Don’t be a Central American Chicken - Take The Bus!

LAST WEEK I went on a jolly up to Lancashire. Despite this being a wonderful part of England, even the Red Rose County has its thorn - it’s a wretched 6 hour drive from my Devon home. So if, like me, you have the driving aptitude of a Norwegian salmon and the reactions of a 3 toed sloth, you do what I do, you go by bus. Being stuck in one seat for several hours with little more to do than vie for central armrest supremacy might sound like purgatory to some, but it does provide endless opportunity to read, to scratch, and, best of all, to daydream. Before we pulled in to Bolton bus station I was thinking back to my recent trip through Central America and, in particular, the Latino equivalent of our Luxury Coach Network - the ever faithful Chicken Bus.

For the benefit of those yet to travel by Chicken bus, allow me to set the scene. These machines start their life as a US school bus and, after the North American shelf life has expired, gain a whole new lease of life south of the border. Possibly the ultimate in recycling, these veteran workhorses - that would have been put out to graze long ago - are now loyal servants to umpteen million Latin Americans. It just goes to show that there’s still life in the old dogs yet.

After arrival in the land of machetes and banana palms the vehicles undergo a complete facelift. Out with the old and in with the new, the well known yellow exterior soon becomes history when the former ugly duckling finally emerges as a chrome fronted, hand painted, religious billboard on wheels. It’s like MTV’s ‘Pimp My Ride’ on LSD laced steroids.

Excessive chrome, pious stickers, and garish paint schemes are definitely the new yellow and black. And that’s just the outside. The interior also undergoes the same radical transformation. Once inside, aesthetics take a back seat among the sacks of rice and beans and functionality now dictates design. Fore and aft spacing between seats remains unchanged, meaning leg space is still barely sufficient for small American children, but on one side the bench seats are replaced with slightly longer versions that now devour half of what used to be the aisle. Although still possible to negotiate this central walkway, now the width of Sellotape, it does pose the odd problem for ungainly westerners wielding 20 Kilos of badly packed rucksack. Having boarded the bus, swift passage must be made to secure an empty seat, as they don’t stay empty for long. Unfortunately, quick manoeuvres plus small spaces equals skinned knees. You may not know this, but customised Chicken Bus seats remove more kneecaps in a single day than the IRA do in a full year. Bulkhead and ceiling spaces at the front of the bus don’t stay empty for long either. Empty space means room for stickers, and Chicken Bus Jockeys simply love these things. In general, stickers consist of religious messages interspersed with Real Madrid and Barcelona FC Logos. God is the Light, Beckham is God, Jesus Loves Me, and I Love Him, too.

As for the rest of the décor, simply throw in two overhead luggage racks to accommodate cardboard boxes containing shopping and the odd armadillo, a TV in a welded cage (usually rendered defunct after the first man-sized pothole), 25 hefty speakers that wouldn’t look out of place at a Steppenwolf concert, and a head-shattering air horn powerful enough to strip tooth enamel, and you have yourself one bad-ass Chicken Bus. But it’s the guys running the show that really impressed me. Not only the fearless driver, but also his mate - the Chicken Bus Jockey. With the tenacity of an Everest Double Glazing salesman and the physical prowess of a world class 400 meter runner fitted as standard, these chaps are a breed apart. I remember one in particular that had a dangerous habit of squeezing his way down the bus to collect fares, he would then exit the back of the bus when it slowed to an easy rumble, sprint back around as it began to gain pace, and then hurl himself back in through the open door at the front. A routine repeated at least twice hourly. Clearly, this must have proved easier than battling back through a packed bus. On one occasion, however, the driver sped off a little too early, leaving his amigo behind in a swirling cloud of dust and black fumes. Looking backward through small gaps in the sea of armpits and crotches I could see this maniac, in full sprint with arms flailing, hopelessly trying to close the ever growing distance between him and the bus. The look of sheer desperation on his face reminded me of that scene at the end of the Roger Moore movie ‘The Wild Geese’ where Richard Harris, while being chased by a lot of rather angry natives, tried in vain to catch up with the plane as it accelerated along the runway. In our case, and in a different and altogether less gory ending, passenger intervention saved the day. One chap eventually piped up to signal the loss, forcing Stan Laurel to reluctantly hit the brakes and pick up a wheezing, and somewhat weary, Señor Hardy.

A Chicken Bus journey will almost guarantee entertainment in some form or another, and anxiety and exhilaration in equal measure. Forget Alton Towers and Disneyland for cheap thrills, these machines offer greater kicks for even less. And, after surviving a five hour trip hosting numerous up close and personals with oncoming traffic, you’ll believe that Jesus must really love you too.

