Central America 2026: Part Three - Antigua to San Jose

 Wednesday 29th April (Day 20)

Goodbye to the lovely Juan over an underwhelming inclusive breakfast. Laundry in, kicked out of hotel, check-in to new one down the road, choice of four beds in the room, no windows.

In Antigua there’s an extensive artisan market full of tourist crap and then the real market - dark narrow covered alleys full of beautifully arranged vegetables, spices, cheese, condiments, second-hand clothing, shoes, mobile phones, cleaning products etc… It’s a huge labyrinth that’s pleasing to get lost in except arguably, the offal quarter. It’s not busy and is so much nicer and less touristy than Chichicastenango.

In Xela the cemetery was part of the guided tour and looked like the one in Easy Rider. In Antigua it’s much larger, cleaner, neater and impressive with rows of mausoleums in avenues beneath the shadow of the volcano.

We visit San Simon in the No Se, but the promise that you can drink and smoke with the great man in the dark proves several years old. It’s still a cool bar though.

New day, new tour. Of the Playa Familia there’s just us, Ann, and Pam and John. Joining are two unrelated Aussie couples, a pair of South African friends and a Chinese-Californian.

The new tour leader is Freddy from Nicaragua. He looks and laughs like Guillermo in What We Do in the Shadows, reads from notes on his phone and generally looks uncomfortable during the welcome meeting. At dinner, Claire and I are the only ones drinking cocktails.

Then we meet Karen at the Charleston Bar. The entrance is a mock clothes shop and you slide a mirror to enter the prohibition-themed speakeasy. The cocktails are supposedly genuine 20’s recipes and come with theatrics such as telephone box holders, skulls, dolls and dry-ice. Claire nicks my dolly in case San Simon gets his hands on her. My cocktail includes pocha water, cocoa shell syrup, house tortilla liquor and cardamom tincture and no, I can’t really describe the taste.

Karen was always the last out of the hotel or on the bus, ever forgetting something. She’s in Central America on a whim, wanted to continue with us but was told the tour was full, so she’s flying to San Jose, Costa Rica tomorrow.

So it’s a real goodbye to lovely Karen and also to Antigua, a town I guarantee you will enjoy.

New birdz…

White-fronted AMAZON, Northern CARDINAL, Inca DOVE, Dusky-capped FLYCATCHER, Azure-crowned HUMMINGBIRD, American black VULTURE, Golden-fronted WOODPECKER.

Thursday 30th April (Day 21)

We’re off at 7 am in a minibus that is not as uncomfortable as the last. It takes three hours to crawl through Guatemala City, but at least the traffic is moving. I notice that the price of diesel has dropped dramatically from 44 to 31 GTQ, and this can only be the government dropping duty as a result of the blockades, although the price is creeping up again as a result of Operation Epic Stupidity.

GC is built across several valleys and there are some impressive slums hanging onto the cliffs, begging the question why people go to the Barrios in Rio when it’s just as easy to get mugged here.

The trip to the border in the traffic jam they call Guatemala takes another five and a half hours, not helped by John, the latest victim of the Mayan flu, having to stop the bus and throw up every half hour. The mountains are very beautiful and I can’t be bothered to describe them. Let’s say Northern Greece. We’ve come down about a kilometre in altitude and it’s very hot and humid.

In Europe, it’s only the British and Belarussians that need visas for Honduras.

I was dreading our ‘visa appointment’ at the Embassy of Honduras. What if they refused? Would we be stuck at the border in a ghost town awaiting the return of our co-travellers or, worse, would we need to make our own way to another crossing? I imagined that the Embassy would be a windowless fortified behemoth with strict security, many dim-lit interview rooms and the distant wail of CIA-taught torture, like the Ministry of Love in 1984. They would split us up and a thin-lipped man wearing a sash would confuse us, quiz us on our political affiliations, social media activity and knowledge of Honduran history, then reach for the large rubber stamp imprinted with the word DENIDO, or whatever the Spanish word for ‘denied’ is, before dramatically stamping our applications. I asked Claire to refrain from mentioning her degree in Latin American Imperialism and, if the subject of Trump arose, we would claim to have not heard of him.

It’s above a chicken shop.

There’s a flagpole outside but the stiff winds of the Marylebone Road have long mangled the flag and nobody can be bothered to unfurl it. You ring the bell and the narrow door is unlocked. Then it’s up to the fourth floor in a lift with a maximum capacity for two. At the top a smiling little old lady awaits who advises you to mind the step, directs you into the reception room and offers you a coffee. The room has a dilapidated two-piece suite and doubles as an office for a guy who is on the phone. The whole embassy has four rooms, including the kitchen, and is the size of a family-run opticians.

A friendly guy, possibly the ambassador as there are only four of them, asks for our passports and application forms and disappears to copy the information onto a computer and print a lavish visa sticker. He advises us to check the details. I enquire whether he wants proof of payment as instructed ($60 dollars each for a multiple-entry, just in case), he says ‘oh, yeah.’ Then they all wish us a pleasant weekend and advise us to mind the step.

At the border we get through in five minutes. There’s another $4 bribe, either to leave Guatemala or enter Honduras, I can’t remember.

It’s a 20-minute drive to the Buena Vista hotel in Copanas Ruinas and, apart from a small but nice-looking swimming pool, there’s not a lot to recommend, not even the vista. Freddy suggests an orientation walk into town at 5pm, we say we’ll meet him there.

It’s only ten minutes but it’s down a one in three. It’s a charming little town, the square is pretty and there are scarlet macaws in artificial nests in the trees. The local beer translates as ‘life saver,’ costs £1.10 a bottle in the bars and they accept GTQ, albeit at a dodgy exchange rate. Everyone seems to be stealing from the electricity cable.

I’m fascinated that there are blonde Aryan kids among the locals, to which Freddy gives no satisfactory explanation. There are no Maya either, just small mestizos, and everyone is lovely. We get to try sweetened corn tamale street-food. A dog follows us.

It’s 6pm, the orientation tour is over and we go in search of a cocktail at a supposedly vegetarian-friendly restaurant. David and Sue from Victoria join us but it’s a late dinner for them and too early for us so we move to a place where slow service is guaranteed and they mix up the words margarita and mojito. Not feeling hungry, we order three starters that could feed twelve and the bill is about £20. We take away doggy bags of nachos to give to Ann.

There are at least two old men passed out and lying in the middle of pavements in different places around the square, preferring the ‘I’m dead’ stance. The locals pay them no heed, so nor do we.

We could have got a tuk-tuk up the hill for 60p but elect to walk. At 9pm I’m the only one awake in the hotel, until 20 minutes later when you can hear the sound of whispering Americans half a mile away.

If you’d asked me a year ago which country I might visit next, I wouldn’t have even thought of Honduras. But now, I’m proud to say… I’m in Honduras!!!

