’re respectful of a live performance across the road, which is just as well as this American guy is boring everyone to death with slow, depressing country ballads. Some girls occasionally manage to get in there, and they’re good with great voices, but Sun Kil Mood is hogging the mike and we can’t work out the system.

I go to see if there’s a karaoke menu or something and I’m beckoned to sit with this dreadlocked guy who’s da local friendly pusherman. He explains that you just write down your name and the song you want and the disinterested hostess will find it for you if she can. And would I like anything? So, Norrie belts out a stirring I’m Gonna Be (500 miles) that everyone sings along to enthusiastically, even the abattoir singer, whose turn is next. At this point I need to go for a walk before Norrie becomes full-on Begbie with this guy. I find a brew pub around the corner and have a drink with the nice gay couple who may or may not own it.

We manage to get back to the hotel which is, frankly, not hard to find.

Wednesday 15th April (Day 6)

It’s raining when we wake up. This is the excuse Claire has for missing 8 am yoga which she claims takes place outdoors, conveniently forgetting about the venue’s roof. When we eventually rise the sandy roads have become wet cement and are full of big puddles. I can only imagine what might occur after a hurricane, especially the one that reputedly split the island in two in 1961.

No cars are allowed on Caye Caulker, only bicycles and what look like 4WD golf carts, and the odd monster truck. The rain does not deter these because I’ve only just realised the obvious - Caye Caulker is one huge construction site.

We go for coffee at the very popular and slow Ice and Beans, then to Errolyn’s House of Fryjacks. These are deep fried balls of dough which puff up and are then opened and filled with whatever you want so long as, according to the sign, it contains bacon (mine was bacon, egg and chilli sauce, but vegetarian versions are available off-menu). My life has changed forever. Why aren’t these astonishing comestibles available in London and why have I never heard of them before? Wikipedia says they are a popular Belizean breakfast, but rarely available outside of the country. The best place in the world to get them, according to Google AI, is Errolyn’s House of Fryjacks on Caye Caulker. Well, I know what business I’m starting when I get home.

Toño’s other recommendation was the cinnamon buns from the bakery opposite. These are disappointing.

The bruise on my arm is massive, like a gang tattoo, and has spread. Apparently, they do this in the first 48 hours due to gravity. The solution is to keep the arm above the level of the heart, so walk, sit and sleep with my arm in the air. It doesn’t hurt and there’s no infection so I’m not that bothered.

We decided to periplous the island, starting with the less populated western side. There’s a monstrous electricity generator and it’s not possible to walk along the coast. The main road has a lot of traffic and feels like Hanoi at times. The Pelican Sunset Bar is a beautiful spot, even in the morning, and it delivers too, the birds sitting around on posts, splashing you as they dive for the little fishes. Tranquil and peaceful it would be except for the Texans.

The residential area in the south has old wooden houses on stilts and the occasional restaurant or supermarket, but mainly they’re just building stuff.

The south-eastern coast has some nice hotels and restaurants and is quieter. This may be because this is where the stench is worst.

Yet, strangely, I rather love the place. Sitting on the roof terrace of our hotel, the sound of traffic and drilling all around us, one can only marvel at the panorama - the waves crashing against the reef that protects the caye, the clear blue water, the palm and jackfruit trees, the frigatebirds and pelicans. And the shops, bars and restaurants are lovely because they’re small businesses, each with their own sense of individuality, and the massive beach resorts aren’t here. Yet. This may be due to the fact that there’s no noticeable beach anywhere.

On the other hand, you need to make a significant effort to come to Belize. The nearest big airport is Cancun and then it’s at least a day’s travel. Why bother when you can go to somewhere crap nearer home?

In the afternoon we explore the North West. You can’t walk around the coast, you have to follow the main drag and take left turns, some of which are dead ends. We pass the craft beer pub and a guy, perhaps the real owner, persuades us to enter. The porter’s chocolaty and nice, the lager tastes like cider and both are expensive. The difference between Belize and US dollars isn’t clear to Claire (1 USD = 2 BZD, they’re pegged, BZD is the non-ugly currency) so the barkeep has to run after us to give her change.