Tourismo El Salvador

For the previous two months Guatemala had been my home. Sitting in a roadside cantina, a mere tortilla toss from the El Salvadoran frontier, there was a decision to be made. Should the Guatemalan adventure continue, or should El Salvador be the next port of call? From my current location I had firm control over my immediate destiny, I was at a cross roads. I don’t mean that metaphorically either, I was actually at a cross roads. Reluctantly abandoning the relative tranquility of the cantina, I headed toward a cluster of chicken busses on the opposite side of the road. Still unaccustomed to the thick, black exhaust fumes and swirling dust clouds, my advance must have appeared rather haphazard. The approach of this slightly bewildered gringo served only to intensify the honking of the air horns and the feverish hollering of the chicken bus jockeys. In his wild attempts to get that fourth bum on a two bum seat, one incredibly enthusiastic jockey stood out from the others. I checked out the garishly decorated windshield to find out his vehicle’s destination - it was heading to the Border. A decision had been made; I was bound for El Salvador.

If ever a nation had an undeserved reputation for danger and hostility it would, in my humble opinion, be El Salvador’s. Maybe I have just been fortuitous thus far, but I find that particular notion difficult to give credence to. I accept that the electrified razor wire atop the perimeter walls, the steel doors and the bars on almost every window aren’t solely erected due to a nation being overly obsessed with home security, but one can only speak as they find. Without exception, the folk I have met have been hospitable, good-natured and ever helpful. The visitor is made to feel a most welcome guest in this wonderful country. Together with the people and places, the smatterings of organized tours on offer are also decidedly enjoyable. Possibly due to the relatively few tourists that El Salvador receives compared to her neighbors, the excursions remain zealous, flexible and, with tourism seemingly in its relative infancy, personal. Constantly evolving, the fluid nature of these tours irrefutably adds to both their charm and excitement, and provides us, the tourismo guinea pigs, with an unforgettable experience.

Our introduction to this phenomenon occurred during our first evening in Tacuba. Shortly after arrival we were tracked down by a local fellow who turned out to be the tourism wheeler dealer for this particular town. If he couldn’t be your guide for a desired activity you could rest assured that he either knew someone who could or he could at least supply you with the necessary equipment to undertake it yourself. Be it visiting nearby villages, horse riding, mountain biking, hiking, canoeing, swimming or whatever your elected pursuit, he was the man.

The following day I was privileged to test drive a new tour that our guide was shaping. This new trip, to a collection of natural hot springs, was all made possible thanks to one of his associates and a few well directed US Dollars. A friend of a friend was currently house-sitting for the wealthy owner of the coffee plantation in which the springs lay. With the owner out of town, we visited the plantation. Before we had even reached our destination you could sense that this was no tried and tested operation; it promised to be a fun day out. Appearing from nowhere at the last moment, the main residence was first brought to our attention when we almost drove into the ornate hot water fountain that fronted it.

We parked up outside a grand building - the Hacienda at the heart of the plantation. Although now in the vicinity of the thermal spring, we felt it prudent to remain in the stationary car for a while longer. Approximately about the same amount of time as it took the two sizeable and extremely ferocious guard dogs to calm down a fraction. They were big, smart and very good at their jobs. It would have come as no surprise if, after brief debate, they had actually left and returned with hydraulic cutters to remove their lunch from the tin.

Fortunately they chose to settle. Our intrepid guide cracked the door open and, growing in confidence, stepped out among the hounds. I half expected the driveway to turn into a scene from a 1970’s bad taste ‘B’ Movie and to see our windows become covered with bloodied smears from a pair of desperate, clawing hands – but mercifully this was not the case. We gathered our belongings and followed his lead.

These so called guard dogs weren’t so bad after all; they now calmly trotted around the turning circle and were generally enjoying the morning sun. Pursing my lips and making that ‘I can talk to animals’ squeaking noise, I addressed the smaller of the two pooches and waited for the reaction. He looked at me with his large, brown eyes and could not suppress a little tail wag. Encouraged by this, I moved closer and repeated the noise that mustered the initial feedback. The response this time was a very deep, unsettling growl and a display of teeth the likes of which I had only previously seen through fenced enclosures. Instantaneously remembering that I had urgent business to attend to in the back of the jeep, I tentatively edged away to an altogether safer distance.

The handcrafted, cascading pools were wonderful. The highest, with a diameter of 10 feet or thereabouts, was the smallest of the six and almost completely obscured by steam.
By the third pool the water had cooled sufficiently to enjoy, thus giving it the feel of the most luxurious hot tub in El Salvador. Climbing out of one bath and easing ourselves into the next, we loosely mimicked the flow of water as it made its way down the series of pools.