Friday 1st May (Day 22)

Up at dawn to listen to an astonishing number of new bird species. The tuk-tuk army arrives at eight and Carlos, the owner of the only green one in town, plunges us down the almost-vertical cobbled road towards the nearby ruins.

It’s very hot, but the guide Rodolfito isn’t one to torture us in the sun and he’s very knowledgeable. Copan is the Easternmost of the great Mayan ruins and was a great city that flourished between the 5th and 9th centuries CE. The remains are not as spectacular as Chichen Itza or Tikal, but still very extensive and picturesque. We’re given a detailed history of the period from the 13th King who was taken prisoner and beheaded to the 16th King who built meaningless monuments declaring himself the greatest, a bit like Trump according to Rodolfito. The bird count is through the roof.

At the exit gate are six worrying members of a death squad, but it turns out they’re just army tourists in uniform with machine guns.

We’re sped away to Macaw Mountain, a sanctuary for caged birds and breeding centre for the scarlet macaws. It has good intentions and is very beautiful beside a lively river, but I’m not sure how I feel about caged birds, especially as the only sound you could hear at the ruins were screeching macaws in the wild.

Back to the village of Copanas Ruinas for some lifesavers on a roof above Honduras Umbrella Street which is a poor imitation of San Juan la Laguna. There’s a bank holiday today (May Day) despite being a Friday, indicating a potential dreaded fiesta later on. A dog which we christened Alana adopts us but proves unfaithful when she follows David and Sue instead. Pupusa in the tiny sweaty market is so good I have to have one too and we’re given the ‘why didn’t you say you wanted two when you first ordered one’ stare. People in Honduras seem nice, but they lack the joie de vivre we encountered in Belize and Guatemala.

Our driver Carlos recommended a bar called Fusions for a cocktail, which has a rooftop vista across the square. On the stairs is a big picture of Frida Kahlo, the Venus de Milo, the Mona Lisa and the Girl with the Pearl Earrings in their beachwear enjoying a cocktail. The girl next to us has a perfectly decent looking margarita but the barmaid puts grenadine in ours because it looks nice. The music is Stars on 45 and Jive Bunny.

Below us are women on the corner selling barbecued corn, tamales and cherry tomatoes. In the middle of the square it’s not so much a fiesta as someone sounding like Johnny Vegas shouting evangelical texts down a loudhailer. Nobody is listening voluntarily. I’m waiting for the death squads of the recently ‘elected’ pro-Trump government to round up the locals and force them into open trucks.

We get good margaritas in a place that’s a cross between a Swiss chalet and a chicken bus. At 8 pm the whole town experiences a blackout and the deafening noise of back-up emergency generators is heard.

We bump into three of our Aussies in our group and share uneaten food. Nine PM, everything is closed and it’s a Tantalian climb up the impossibly steep hill.

Even though I have a degree in archaeology, I have to confess that today was all about the birdz. I’m getting old.

Lots of new birdz…

Mealy AMAZON, Collared ARACARI, Red-winged BLACKBIRD, Plain CHACHALACA, Rock DOVE, White-tipped DOVE, Laughing FALCON, Yellow-olive FLATBILL, Sulphur-bellied FLYCATCHER, Yellow-bellied FLYCATCHER, Lesser GOLDFINCH, Blue-black GRASSQUIT, Green JAY, Roadside HAWK, Tropical KINGBIRD, Great KISKADEE, White-throated MAGPIE-JAY, Lesson’s MOTMOT, Turquoise-browsed MOTMOT, Montezuma OROPENDOLA, Barred PARAKEET, Rufous- browsed PEPPERSHRIKE, Black PHOEBE, Black-headed SALTATOR, Spotted SANDPIPER, Barn SWALLOW, Vaux’s SWIFT, Blue-grey TANAGER, Yellow-winged TANAGER, Garnered violaceous TROGON, Keel-billed TOUCAN, Northern beardless-TYRANNULET, Northern yellow WARBLER, Hairy WOODPECKER, Cabanis’s WREN, Rufous-backed WREN, White-breasted wood-WREN.

Saturday 2nd May (Day 23)

Intrepid are a ‘responsible company’ and Freddy is one of their eco-warriors. At the Welcome Meeting he taught us the Spanish for ‘no polypropylene please,’ as if the person serving coffee in a petrol station is going to know the difference. In countries where the recycling policy is to allow kids to pick over huge open-air rubbish tips, requesting no straw with your cocktail is much less effective than not pissing in the sea.

That’s it for Honduras – shame. We’re back in Guatemala for a short cut, the queue at the border a bit longer this time. Claire is the last of the Pequena Familia to succumb to the Mayan flu, not that’s she’s going to admit that she’s suffering. If you can look beyond the overturned trucks, forest fires and heaps of trash beside the road, the mountains of East Guatemala are sensational.

El Salvador used to have the highest murder rate in the world and now has one of the lowest. ‘How was that possible?’ Freddy asks rhetorically in his primary school manner before explaining. ‘Summary executions,’ he giggles inappropriately. ‘They shot the gang members in the villages. How did they know they were gang members?’ He continues, looking around the bus. Me, miss! Me, miss! I think, an imaginary arm raised. ‘Tattoos. How do they know whether they have tattoos?’ They take their shirts off, Sherlock.

The reason for this sudden change is the country’s benevolent dictator Nayib Bukele who’s a good-looking dude that rocks a sash. He’s also responsible for the world’s largest prison which Trump is currently leasing part of. The remnants of the gangs just moved to Guatemala.

Eastern Guatemala and Honduras didn’t seem very different except that Honduran men wear hats, but El Salvador does seem dissimilar almost immediately. The roads are better, there’s less rubbish beside them and, as we climb into the dazzling mountains, there’s even crash barriers.

Our destination is Suchitito, once the capital maybe. After complaining that our room has no windows, as was the case with the last one in Antigua, we’re given two separate ones where I can chill my gonads down to whatever temperature I choose without anyone else moaning. There’s a nice pool, a bar and restaurant and, for the first time this trip, no loud music or cacophony of mopeds, tuk-tuks, tractors and drilling. The birds are also quiet, perhaps because they’re gang members and Bukele had them shot.

We mosey down to the main square where there’s an impressive colonial church and a throng of quiet, well-behaved families. Then a short walk to a restaurant which has a dramatic view of the lake below.

There’s an inclusive pupusas workshop at 6pm. The room is too hot and we’re given a 30- minute lecture on the history of the Mayans by the guy who owns the restaurant, stuff we’ve heard before from our better-qualified guides. I have my phone under the table, trying to find whether they have Deliveroo here. It occurs to me that I’m on holiday and shouldn’t have to listen to this. Claire feels the same but the Quakers are too polite.