There’s an amazing smell coming from the BBQ outside Kareem’s Unbelizeable Bar and Grill, so we stop. It’s busy and service is patchy - we have to help ourselves to beers from the fridge, but when the food eventually comes it’s incredible. I notice that all the guys passing say hello to Kareem and the staff and, whether travelling by foot, bicycle or golf cart, each of them has a bottle of stout in their hand.

A guy stops us on the main drag: come to the craft beer bar. We’ve just been. But there’s a live reggae band tonight. He looks at Claire’s roll up - she’s the only person on the island smoking these. I can get you the real stuff, which he happens to have a big bag of. The deal is done in the middle of the street under the ‘Belize says no to drugs’ sign. Where is it? she asks. He’s dropped it down her bra. I thought you were trying to feel me up, she says. “Hey lady,” he says. “If I’d been after your titties, they’d still be standing to attention in two weeks’ time.”

There’s a place where you can feed tarpon by hand, huge barracuda-like fish that jump from the waves to eat the sardines which cost 1 BZD each. They scare the shit out of everyone. The lady reassures us they have no teeth, but nobody seems convinced. Then to the head of the Spit, passing the Rasta Ferry (geddit?), but we don’t go to the North Caye, or whatever it’s called, and head for Sip and Dip’s happy hour instead.

We meet the Familia at the Pelican Sunset Cafe at 6:15. It’s a beautiful sunset, the mojitos are huge and the woman behind the bar is an efficiency beast. But Claire suddenly feels unwell, which could be you know what, but also could be the shrimp at Kareem’s. I take her back to the hotel and she’s fine. We sit on the roof terrace and listen to the protest speeches. Apparently, according to the upstanding citizens of Caye Caulker, the powers that be want to close the police station, sell it to real estate developers and make the island a drug paradise, if it wasn’t already.

I’ve got my portable speakers, some beer, and I’m playing some nice, reassuring Bob Marley, music you hear in every country in the world that’s impossible to offend anyone. But then the sound system, that’s pointed directly at us, starts up and we can’t compete. So, we retire to the sound of ‘Belize, Belize, I’m in Belize, you’re in Belize, we’re all in Belize, we all love Belize…’

Thursday 16th April (Day 7)

Another day in paradise, as Intrepid advertise it, although that could be another day in Death in Paradise. We failed to conquer the south of the island yesterday due to a lack of exit strategy and today we’re going to declare ourselves winners.

We walk the path on the Stench Coast. I hope that is rotting seaweed I’m smelling because I’ve no idea what they do with human waste and the so-called beaches are strewn with litter. There’s no recycling, very few bins and no eco policy that I can discern. If you buy a sole packet of cigarettes they force a plastic bag on you.

Past the small airstrip there are no more golf buggies or humans save a pair of gravediggers next to a tomb dedicated to ‘our young ninja.’ Then it’s just a path through the jungle, worrying scamperings to the left and right, and big lizards. There are occasional holiday lets and mild construction, but otherwise it’s peaceful, empty and very hot. The path becomes a quagmire and we’re forced to go off-map. We emerge in the townships where there’s a poke bar with feeding trays for hummingbirds. At the Sunset Bar we’re the only ones there apart from dive-bombing pelicans and a solitary stingray. Collect my laundry which costs the same as a juice.

There’s an activity at 16:45. Sitting on the roof terrace at 2pm we look at each other. Beer? The Tiki Bar ticks off all the aspects you don’t want from a drinking establishment. Loud music? Tick. Bad music? Tick. Smell of rotting seaweed? Tick. Obnoxious, loud Texan sitting at the bar patronising the locals. Tick. We bump into Bertrand and Michelle, the Swiss couple on our tour who are actually French and American, but in a nice way.

I’m suddenly drawn to the Tiburon rum tasting shack. A lovely guy sits us at a counter and explains it’s 12.5 BZD each for the tasting (about £4.50) but you get a free shot glass. I negotiate the tasting for free if I buy a bottle and sod the shot glass. The 8-year-old sipping dark rum is extraordinarily smooth. The overproof white is sharp on its own but mellowed by a cube of frozen lime. Then there’s a very fine tequila brewed under license in Jalisco, and finally a white overproof infused into darkness by cacao and coffee beans. Whoa! We’re in a daze as we stumble into daylight, a bottle of the 8-year-old under my bruised arm.