Outside in the square there are some dancing horses and some respectful quiet Latin karaoke, not Adele’s Greatest Hits like we had in the petrol station earlier. So far, this place feels the most like I imagined Central America to be. You can imagine William Walker and his ragtag mercenaries filibustering into the centre of town at any moment.

Finally, we get to make pupusas, but the dough is pre-made and all we’re doing is filling and shaping them. A lady cooks them for us. A snifter of chaparro, a corn-based spirit previously recommended by Juan, is offered, as is a shot of hot chocolate and a nut drink. I drink two of everything, including beer. Claire declares the pupusas she’s made the worst ever and sits outside until I take her back to the hotel. She goes to bed at eight, about fifteen minutes before the Quakers. The whole town is asleep by nine, because it’s late-night party Saturday.

There’s distant thunder and lightning because the rains are coming.

Sunday 3rd May (Day 24)

Most of the Quakers are up by 6am for a morning of rigorous activity involving a forest walk to locate hidden FMLN bunkers, but we’re not, my excuse being Claire’s malady, although she’s fine now. Apparently the walk was great, particularly the 20 minute explanations of the war every 200m, but if you know me then you’ll appreciate I’d have got lost in the jungle through boredom.

Actually, I was up at 5:30 to record birds and avoid squirrel-agitated death by mango and went back to bed when the tranquility was broken by the sound of crashing church bells.

We saunter the short distance into town about ten, through the busy little market which is neatly divided into the tortilla-making avenue, the clothes avenue, then vegetables, spices and meat. There’s no ice or refrigeration, just a constant waving of fans to ward off flies. The guide book says Suchitito is a tourist town but, apart from a few day-trippers from San Salvador, it really is not.

During a coffee above the beautiful Lake Suchitlan I read on Wikipedia, that it’s artificial, a result of a far-away dam, and the most polluted body of water in Central America with very high levels of heavy metals, banned insecticides, toxic algae, cyanide and 4,000 metric tonnes of fecal matter flowing through it every month. We will not be eating fish tonight.

Here they take muzak to new levels with softly-spoken female singers channelling gentle versions of Phil Collins, Culture Club and other scmultz. Sometimes it’s better than the original. I get US dollars from a cash machine on the third attempt, they don’t have chaparro, the national drink of El Salvador, in an extensive liquor store, and the cigarettes I buy are a packet of 10 purple-tipped menthols. It’s too hot. Back in the air-conditioned hotel room I watch the Scooby-Doo movie dubbed into Spanish. That’s my day.

At 3:30 we’re supposed to be watching shit-eating birds on a lake cruise but it’s cancelled last minute due to adverse weather/risk of death.

As I wait for Claire and the deluge, I read up on President Bukkake again and, apparently, El Salvador’s new self-reported murder rates exclude mass graves, missing persons, permitted executions and deaths in police custody. On a positive note, vets for pets are free, and he rocks that sash!

A church choir below begins a melodious dirge and I feel like I’m in the Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

The Casa Clementina art gallery, a women’s cooperative, is essentially a gift shop, but in front of this is a cafe with the best view and strongest, properly made margaritas in town, well worth the $8 which is twice the price elsewhere. The bird life is magnificent, there are volcanoes around the lake, next door a guy is playing a soft trombone and, as the place closes at seven, I’m so glad we came here rather than sewer-surfing the lake, which could have gone ahead as the water is as flat as a pancake and the sky clearing. Plus, we saved $80 on the boat trip and as far as I’m concerned that goes towards cocktails and food that Claire actually wants to eat - avocados and beetroot, cheese and chips. It’s the most stunning sewer in the world.

Back in the square there’s some sleeping dogs and mild salsa dancing that Claire decides she wants to partake in, so she partners some random guy. He looks at me nervously and his wife passes him a beer to remind him she’s still there. A scandal has been averted.

Monday 4th May (Day 25)

Despite the dancing, I don’t think I’ve ever known anywhere as dead as Suchitito at 8:30 on a Sunday night. Maybe Camborne.

Chance for a lie in, not that anyone needs it, off at 9:45. Five minutes later we’re at an indigo dyeing demonstration which you’ll have to ask Claire about as I was outside with the locals smoking a cigarette.

It’s a three hour drive to our next destination, most of which is spent negotiating the suburbs of San Salvador which are unremarkable, the traffic’s not as bad as Guatemala City but still slow. There’s a volcano above, I think. El Salvador is supposed to have 32 of them, but this is the only one I’ve seen. It’s overcast.

Most of the country appears to be on a plateau and it’s a steady descent to the Pacific Coast. We stop at a huge spotless retail park called Surf City, which is what everything is called around here, where Freddy advises us to buy breakfast for our early start tomorrow as there’s very little where we’re going, advice which turns out to be untrue. So, we buy bread, cheese, ham and mayo to put into our fridge which is the air conditioning.

The retail park is full of big US chain stores and spotless as people are constantly mopping. We get told off by a security guard for smoking. The whole of this part of the coast is a construction site as they attempt to join a network of villages to build a soulless mega-urban space, also under the moniker of Surf City, an imitation of Los Angeles.

10 minutes later we’re in El Tunco, or El Runcorn as spellcheck calls it, a gated tourist village where every other shop is a mini-mart. The air-conditioned minibus hides the fact that it’s 34c this side of the mountains, 70% humidity, feels like 42. Not a problem until we have to drag our suitcases up a hill past bizarre sculptures and buildings, as if the hotel was designed in a primary school architecture competition.

The village is a surfer dude hangout but looking at the waves, it doesn’t seem that good, maybe because there’s little wind at the moment. Nor is it good for swimmers because of the rocks. The sand is blackish. It’s okay, but not much better than Newquay.

The bars and restaurants are missing a trick by not having aircon or fans. So, we buy some beers and eat our sandwiches outside our room in the sculpture park, the Vigeslandparken it is not.

Nightcap margaritas at a tiki bar. This is not how I imagined El Salvador to be.

Tuesday 5th May (Day 26)

The barman at the tiki bar tells me you can only buy chaparro from stills by the roadside, so I give up my quest. He also tells us he used to be Thomas Keller’s sommelier, so I’m not sure I believe him. He certainly doesn’t know how to make a margarita.

Up at 3am, the minibus departs at 3:55, jeez. At dawn there are some impressive volcanoes to the north, but it’s hazy. The road is a real bone shaker. After a couple of our usual cigarette stops at petrol stations we’re at the town of La Union at 8:50. It’s a bustling little place with a market selling unrefrigerated fish.

They take our passports and hand us a form which requires passport number, address we’re going to, contact numbers of next of kin etc… information we don’t have to hand. Then, instead of the usual individual photo and fingerprinting there’s a group photo and stamped passports are returned. All this is necessary, we’re told, because the place we’re going doesn’t have these kinds of facilities.