A couple of hilarious beers on the beach and we meet the Familia with the exception of A&E who are doing their own thing. I saw them earlier in the lobby rustling up money to give to an impatient woman, so God only knows. We’re whisked away in golf buggies to the area I earlier unkindly called the township where there’s a cooking demonstration of, surprise, jerk chicken and rice and peas.
Rose’s daughter shows us how to crack a coconut with a machete and then desiccate it with a rotating spindly iron crank thing. We’re invited to have a go and we all watch each other politely for what seems like an age, but it’s never going to make prime viewing. Then we crowd into the small, hot kitchen and watch the coconut being blended with water in a liquidiser. I wanted to know how Rose made her jerk marinade, but it appears to be a shop-bought spice rub.

‘Do you know where I can buy beer?’ Aussie Alex asks Toño. ‘I’ll look it up,’ he says, his stock reply. But I was here earlier in the day and know there’s an unmapped supermarket round the corner. So, me, Alex and a guilty-looking Toño buy a round for the Familia, which is followed by someone buying another etc... The stout is 7% abv.

When the food’s eventually ready we eat it on the balcony and it’s delicious. Having just used the toilet in somebody’s home I realise everyone else has gone so I leave too. Back at the karaoke the one song they can’t find is the one I requested. I was hoping to join Sun Kil Mood in a Tom Waits duet.

Friday 17th April (Day 8)

At Ice and Beans coffee bar they give out free doughnut samples. To advertise this their fat dog has a collar with the slogan ‘donut feed.’

There’s an interminable wait for the ferry and there’s no breeze in the ‘departure lounge’ and it’s become hotter. The trip back to Belize City is wetter than I remember. Breakfast is two small spicy meat pies and a beer I found in my bag which is still cold thanks to our beast of a fridge.

Cases in a trailer, the minivan is the least comfortable yet, especially above the wheel hub. Belize City has a Baptist church on every street. It’s only 114 km to San Ignacio, or as Claire tells me to call it ‘San Izfthathio’ or whatever Galician dialect she’s insisting on, but we’re stuck behind monster trucks and Belize has the tallest speed bumps in the world. The scenery is neither jungle nor cultivated, more scrubby, and vultures soar overhead.

We reach the outskirts of the capital Belmopan, population 21,000. From here it’s a slow gentle climb through fabulously named villages such as Central Farm, Esperanza, Camelot, Teakettle and Blackman Eddy. It’s more agricultural here - lots of cows. There are Mennonites and synagogues. Mainland Belize is litter free, unlike Caye Caulker.

We reach San Ignacio at 3 pm. The room’s fine except the plugs are half way up the wall so I have to set up a charging station atop of pillows, the fridge isn’t plugged in and the aircon’s stuck on some strange language called Fahrenheit. Toño gives us an orientation walk that lasts about ten minutes and ends up in the market, which has fabulous vegetables and isn’t remotely touristic. The bars are a bit cantina like so we buy beers from the Chinese supermarket, because all supermarkets in Belize are owned by the Chinese, and bring it up to the hotel’s nice roof terrace.

Which is where they’re doing a presentation for tomorrow’s optional activities, because almost nothing apart from the transport and accommodation is included in this tour. The caving isn’t for us and I tell Toño I would have to wear a full suit of body armour to even consider doing it. They can arrange transport to the local ruins for a very reasonable price. It’s going to be a scorcher tomorrow so Kevan suggests a 7am start to which Norrie, involuntarily, shouts ‘fuck off!!!’ We compromise on 8:30.

The best restaurant in San Ignacio is terrible and not even remotely cheap. I order lamb liver because it’s the cheapest thing on the menu and they pour gravy on my salad. Both Karen and Alex have to send their food back because it’s cold. There’s almost no nightlife - I don’t know how A&E are going to cope - the bar on the main pedestrianised street closing at nine. Yet, there’s a karaoke open until midnight and, as I write from the rooftop of the hotel, the only sound to be heard for miles is Kevan murdering Steely Dan.