We drag our cases 150 metres to the ‘port.’ It’s a pier with lots of men hanging around for no apparent reason, who look at us with amusement as if they’ve never seen tourists before. The 'ferry' is tiny - there’s only enough room for the thirteen of us plus suitcases, which they pass down the slippery stairs. It’s a converted old fishing boat with an unconvincing tarpaulin.

The water is as flat as a pancake, which is just as well as a slight wave from a speedboat would likely capsize us. It’s a 90-minute trip past volcanic islands. There should be many migrating seabirds this time of year, but all we can hear is the sound of the engine, which is soporific. Freddy tells us we’re nearly there.

Where? It’s a deserted black beach. There’s a dilapidated jetty two metres above the waterline, but we’re not going to land there. The boat comes into shore as far as it can, drops anchor, and we’re told to climb off the back of the boat into one foot of water. It’s like a scene from Pirates of the Caribbean.

Eventually, a man appears from the jungle and he, the Captain and a guy called Alex unload our suitcases. Freddy takes our passports and goes somewhere. Another man appears who wants to inspect our cases on a wooden table. David goes first, then me, but it’s a cursory search and he doesn’t even find my contraband binoculars. He feels guilty about asking Claire to lift her heavy suitcase onto the table, can’t be bothered to do it himself, so everyone else only has to open their cases on the ground a bit, to prove they’re not carrying live animals, dead humans or Kalashnikovs, to pass the test.

It’s the strangest international border I’ve ever encountered.

I should mention that we had to send photocopies of our passports to the Nicaraguan authorities months ago because they RIGHTFULLY need to maintain the integrity of their revolution by refusing entry to agitating scum such as journalists, political activists, aid workers and clergy. They have the MOST-FREE state-controlled media in the world and the thousands of people they employ to check the social media of inhabitants and visitors alike are HEROES of the social revolution. They’ve even DEFEATED CRIME, by offering the criminals jobs in the government.

Freddy was paranoid about the fact that we had binoculars, but they’re only for bird spotting and don’t even have night vision. Anyway, they didn’t find them.

A minibus arrives and, despite being the biggest so far, has a huge trailer for the luggage. Still stranded on a black beach in the middle of nowhere, the driver won’t let us board until he’s unloaded a trestle table, put a tablecloth on it, and then 13 teeny bottles of water and 13 face towels, each with an ice cube on them. Not even a shot of rum. Freddy arrives ecstatic that we’ve been allowed back into his country, because he wasn’t on two of the last five Intrepid trips.

I may have said that El Salvador was different from Guatemala and Honduras, but on reflection it’s not so much. Nicaragua is far more distinct. It’s flat where we are right now, very agricultural, lots of cows, tobacco, peanut and sugar cane plantations, prawn farms, horses roaming free and vultures. The houses have palm leaf thatch and roads are empty and of a reasonable standard. The petrol station shop’s barren except for an extensive selection of rum, including a clear liquid variety in plastic bottles that’s easily confused with water.

I fall asleep and awake in the suburbs of a busy city (Chinandega) where there’s a promise of a buffet lunch. It’s more like school dinners - have a portion of whatever you like, so long as it comes with a big ladle each of rice and kidney beans. Horns are beeping and there’s a mobile disco playing Boney M and Jive Bunny. They’ve outlawed mopeds and tuk-tuks like El Salvador and replaced them with bicycle rickshaws.

We reach Leon. The hotel’s nice and, for the first time in Central America, they’re reasonable about allowing people to smoke in open-air spaces. They have hot water boiling so we have our first tea for over three weeks!

A guy presents options for overpriced day trips tomorrow, but Claire and I decide not to surf down a volcano. Freddy begins his orientation tour and I’m not going to describe Leon yet as we have a full day here tomorrow, but it’s busy and polluted in places and the number of homeless people is upsetting and concerning. It’s also ridiculously hot and humid.

After the Quakers have gone to bed about 8pm we find a large bar with snacks called Via Via, which is part of a chain, kind of like the Nicaraguan Wetherspoon’s. The margaritas cost £2.50 and are awesome, and you can smoke! And a half bottle of seven-year-old Flor de Cana in the supermarket, which is one of the nicest ron’s I’ve tasted for ages, is less than a fiver.

Long day, but so far, I’m loving Nicaragua. Here’s to you O BENEVOLENT democratic President for Life Daniel Ortega!

Wednesday 6th May (Day 27)

While John, Pam and the fearless Yan are surfing down a volcano, we’re having a relaxing day in Leon.

The market is busy, sweaty and the aisles are narrow. They have some interesting looking meat which may be a type of blood sausage, but I’m not allowed to linger in this quarter. There’s a stall that piles hot sauce to the ceiling.

The cathedral is the biggest in Central America, built in the late 18th century. It’s imposing from the outside, but inside it’s a bit barren. The religious icons are a slight step up from the life-size statues from Chigley they have in other churches in the region.

We’re told you can walk up to the roof. This becomes an escape-room riddle. We finally locate a dungeon on the outward exterior at the back where a woman, when she finally gets off her mobile, sells us tickets through an iron cage for $4 each. She says the entrance is on the corner to the right, which it isn’t. We ask several locals who point in different directions, enter a forbidden part of the cathedral where a cleaning lady shoos us out, until we finally find a very narrow staircase in an alcove to the front left. 100 steps later and we’re on the roof which is really not that impressive. Nor is the view.

The Museo de la Revolucion is opposite and costs £2 each. The ticket seller abandons his post to march us up three flights of stairs to the roof, because he assumes we have no interest in the museum and just want the view. The view is much better than on top of the cathedral, because the cathedral is in it. And he’s right about the museum, which looks as if the Sandinista-Contras war is still waging. There are two rooms of photographs with explanations in Spanish, and a couple of murals. Still, I do learn that the Sandinistas were named after somebody called Augusto Sandino from an English-speaking guide who follows us around the entire building hoping for a tip.

It’s so hot and humid I have to go back to the hotel for a lunchtime shower. Then we hit the Ortiz Gurdian Foundation Art Centre, Ortiz being a rich banker who collects art, his Foundation’s profits going towards helping Nicaraguan women getting treatment for cancer and not being drug money laundering in any way. The collection is housed over three non-contiguous buildings, all covered by the bargain $4 ticket, but sufficiently disparate to confuse. The first site houses the works of modern Latin-American artists, the second faux pre-Columbian as most of it seems to be replicas made last year and the third, the biggest and best, European and Nicaraguan artists.

It’s slightly disconcerting being watched eagle-eyed by museum attendants with guns, but this does mean you follow their suggested route for the maximum visitor experience. There’s some renaissance and early gothic stuff, Annie getting very excited when we meet her later as she’s googled and found that ‘school’ of Rembrandt and Reubens means these great artists actually painted them. There are some ubiquitous Warhols and Basquiats, some Henry Moore paintings and Picasso etchings, but I was most taken by the Nicaraguan artists. Best thing though is the delightful layout amidst Spanish colonial-era courtyards and gardens.

Such heat and humidity (feels like 44c) demands early refreshment and we bump into ‘two-beer’ Peter in El Sesteo, a historic bar on the square, in fact the only bar on the square. Actually, we bumped into him at breakfast where he was also having two beers, so respect to him and his wife Annie, who’s a demon for the pina coladas. They’re from the back of Bourke. Gradually, the other Anzacs’ antennas are drawn to this bar and the first semblance of a social gathering is created amongst the Quakers. We go to settle the bill but they’ve put all our beers on Peter’s tabs, as well as Ann’s who left and forgot to pay.

Margaritas beckon at Via Via and I’m forced to ingest a rather poor Caesar salad. A Latino rock band is setting up for a birthday event in the name of Carina. They only play one number, could have been the sound check. So, we’re back in the hotel at 9pm, the last of the Quakers to make it home.

Today, three different establishments denied me their internet password claiming they didn’t have wi-fi, which I know to be a lie. I wonder if it’s anything to do with last night’s post. My picture may be circulating.

Thursday 7th May (Day 28)

After a fine breakfast that involves rice and beans, eggs, deep-fried cheese, plantain and salsa, we’re away at a very reasonable 10am. The road is good, I’m asleep and our first stop is a viewpoint above Lake Managua which is hot and hazy and you can’t see Managua.

Then up into the hills to a small town called Catarina where bullet holes in the buildings surrounding the square commemorate the civil war. We stop at a stall to taste weird fruit, then up a hill lined with artisanal shops, which are just tourist shops, to the viewpoint above Laguna de Apoyo, a crater lake.

It’s nice but we’re not blown away. The sides of the volcano aren’t that high and it looks just like a lake. There’s a collection of shabby cafes and restaurants that you just know are going to be expensive and not good, and gangs of depressed itinerant musicians maraud around with their guitars and electric marimbas, desperate to play you something. Instead, we have good cheap pupusas down the hill opposite the Chinese supermarket.

Then a short drive to Granada, the oldest city in the New World. Immediately, it reminds me of Sevilla with its grand colonial buildings and horse-drawn carriages around the square. It was destroyed by the American filibuster and adventurer William Walker in 1856 who united the rest of Central America in their opposition to US imperialism, a history I happen to be reading.

Freddy’s orientation tour consists of the main square and the Calle La Calzada, a pedestrianised street leading almost a kilometre to Lake Nicaragua, the 20th biggest in the world. It’s full of bars and restaurants and we’re attacked by guys bearing menus as we reach the first of these. Freddy takes us to a pizza restaurant for a drink, but as soon as we sit down, having detected Aussie accents, we’re subjected to a Stars on 45 version of ‘Land Down Under’ at top volume. Claire and I escape to a posh job that plays Mozart, then to a deserted bar surrounded by hogs’ heads that has no tequila, then another deserted bar with flickering lights and a wall full covered in lizards, which has the ability to make a margarita.

We return to the pizza place as it has a proper oven albeit terrible pizza, and encounter seven-beer Peter and four pina colada Annie who are playing bingo. Every time the number 69 comes up, everyone gets a free shot which tastes like weak cough syrup. There's a pub quiz on animals which we're no help with. A dog rips a plastic chicken to pieces.

We have it on good authority that the night manager at the hotel is called Kevin. The bars on the way back are incredibly loud. That might be acceptable if they were buzzing, but they’re all empty and, the reason they’re empty is because they’re too fucken’ loud.

Friday 8th May (Day 29)

At 8am we’re marched to our inclusive breakfast at a cafe run by people with hearing loss. You point to what you want on the menu, then there’s an inspiring lecture from the founder, you eat the breakfast and then you sign your name. It’s not nearly as bad as it sounds. The staff remember who ordered what by the nicknames they give you. I’m ‘jowls,’ which is slightly hurtful.

At 10:30 we’re picked up by Liam who I knew as a kid in Guildford, who I haven’t seen for about for 50 years. He was working in tech in San Jose in California and getting fed up with it, was persuaded to come on a wellness retreat in Granada and fell in love with the place. I can’t remember how he came to own a hotel.

We’re driven to a marina on the shores of Lake Nicaragua – the nice, sheltered side of the peninsula – a boatman is summoned and 15-minutes later we’re one of Las Isletas de Granada. It’s a small island, about the size of two tennis courts maybe, but large enough to contain a spacious two-storey house with a surrounding garden. Other small islands with properties surround it. It’s a beautiful day and the whole place is stunning, parrots and parakeets in the trees, fish in the lake.

 

It belongs to a rich US couple he knows. After the 2018 uprising the owners were no longer permitted to return to Nicaragua so they asked Liam to rent it out as holiday accommodation. That didn’t work out because there are only two bedrooms upstairs, people don’t like to share with strangers and most tourists found the rental price of the whole property prohibitive, because even though the house is powered by solar with its own water recycling system, all food and drink, chefs, cleaners etc… need to be transported by water-taxi. Plus, even though there was no lockdown in Nicaragua, the visitors stopped coming during the pandemic. Now Liam’s trying to sell it for them.

The boatman, I forget his name, makes us coffee and we sit outside talking about our lives and all the time I’m hoping that the Quakers, who are on an expensive day trip, pass by on their crowded tour boat.

Then we drive to a small village called Valle la Laguna where Liam has a restaurant called El Guayacan. It was a hotel but there weren’t enough rooms to make it profitable, so now it specialises in wedding receptions and coming-of-age parties. It has a brand-new kitchen, stunning views of Laguna de Apoyo (much better than in Catarina) and a parking problem which Liam’s labourers are trying to sort out. Girls in bikinis pose with the view for Instagram, not the kind of clientele he is hoping to attract. We eat a fine lunch on the lawn.

Then it’s back to Granada and his main, original hotel, La Polvara, which is close to an old fort of the same name. It’s the low season now so he’s embarked on yet another wave of expansion/construction, but you can see how beautiful the 4-star property is, much better than where we’re staying. Liam can’t stop building and renovating – he’s got several projects on the go, all of which are being executed with exquisite taste. I get the impression this is becoming too much for him. Even though he’s a couple of years younger than me, physically fit, doesn’t smoke and drinks moderately, last year he had to go to Managua for a heart operation.

The uprising and pandemic were problematic and he’s struggled to keep people employed, hence the need for all the new projects, although attracting investment has been an issue. The government’s paranoia means he has to attend a meeting in Managua every quarter to get his licences renewed. The officials are good friends now. He doesn’t despise the Ortega regime and points out their achievements – good roads, high literacy rates and free healthcare for all.