Saturday 18th April (Day 9)

I should mention that Intrepid (other operators are available) run small group overland tours across the world, typically lasting one to two weeks, but these can be combined to make longer tours. It might be possible to travel continually overland from Alaska to Tierra del Fuego were it not for the Darien Gap. So, of our current group, Ann, Alex and Kevan all started in Mexico City, albeit with different tour operators.

There’s ten of us in the reasonably priced minibus. A quick journey to San Jose Succotz where there’s a ferry across the slim but active river. It can hold a couple of vehicles and is hand-cranked. Then it’s back in the bus for 2km up and down a hill to a car park with a lavish toilet. It’s a scorcher. Looks like we’ve beaten the alleged cruise ship traffic, perhaps because we’re a long way from the sea.

Xunantunich was a Mayan civil ceremony site until about 900 CE but was built on top of an old city that goes back to 1,000 BCE. We know this because guides keep coming to us in the places we’re sitting and telling us things, or perhaps telling the people who’ve paid them. Six of our group pay for a guide, but not Norrie, Diane and us because we’re rebels. I also hate having to listen to people, being told where to go and standing in the sun.

The site is beautiful and magnificent - huge Lego pyramids interspersed with grass that could be football pitches. We camp first at Structure A1 which forbids you to climb it, except I find steps round the back and do so anyway. Fabulous views, mucho sweaty.

We’re taking our time, working ourselves up to scale El Castillo, the second tallest Mayan structure in Belize. First, we go on an ill-advised walk around the structure along a route that ceases to be a path, loudly treading leaves to ward off the snakes. Then a slight ascent, followed by another, until we’re not quite at the top because Claire has vertigo. Great views across the border into Guatemala, well worth the £9 entry fee. Back in the van, I stink to high heaven. It may only be 11:30, but it’s 34c, feels like 40. Shower mandatory.

There are other things do to around San Ignacio, such as the Iguana sanctuary, botanic gardens, butterfly farm and some more ruins, but they all involve steep hills. The Saturday market is a big thing in Belize’s third largest city (population 11,000) and all the country folk are here, including the Mennonites, but in truth it’s not much busier than yesterday. We have a potter, Claire buys stuff and then there are two rows of street food where we have delicious pupusas (masa pancakes with fillings and side pickles) for a pound each, and half litres of ice-cold fresh orange juice and horchata (almond and rice), also a quid. The chef and her daughter speak a cross between English, Spanish and Patois. I could happily eat every meal every day here, if it wasn’t for the heat.

Just to say, there is absolutely nothing that makes San Ignacio a tourist destination in its own right. There are things to see nearby and it’s on the only road from Belize to Guatemala, so it’s a convenient place to stop. But it’s a real town that doesn’t depend on the tourist buck, and people here are lovely, just like they are everywhere in Belize. Strangers say ‘good morning,’ as they do in Cornwall.

In the back street we come across a delicious-smelling barbecue restaurant and I’m persuaded to WhatsApp the Familia a dinner suggestion. But Toño has already booked somewhere that has a huge menu, serves food from every country in the world and is expensive. We don’t want to go there and I’ve inadvertently created a schism. Toño puts it to the vote.

I spend the afternoon drinking beer in a paddling pool like Homer Simpson. Belekin lager is very nice, but only comes in half pint bottles. Soon, most of the Familia turn up and we’re listening to music and drinking beer and duty-free rum in the land of rum.
The vote largely goes according to age, the under 45s plus Ann going to the Brazilian-Indonesian-Italian fusion (Ann later says that the food was great, but she only likes nachos). But I’m left with this unwanted responsibility as the leader of the rebel faction and the barbecue only burns at lunchtime. Still, the left-overs are delicious and they make an epic chilli mint cucumber margarita. We go to bed much later than we should.

Sunday 19th April (Day 10)

We’re in the minivan at 6:05. It’s misty. 30 minutes to the border and an unbelizeably slow queue to deliver the 40 BZD bribe for the privilege of leaving the country. ‘We’ll have to get quetzal,’ I say to Claire. ‘Is that a cocktail?’ asks Karen. ‘Is the national animal of Ireland the leprechaun?’ asks Alex, randomly. These are the types of conversation we have. An hour later we’re in Guatemala.