He also can’t stop himself rescuing lost causes – be these dogs or humans. He’s more concerned about the welfare of his workers than himself or his own solvency. He adopted a girl at the age of three who was abused by her alcoholic mother and, a few years later, adopted her younger brother. They’re 13 and 10 now, reunited with their mother who Liam helped to quit the booze and prostitution, employing her now as one of the hotel’s cooks.

We had a wonderful six hours, he’s a lovely guy and I wish him all the best.

We walk back through the pastel-coloured back streets. They love their pavement tiles here, they also love mopping, so it’s like walking on ice. We go for the most expensive margarita in town at the Garden Cafe to escape the random firecrackers, because it’s the most peaceful in town. Unfortunately, a fire truck is clearing the drains, which is what happens when you put paper down the toilet, folks. It irritates me that they add 15% tax on top of the given price, and then a further 10% service charge. This also happened buying cigarettes at Via Via.

Nicaraguans don’t understand why some people don’t like noise. We eat at a popular but relatively quiet steakhouse which is not cheap and where Claire derides her prawn cocktail. But whatever, I urge you to come to Granada, I’ve loved our time here in Nicaragua.

Saturday 9th May (Day 30)

Having a cigarette outside the hotel at 7am and this old guy on a bicycle stops, dismounts and stands with his face six inches from mine, grinning. Do I know you? I enquire. No, he just wants to bum a cigarette, his teeth confirming his habit. He claims to be a Dutch architect who advises Granada on all its major projects but gives himself away by admitting he’s living on a state pension of €2,500 a month, which goes a long way here. Sell everything! He implores. Sell your house, your possessions, your pets, your kids, come live in Nicaragua!

The road south is good and fast until you get stuck behind a horse and cart. We get to the border at half ten and Freddy hands out dollar bills, one of which is a tip for the lady on the door of the Nicaraguan departure lounge, which has a huge queue and terrible air conditioning. There are only three officials working the room and one detains a guy with a ginger beard for over 20 minutes. The nuns get a similar work over. It takes 90 minutes to have our pictures and fingerprints captured and tip the person with the stamp three more dollars, and remember this is exiting a country, not entering it. Freddy’s still paranoid about the binoculars in our luggage and the Nicaraguans want to scan them, but luckily the operator is playing candy crush on her phone.

Then there’s a walk of 1km in the searing heat to the Costa Rican side where immediately you feel the difference in prosperity levels with a big nicely air-conditioned hall and no queues. There’s a 10 km stationary line of trucks going the other way, some of which have hammocks attached to the underbellies of the trailers.

Our first experience of Costa Rica comes a couple of hours later in a grubby retail park in a place called Liberia. There are the usual McDonalds, KFC, Starbucks, Subway options and a local supermarket. Hang on, these prices are like… are like Switzerland.

The supermarket has a cafeteria where nobody looks happy and a pastry section, where I grab a relatively inexpensive sausage roll and empanada which are devoid of filling and otherwise foul. My ice lolly disintegrates in the severe heat and is pounced upon by a grackle.

Eventually, after boring ourselves with endless views of perfectly-shaped volcanoes, we’re driven uphill on a steep, bad never-ending road with sheer drops on either side. It just keeps going up, up, up, further into the dark cloud, which is just as well as our destination is a bio diverse cloud forest. We’re reassured by the lack of burnt-out buses in the ravines below.

The views on both sides of the ridge are just stunning, but every time I try to take a pic we turn a corner or I’m obstructed by foliage. How can I illustrate it? Hopefully without sounding like too much of a twat I would describe it as a blend of the Zagori, Sri Lankan Hill Country, Ngong Hills and Eastern Zagros.

They haven’t built a road to the hotel yet. The room’s okay but sadly no view and it needs dooming. The orientation walk is at six as it’s getting dark. It feels cold even though it’s 23c because of a squally wind and we’re marched down a steep hill to a small town which isn’t even the promised Monteverde but the next one along, Santa Elena. The prices in the bars are astonishing and everyone sounds like they’re from California. More reasonable is the sports bar where the locals eat and drink, but they’ve no idea how to make a margarita, which is when we realise that we need to switch to local cocktails. During our meal at a Cosrican chain restaurant I cut my lip on an onion ring.

But there’s a fridge in our room for once, and supermarket beer (Imperial), and you can smoke outside the back of the hotel, although this is no fun in a cold gale and you might be stubbing out a butt on an endangered ant.

I only have a pic of some hills from a bus, so here’s some lava that other Quakers saw in Nicaragua.

Sunday 10th May (Day 31)

In a country where the GDP per capita is the same as, I dunno - Belgium, you’d be hard pressed to find a women’s co-operative that needs supporting, especially in their most expensive town, so well done Intrepid. We’re whisked there at 7:45 to eat an inclusive breakfast version of Costa Lotta’s national dish, which unsurprisingly is rice, beans and plantain, plus a tamarind juice, which I had to order because Yan has never tried it before. Experiencing the hills on the way by minibus we make the snap decision to stay in Monteverde rather than going back to the hotel, and then walking to Monteverde and back.

It’s how I imagine Northern California to be. A spotless green with a large tree full of birds, a farm-to-table coffee shop next to a whole food shop with artisan cheese. Perfect blonde mothers pick up their perfect blonde children from music lessons, joggers pass by, not a cigarette in sight. It’s a pleasant 25c in the morning but feels cooler due to lack of humidity. Not a cloud in the cloud forest. Ironically, the town was founded by Alabama Quakers.

We’re at the entrance to the waterfall at 9am. A woman eventually turns up to unlock the gate, fails to understand Claire’s Castilian Spanish and speaks perfect English instead, like everyone else here. She warns us there will be hanging bridges. Claire has vertigo so we quiz her on the height and length of the biggest bridge which she believes to be the height of a house above the river and 400m long. We later conclude she’s never been down to the waterfall.

It’s about half a k down very steep steps and the bridges, while maintaining their Indiana Jones credibility with gaps between the wooden boards, are barely two metres above the stream and about 20m wide. The waterfall is only 15m high but the whole walk is very beautiful and we’re the only ones there. I see my second and third coatis (diurnal mammals if that helps) of the day, having seen one at 5:30 after rising early for a disappointing bird listening jint.

We can’t be bothered to wait two hours for a guided tour of Bat Jungle so walk a couple of k to Butterfly World where we learn fascinating facts about tarantulas, scorpions and stick insects from an enthusiastic American girl called Martin. There are only four enclosures, divided by climate, but the butterflies are gorgeous. When one or two inevitably escape we’re told not to worry as they only live about a week anyway.

Lots of walking up and down hills, did 15,000 steps today, back to the hotel for a shower and change of clothes, then a beer probably. At 5:45 pm we’re picked up for our night walk. Everyone’s very excited as we creep into the jungle with our torches, but I soon notice that it’s all a bit safe. There are well trodden paths, steps and even signs for the fire exit, and you can hear distant traffic. The guide Pepe finds minuscule scorpions, inactive tarantulas and a few sleeping birds, but I can’t help thinking: why have we paid $45 each to not see sloths when I could have paid $25 to not see sloths with another operator? There are only three other tours that night because it’s low season, but we keep bumping into one another like the Judean People's Front in Pontius Pilate’s palace. Nor is Pepe the best spotter - I was the one who had to point out the sleeping trogon, the hunting black tarantula that almost walked over my shoe, and the beetle with the red headlights.

At the end of two tedious and tiring hours Pepe admits none of the guides have seen a sloth for a fortnight, but the Quakers are all happy as it’s more than they saw in their $55 tour this morning.

I spend £28 on a pizza we’re both too tired to eat.

New birdz since last time. A bit disappointing from El Salvador and Nicaragua but Costa Rica is delivering so far.

Three-wattled BELLBIRD, Common squirrel CUCKOO, Lesser ground CUCKOO, Collared DOVE,
Yellow-crowned EUPHONIA, Yellow-faced GRASSQUIT, Lesser GREENLET, Cinnamon HUMMINGBIRD, Rufous-tailed HUMMINGBIRD, Brown JAY, Grey-breasted MARTIN, Crimson-fronted PARAKEET, Orange-chinned PARAKEET, Orange-fronted PARAKEET, Northern Tropical PEEWEE, SANDERLING, Buff-throated SALTATOR, White-collared SWIFT, Orange-billed nightingale THRUSH, Northern emerald TOUCANET, Streak-headed WOODCREEPER,
Hoffmann’s WOODPECKER.

Monday 11th May (Day 32)

It’s six am and I’m watching the Nicaraguans scurry around, because there are half a million of them here, doing the dirty work for thrice the pay they get back home, although the cost of living must be x 10.

At 7 am were driven to the entrance of the Monteverde Cloud Forest Biological Preserve, which is a National Park and not an organic jam. There are time slots, ours being 7:45, and by then there are already queues down the clean, safe, well-ordered paths. Claire takes her pizza along for the walk.

It’s undeniably beautiful, especially the strangulating ficus trees, but our guide Alan struggles to show us anything we haven’t seen already or tell us anything we haven’t heard yet. The wildlife has sensibly gone elsewhere and the highlight is hearing the call of a resplendent quetzal which, unfortunately, we’re unable to see. Everyone’s a bit disappointed.

Except me, because my Merlin app has collected 31 new species of Pokémon! I mean, birdz. This annoys Alan intensely as I’m able to identify bird calls in advance and occasionally correct him, leading to wrongful accusations about the accuracy and integrity of the app. The hummingbird café delivers what it claims to produce.

Back at the hotel by 11, we’ve already checked out and we’re told we’re not leaving until 2 pm. There’s no public space in Costa Rica so we eat our leftover pizza in a private car park on a plank next to the kid taking the money. He doesn’t care. I wonder what drink could possibly last 90 minutes in a bar with wi-fi and the answer is a pineapple-coconut smoothie.

Off again, mainly the way we came, baños stop at a place that makes an effort with its own (free) butterfly farm, then it’s off road into the verdant green hills. They’re undulating and stunning. The road becomes an unsurfaced track and we bump along, which gives Freddy the chance to stop when he likes to point out roadside birds.

You might think I’m a bit down on Costa Lotta, but this isn’t really the case. It just doesn’t look or feel like Central America. Maybe there’s a touch of jealousy - all this prosperity, this focus on biodiversity and green living - comes directly as a result of disbanding their army after WWII. They sensibly reasoned that maintaining one would only lead to coups and civil war, they kept the US on side by allowing the UFC to source their bananas and pineapples, and they rejected communist overtures so as to not be invaded by the CIA. The country has the highest minimum wage in Latin America, it has plentiful investment because of its stability and talented people, and tourists flock here. Okay, so it relies on foreign labour to make the Costa Ricans the elite class, but isn’t that always the way?

We stop beside a little pier on Lake Arenal, which is actually a reservoir. It doesn’t look promising but a boat soon arrives to swap modes of transport. Nobody in the little village of La Fortuna knew Mt Arenal was a volcano until it exploded in 1968. The eruption created a network of hot springs around and then they decided to dam the rivers for hydro power, swallowing up the village which had to move east, to the other side of Arenal. It’s a scenic 45 minutes in the boat, the surrounding shoreline virgin jungle like that in Apocalypse Now. It starts to rain.

Another minibus is waiting for us. La Fortuna is now a huge sparsely-populated spread of a town, starting at least 14km from its centre. There’s a souvenir hypermarché on its outskirts, called something like ‘World of Souvenirs’. The driver William spots something high in the tree and we stop. It looks like someone’s kicked a football into the trees, or it’s a coconut, but apparently it’s a sloth. Does anyone want to come out and see? No, because it’s pissing down.

This doesn’t deter William who stops five minutes later and rushes to a tree. Gradually, the rain having abated, the rest of us saunter out. I wonder if this is an elaborate con, some young men rummaging through our hand luggage as we watch William move position, but there’s a sloth which several of the Quakers acknowledge with a shrug. Claire and I can’t see a thing. Other cars stop and join the sloth hunt.

So keen is William to spot his third sloth that he inadvertently drives slightly off the road and breaks the minibuses’ axle. A replacement bus is summoned. A car pulls up: ‘what have you found?’ ‘We’re just changing buses,’ I say, ‘No sloths here.’ He doesn’t believe me.

The hotel is nice except you’re not allowed to smoke within a mile of it and copulation in the swimming pool is forbidden. The town is very touristy, a base for zip-lining, paddle boarding, hot spring caving, volcano water-skiing and other stupid activities, but there are interesting bars and restaurants from around the world, which are mainly empty because the rains are coming. After a Peruvian cocktail we go to a vegan place, which I need after all that pizza, but the kitchen closes at 8 because of course it bloody well does. So, I eat a deep-fried not very fresh whole tilapia instead.

These birdz are new species just from today!