We’ve got the same bus for the next four nights, which is called Rosa, the driver being Roger. Roger passes luggage to a guy on the roof with a magnificent gaucho moustache.

No more privet hedges, duck ponds etc… Guatemala is completely different from Belize. Actually, it looks exactly the same, farms bordered by jungle, humpbacked cows in the fields and trucks going to market, shops selling guns and ammunition.

The sky clears and it’s beautiful in the undulating hills, the bus struggling up the mildest of these. 20 minutes of good road then a free Guatemala massage. There are lots of signs to Poblano Proximo and Velocidad Maxima but I can’t find them on Google maps. The latter is perplexing as the distance to it is variously 40 or 60 km away.

We arrive in El Remate about 9:30. The inclusive breakfast of beans, plantain, cheese, scrambled eggs, tomatoes, tacos and half a chorizo is delicious, but of course they put ham and tomatoes in Claire’s omelette.

The luggage sent to the hotel, we’re off to Tikal. Now, you may have heard of this because it’s the mother of all Mayan archaeological sites and perhaps the main reason for me being on this tour. It’s a half an hour drive to the entrance of the National Park then another 20 minutes going slow. We’ve picked up a guide called Luis who used to be an Intrepid tour leader, was born in Tikal when they first started reconstructing it in the 1960s, his father being a Mayan labourer, and who has a doctorate in Mayan hieroglyphics. So, he’s adequately qualified. Enough to debunk every single theory that Kevan, who’s acquired his knowledge through Wikipedia and Mexican tour guides, throws at him. He’s also relatively patient with Karen’s questions, although she doesn’t think so.

Luis says that his tours of Tikal normally take four days, but he’s going to show us the highlights in three (more like five) hours. I understand why his tours take so long when he stops at every tree to explain their medicinal value. He has this habit of shouting ‘vamos!’ then stopping four steps later for another lecture, usually in the sun. He takes us via a short cut through the jungle. ‘What’s that bird?’ I mumble disinterestedly. ‘Ah! Great spot! It’s a red-crescented chumble-wumble!’ or something, he exclaims with ridiculous excitement. An hour of this, spider monkeys barely visible through the trees.

We emerge into an immaculately coiffured space where there are four impressive monuments (not temples, none of them were temples) pointing exactly NESW because the Mayans were brilliant mathematicians that invented the number zero and predicted every eclipse ever, even the ones you couldn’t see from Central America. Then it’s back into the jungle. We’re feeling the effects of heat exhaustion because it’s 35c, feels like 42.

We emerge in the main plaza. There are some people here because it’s amazing, all the pictures you see of Tikal being this place. Luis points out that only 1% of Tikal has been excavated and only half of this restored, because once you take away the overgrowth there’s a rapid decline in the brickwork. They’d excavate more if they had the money. When I first heard about the place in the 1990s there was absolutely no hope you’d ever get there, and everything was covered in moss and vines.

More jungle, some howler monkeys, coati and wumble-chumble later, we’re invited to climb the tallest of the monuments from where you can see the vast scale of Tikal - easily the size of the Isle of Wight or, in metric, 2.5 Maltas. From memory of Luis’ lectures, its beginnings were in the third millennium BCE, it became prominent about 800 BCE, and was finally abandoned around 800 CE. Because of the numerous rivers, lakes and canals that used to exist it became the trade hub of Central America between the Pacific and Caribbean, an ancient Panama Canal. It had a trade pact with whoever it was that inhabited Teotihuacan, now just north of Mexico City.

It’s fabulous but, a bit like all the temples around Siem Reap in Cambodia, you can have too much of a good thing. We’re grateful when we can finally have a cigarette outside of the complex.

Lunch messed up, because there’s no point organising anything here, we’re taken to the hotel in El Remate. It’s wonderful - bungalow-like rooms around a garden next to Lago Petan Itza, Guatemala’s 3rd largest lake. It’s swampy near the water which you can’t swim in because of the crocodiles, although this doesn’t deter the locals, but there’s a sunset terrace on stilts above it, about 50m from the hotel. We delay the much-needed shower and head for the bar. They’ll send the Toucan Express to deliver our beers, they say. It’s a hand-cranked zip-wire that speeds across the garden, slowing down as it nears the terrace. The basket contains ice-cold Gallo beer and has speakers that play rock anthems. To make another order you write down what you want in Spanish on a piece of paper, wave to them across the garden, and the Toucan Express will come to collect the order, return, and then deliver the goods.

This is literally the best thing I have ever encountered in my entire life.

Or you can WhatsApp your order as spoilsport Matt tells us later. Unfortunately, I can’t post the video on this blog which has Norrie doing a little dance in anticipation of the delivery.

It’s a stunning sunset with a cloud across the lake that looks like an H-bomb.

Monday 20th April (Day 11)

6:00 wake up. The hotel doble cappuccino is almost London prices, but golly is it good. Cloudy and extremely humid, we depart at seven thirty.

Flores is 40 minutes away, a town with a population of 50,000 and an airport that can transport you anywhere so long as it’s via Guatemala City. The old town is on an island in the lake. This was the capital of the last independent Mayan civilisation; the Spanish not bothered because the region lacked silver and gold. Eventually, 200 years after Columbus, they took it without a cannonball fired.

We have a decent inclusive breakfast where every ingredient can be prepared several different ways, so ordering takes a while. Toño’s orientation walk consists of a march up a small hill to a 100-year-old cathedral where he explains the above and gives us an hour’s free-time. Although we split up, we bump into each other several times because the island is very small. It’s (shrug) nice, some of the buildings are reasonably old and colourful. There are boats waiting to take you around Lake Petan and we disturb a huge green iguana which runs up a tree, but most of the shops are there to sell you a tour to somewhere else.

We’re heading South-East. I snooze the first hour and find we’re in some unadvertised highlands with knobbly hills jutting across the wide vista, possibly extinct volcanoes. We pass through little villages and people seem happy going about their daily business, the kids returning from school about midday. The road is good in places and terrible in others, not aided by the volume of trucks, some of which break down. It’s only a two-lane highway and very congested at times. The soaring eagles I’ve been admiring are actually vultures.

It starts to rain when we get to Poptun, the biggest town in area with the most paramilitary. At the petrol station cigarette stop, where there’s a cabinet dedicated to Swiss Army knives, it feels less humid, but that could also be because of the altitude. After three hours we descend amidst much ear popping and the sky clears.

Five hours after leaving Flores there’s another delayed stop at a supermarket where the Familia stock up on a huge array of snacks and it’s off through the jungle to the Rio Dulce lodge. I haven’t sweated at all today, but this quickly changes in the quarter of a mile walk across wooden boards and shaky bridges, lugging both mine and Claire’s suitcases. It’s a bit perilous, especially when we spy an enormous crocodile below one of the bridges.

Rooms are basic but there’s a nice balcony with a view of the swamp, and tons of mosquitoes. The bar has cheap beer and food, there’s a pool and a group of English 18-35- year-olds who set the standard for smoking wherever they bleeding well please. We’re on a lake, not that you can see it.

I’m signing off now for the night with a pic of the croc. Gawd knows how we’re getting back to our room tonight because this is one place where you don’t want to stray from the path.

Tuesday 21st April (Day 12)

At 6:30 am the crocodile is just below our swamp balcony. There’s only one, the Hacienda Tijax Lodge calls him Wally (as in Wally Gator) and, as far as they know, he’s never eaten anyone.

We’re looking forward to our sedate river cruise which we soon realise is not going to be the case as the speedboat travels the knots equivalent of very, very, very fast and the noise of the engine is deafening. We slow down to see the Castillo de San Felipe de Lara, an old fort started in 1644 to ward off English pirates, we go into beautiful creeks where the water is covered by white and pink lilies on which yellow-billed birds I’m going to call lily-hoppers, hop. The scent of flowers mixes with the odour of petrol to form a heady bouquet. We enter a still pond where Toño bades us be quiet for five minutes, which he has moderate success at considering controlling this group is like herding cats, and we listen to the dulcet tones of birds along with some nearby hammering and chainsaws.