Chestnut-capped BRUSHFINCH, Crested CARACARA, Grey-headed CHACHALACA,
Common CHLOROSPINGUS, Yellow-billed CUCKOO, Mountain ELAENIA, Tufted FLYCATCHER,
Yellowish FLYCATCHER, Ochre-crowned GREENLET, Green HERMIT, White-tailed KITE, Resplendent QUETZAL, Black-headed NIGHTINGALE-THRUSH, Ruddy-capped NIGHTINGALE-THRUSH, Slaty-backed NIGHTINGALE-THRUSH, Slate-throated REDSTART, Violet SABREWING,
Green SHRIKE-VIREO, Black SKIMMER, Black-faced SOLITAIRE, Blue-and-white SWALLOW,
Crimson-collared TANAGER, White-throated THRUSH, Wood THRUSH, Collared TROGON,
Mistletoe TYRANNULET, Yellow-green VIRIO, Turkey VULTURE, Golden-crowned WARBLER,
Western WOOD-PEWEE, Grey-breasted WOOD-WREN, Ochraceous WREN.

Tuesday 12th May (Day 33)

Claire’s having a coffee next door when I come down at 7:30. She steps into the road for a cigarette. I pay for our coffees - 6,200 colons! That’s over £10 and they were on the menu at 2,000 each! I complain to Claire, she says she’s already paid for them. They give me 6,000 back. Stop thieves! Boycott Open Kitchen Costa Rica now!

A ten-minute walk to our third nature tour in this country. It’s a private venture that’s fenced off a bit of the jungle and you can hear traffic from within. They’ve added a few sloths because, being sloths, they don’t stray far, and other sloth walks are available in the area. Expectations are low but, surprise surprise, it’s really good.

We see three sloths, probably the same ones in the reviews, but two are invisible to my eye. The guide has a tripod and powerful lens and invites us to look, but it does remind me of cowboy builders who knock on your door claiming they’re doing work for a neighbour, climb a ladder and return with video footage of someone else’s broken tiles. I don’t doubt the guide when I see the third which is moving slightly. There’s also an arboreal porcupine, a green reptile of sorts, a logodile and a dozen new species of birdz.

 

 

To make the experience up to two hours they have us make a tortilla which is served with some kind of root, cheese and a cinnamon-custard cake, washed down with freshly squeezed sugar cane juice with lime. It’s a nice experience and the food delicious, the opposite of pupusa-gate in El Salvador.

I would have given a gratuity but I hate tipping people richer than me.

I tell you this in detail because we’re having a go-slow day and nothing else really happened. It’s overcast with occasional light rain and very muggy. We walk around La Fortuna and it’s… meh. New, very touristy, uninteresting, empty souvenir shops and restaurants, ridiculously expensive. Low season has begun. The cloud clears momentarily from the top of Arenal while we’re in the car park of a budget supermarket.

Venezuelans on the square. We saw them in Leon too. Poor wretched people and little likelihood that Trump’s forced non-regime change has created any economic benefit for their return. They bugger off before I can give them our change. We go to what should have been a free hiking trail and there’s a lock on the gate. More expensive beers.

Annie’s not feeling well so we take Peter out for a few pisco sours and get him properly fuddled. La Fortuna seems much better through a kaleidoscope.

Wednesday 13th May (Day 34)

It’s drizzling at 8am as I search for an ATM that will at least give me a reason why it won’t give me money. None of the square’s coffee shops are open, but the souvenir emporia are. I return with a postcard starring a toucan and a small outrageously priced sloth soft toy because it’s Claire’s birthday.

We depart at 9:45 for an inclusive brunch at another women’s cooperative where we have to again make our own tortilla. The place is a soda, the Cosrican for local restaurant and the food is great - chicken in a spicy sauce that falls off the bone, corn cakes mixed with onion, chilli and greens then fried, freshly squeezed passion fruit, and the usual stuff. There’s a petting zoo with geep (a cross between goat and sheep), a vegetable garden and birdz. Claire gets to sit at the front of the bus, mix the masa dough and hand out the biscuits. Ann gives her a fan. Claire declares it best birthday ever.

I ask the driver whether he knows the way to San Jose. He does. It’s down a windy road that goes up and down hills, through lush coffee and exotic plant plantations and into the clouds. A few hours later and we’re in the Central Valley. San Jose has a population of just 360,000 but its metro area is about 2 million, about 40% of the country’s. There are traffic jams nowhere near as bad as Guatemala City, San Salvador or London.

Any notion that Costa Rica is an eco-friendly idyllic green paradise is dispelled the moment we begin Freddy’s orientation walk. It’s along a busy one-way four-lane motorway called Avenida Centrida which has huge drive-in fast-food restaurants and homeless Venezuelans. Parakeets and pigeons cover the pavements with guano. I ask Freddy if it’s safe at night and get a resounding ‘no.’ Costa Rica used to be the safest country in Central America, but now the drug gangs have moved in. I’m only slightly reassured that the police only have tasers rather than rapid-firing machine guns like in the other countries.

It’s 2 km to the centre which then turns into a pedestrianised yet horrible shopping area like a dying British high street but busy. There’s no let up from the crowds, there’s no obvious centre, there’s no history, the public buildings are unimpressive, the shops are cheap and nasty and all the time I’m thinking they must have built this place to make Birmingham look good.

When Freddy ends the tour most of the Quakers opt to walk straight back to the hotel. I did think Intrepid was being tight not having accommodation near the centre but no, they knew what they were doing.

Freddy recommends a bar which turns out to be an artisanal coffee emporium so we stumble upon a proper cantina, blocked toilets ‘n’ all, where there’s boxing on TV and pissed guys chugging neat cachaca. For some reason both my beers are frozen, but not Claire’s.

Coming back on Avenida Uno proves more interesting because we’re at the edge of the market and then go through the bus station, but the overriding impression of San Jose, and mutually agreed by the others, is this is a city without redemption. Best thing is that, because of the altitude, it’s not that hot.

At the supermarket I feel the need for rum. Claire needs varnish for a broken fingernail and I buy it for her as a birthday present. It costs £15 and turns out to be lipstick. The woman in front of us at the till buys garlic, onions, pledge and shoe polish and we wish we were going to her party.

The Quakers’ final meal together and Freddy has finally got it together to facilitate a social gathering. He’s booked the hotel restaurant. Cocktails are good and I stump up for a bottle of Chilean sparkling, the first wine I’ve had for over a month because it’s Claire’s birthday. Inevitably, the hotel food is overpriced, from the Costa Rican version of Brake Brothers, and shit. I can’t remember the last time I sent back food, but my medium-rare onglet which cost over £20 is a slab of cold deep-fried wooden minge. They replace it with a decently-cooked one that was obviously reserved for El Presidente. There’s a nice unexpected operatic version of Happy Birthday and a free slice of Black Forest gateau.

It’s goodbye to Pam, John, Yan, David, Sue and Freddy. We’ve been with Pam and John since Playa, so it’s a little emotional

Nine pm, it’s all over. The security guard is a 15-year-old in a shiny suit, currently struggling with a game on his phone. Last cigarette of the night and I’m thinking, this is the perfect place for a drive-by shooting.