Now we’re in El Golfete, perhaps Guatemala’s 2nd largest lake. Along the shores are some large, luxurious houses with huge boats, some bars and restaurants, but mainly there are simple shacks where fishermen scratch out a living. There are no roads, everything moves by boat.

It’s a long journey. We have a comfort stop where urinals are called mingitorios. Then we’re in a gorgeous (well, it should be) gorge with cliffs covered in jungle. Finally, we’re at the Caribbean and the town of Livingston.

It’s famous for being the home of the Garifuna. Toño says that these are descendants of a shipwrecked slave boat who were rescued by the local Mayans, but he’s not known for his accuracy. Lonely Planet says they emigrated from Belize and eat a strange dish called rice and peas, but that’s written by Americans. A local guide says they were led here from Honduras by a guy called Livingston. The Wikipedia explanation is too long so I’m trusting Grokipedia, a drinks app, which says that they’re descendants of West Indian slaves, Carib Indians and the Arawak tribe who were expelled from St Vincent by the British in 1797.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter as less than 9% of the population of this small town are Garifuna. It’s sweltering hot, busy with traffic and we have to walk a steep hill. There’s no shade and the noise of electricity generators is deafening. I’m not in the mood for dancing.

Which is a shame because that’s why we’re here. We’re led to a shanty settlement on a rubbish-strewn beach. A tour party of French pensioners is given preference even though we arrived first and they’re given a free coconut each and seated on chairs to watch some drummers. We’re then invited to form a circle to engage in a class which is a mixture of yoga and school disco. Their leader takes one look at my face and decides there’s no pressure for me to join. There is a bar. Because they’ve run out of water and coconuts, we all have to drink beer.

We’re late, obviously, and I check with Toño whether I can do a quick shop as there’s nothing at the lodge and getting to the town requires effort. I buy a bottle of cold water for 5 Quetzal (50p). I give the kid a 100 note as that’s all I have, and he slowly counts out and hands me nineteen 5 GTQ notes. At the mini-mart I buy cigarettes called L&M for 20 GTQ as I don’t want to buy Marlboro. Later, I find out they’re menthol.

There’s a possible situation tonight and I want a half bottle of rum in case of emergency. At the Garifuna gift shop by the port I try to buy massage oil, but the shopkeeper points me in the direction of the guifiti which is clearly marked ‘bebida.’ The 125ml bottle is stuffed with God-knows what - rosemary, all spice, juniper, mace perhaps, but the overwhelming flavour is clove. They’re shy about the ABV which I estimate to be 95% and it tastes like pain-inducing mouthwash. Later, I translate the rest of the writing on the bottle which claims the mixture relieves ‘muscle tension, blood pressure stabilizer, cures diabetes, fever, bone pain, stimulates and helps with covid.’

We have lunch at the mingitorio place which also has hot springs cleverly disguised in the river. The Mayans are short people, but the waitress can’t be higher than three feet tall.

We speed back to the lodge in much less time than it took to get there, I guess, because I fell asleep. After a shower I dress up in my supposedly insect-repellent socks, trousers and shirts and lather up with jungle formula, which burns.

Damn! That’s some fine guifiti.

Wednesday 22nd April (Day 13)

The plan is ‘worst case scenario’ minus one hour. Guatemalan farmers and logistic workers are protesting against government corruption and fuel prices by blockading major highways and all routes into Guatemala City. I’ve heard of this before because I watched Celebrity Race Across the World last year.

Toño’s been on his phone all day. We were supposed to leave for the long drive to Antigua, a journey I was dreading anyway, at 5am. Now, it’s 11pm. Worse still, assuming we do get through the blockade, the logic being the demonstrators have to go to bed at some point, we won’t be able to check into the hotel till 3pm.

In good news we’re getting a free breakfast and an extended tour of Antigua when we arrive, which is just what we want.

I make a plan. Pack early, last margarita 9 pm, catch a nap for half an hour (not in the plan but necessary), cross the Bridges of Doom for the first time 10:20 with Claire’s suitcase, return and bring mine. The walk is in pitch darkness and terrifying, unimaginable monsters attacking from the air while I concentrate on not falling into the abyss where lurks the Balrog. Dressed in mosquito-proof body armour I’m a cascade of sweat as the Familia arrive and we await the encroaching ghostly lights of Rosa swerving through the jungle like the Catbus in My Neighbour Totoro. John hands the suitcases to Roger on the roof because he’s the tallest.
Matt discovers there are fold-down seat that cross the aisle so, if properly organised, each row of four seats could be beds for two. But we’re not properly organised and people plonk their rucksacks on empty seats and Alex always has at least fourteen bags. Kevan, being a gentleman, refrains from sitting opposite Alex or Karen and chooses me instead. So, there’s three on my row, me in the middle, while Karen and Alex have four seats each.

I must have dropped off occasionally in the first four hours because I can’t remember it being four hours and Roger is a superb and safe night driver. We stop at a petrol station where convoys of brightly-lit juggernauts screech by at 70mph. A short, fat Mayan demands I fist bump him, high five, hug and chest bump and I don’t know why - perhaps an initiation into a gang. Kevan, who’s been looking at Google Maps since we left, excitedly exclaims ‘we’re 3/4 of the way there!’ That’s because it’s not been twisty and turny.

Then it gets twisty and turny due to mountains that we’re ascending and descending and it’s impossible to sleep because I need to hang on for dear life. Still, we get past the dreaded Guatemala City and all’s good until the turning to Antigua where, at 04:45 there’s a jam that doesn’t move at all for an hour. This doesn’t appear to be because of a demonstration, just a road accident combined with shitty road planning. We descend into Antigua at daybreak, the stunning volcanoes surrounding it smoking wistfully. Well, one of them.

Karen wakes up and asks if we’re in Guatemala yet.

I’m not going to describe Antigua because we’re not done with it yet and it would be unfair. After a catastrophe-laden breakfast we politely decline the extended orientation tour and wander around like ghosts. After two more coffees and watching toddlers feed pigeons in front of the cathedral I get us lost inside a park where there’s a craft brewery. This makes us feel a lot better, we’re able to check-in slightly early and grab a couple of hours snooze which makes all the difference.

Wake up in a clean but basic room. There’s no aircon or fridge but it doesn’t matter as it barely gets above 25c on account of the elevation. Pick up laundry, back to craft brewery for a flight of beer with Bertrand.

The last dinner for the Familia is in a private kitchen that is organic, chemical free and only uses local produce. Finally, somewhere to eat in Central America with its head stuck up its arse. My pineapple, jalapeño and mezcal ‘shrub’ is smoky gorgeous as is the sharing board of 16 different things lying around the kitchen, including pickles, taco fillings and jam, but others are less impressed by the portion sizes of the pizza/pasta and later go for burgers.

It’s here we say goodbye to Norrie and Diane, our lovely Scottish friends and the lives of any party. Norrie tells anecdotes that become more unintelligible the longer they go on, that usually involve the phrase ‘the wee cunt’ and end with him bursting out laughing, which is how you know he’s reached the end. He used to advise either the British or Scottish government, I can’t remember. Diane is a worldly, humorous educationalist and an ally in a region where hardly anyone seems to smoke.

We’re taken to another craft brewery which has a band doing early Olivia Dean covers and a terrace up four flights of stairs. Okay, it’s nighttime and cloud-covered, but you can still get the sense of how magnificent the city is.

Then it’s a sad goodbye to lovely Alex. She’s been on the trip since Mexico City and has shared a room with Ann. She always has a beaming smile and isn't afraid to sit next to me. Emily is also leaving us, having randomly just met her ex-boyfriend, as you do.

This is also the last time we’ll see Toño who’s flying back to Cancun and Playa tomorrow after six weeks of tour-leadering, for a month’s vacation in which he has to buy IKEA furniture and unpack a box. He’s a lovely guy, he went through hell yesterday to get us here, tries so hard to please and accommodate everyone. It’s very easy to make him laugh, like he’s only just discovered British humour.

There are others leaving the tour, but we’ll see them tomorrow. So, here we all are, among the rooftops of a cosmopolitan colonial city, drinking overpriced craft beer and happening to be in Guatemala. Some characters gone, others recurrent, it feels like the end of season one of the White Lotus. Without the deaths, I hasten to add.