As delightful as the pools were, we felt that we should not outstay our welcome. Not that this really could have happened anyway, since we hadn’t been invited in the first place. We made our way to the edge one last time. As if almost sensing our growing sense of unease, our escort reminded us of our busy schedule and pressed for a timely extraction from the thermal bliss. Within half an hour we were dried off, back in the car and heading away from the plantation. The feeling of driving through the gates and back onto the dusty, rugged track was not dissimilar to that of climbing over a fence and out of someone’s orchard. Hastily rolled up in the damp towel, my wet swimming shorts felt like the supermarket carrier bag full of apples. This was no ordinary tourist outing – by the end of this free play excursion I felt emancipated from the shackles typically associated with organized tourism, and also somewhat relieved that we didn’t get shot by security or eaten by dogs.

Shortly before midday we arrived at the second stop on our big day out. Continuing with the geothermal theme, we visited a collection of Geysers on a patch of wasteland located a stones throw behind a huge geothermal plant (that apparently supplies 15% of El Salvador’s electrical power). It didn’t take our man long to put us among the action, effortlessly locating a jet of steam spurting from a vent in the fragile moonlike surface, the surface that we now gingerly traversed.

Having previously purchased an egg and preparedly placed it in a polythene bag, the crazy guy approached the jet and nestled the bag at its base. Don’t try this at home kids. Being no stranger to the Discovery channel, I had a sneaking suspicion that we would be returning to this very spot at the end of the tour to be proudly shown a fully boiled egg – thus proving that the steam was indeed hot. As events unfolded we soon realized that we wouldn’t have to wait long at all to ascertain the temperature of the vapour.
‘Look, you can feel hot steam is, like dis, si?’ he said, thrusting his hand into one of the billowing clouds of steam. Almost instantaneously and with staggering speed he whipped his hand away and tucked it under his armpit, it was as if he had just been stung by something. Instinctively reverting to Spanish, he spat out a word which I have yet to learn. I made a mental note that upon my return to the hostel I would unearth my English-Spanish dictionary and seek out the significance of the word. Confident about finding the meaning upon first attempt, I would begin my search under ‘F’.

Evidently new to this particular tour too, our guide was learning all the time. Rather than being our leader or mentor, he had adopted a role more closely related to that of a mineworker’s caged budgerigar. If there were build ups of noxious gases within the mineshaft, the hapless budgie would take it for the team and inevitably go horizontal. If the budgie bought it, the miner would exit the pit. Similarly, if a jet of superheated steam or boiling water forcefully and unexpectedly erupted ahead of us, then our guide would disappear. If our guide disappeared then we would find his car keys, rescue his baseball cap and head back to the hostel, not forgetting, of course, to briefly marvel at the boiled egg on the way. Two visits down, one more to go.

The final part of our day out would take us to the edge of the national park at dusk. We would witness the daily spectacle of parrots roosting in a 600 year old Ceiba tree. Even before this section began I was already hooked on this new variety of tour. It kicked ass, and it was all thanks to our eager and incredibly likeable guide. Both he, and his home grown adventure that he was good enough to share with us, were up there with the best of them. A wonderful day had been had already and there was still more to come.

Much to our dismay, the final part of the tour passed remarkably without incident. Enjoyable and diverting, but sadly void of mirth. This was rather surprising considering the combination of inquisitive tourists, an incredibly enthusiastic guide and a tree containing at least 2000 excitable parrots. The probability of witnessing a comedy moment was high, almost as high as that of me signing up for the waterfall jumping tour the following day.

Travelling the Lenca Trail

Speak to anyone who has visited Honduras and they will undoubtedly talk of the idyllic Bay Islands lifestyle, or the famous ruins near Copán. I agree that, in terms of tourism, they are indeed the undisputed heavyweight champions, yet there is much more to this diverse Central American nation than sun, sea, and statues.

After a month of exploration in El Salvador, we began to hanker for the relative creature comforts afforded by the Central American Gringo Trail. From the Salvadoran border town of Perquín, we planned to cross into Honduras and head directly to Copán - a distance totaling 160 miles. We would pass through Marcala, Gracias, Santa Rosa de Copán, and La Entrada en route, and arrive at the final destination the following morning – in time for a generous portion of yoghurt and granola, a breakfast option solely available in tourist hotspots.

Our prediction of a one day journey proved to be considerably optimistic. We had chosen the most direct route, but certainly not the quickest. Distracted by Bahia beer and a plate of pupusas (corn tortillas stuffed with beans and cheese), our research was substandard. Sometimes a dog-eared map fails to tell the traveller all they need to know, regardless of how many greasy fingerprints and bean deposits it has on it. This we found out to our cost. Roads were bad and, initially, transport ranged from infrequent to ‘You want to go where?’

Perquín to Marcala. The single artery connecting these two outposts was particularly unforgiving. The ascent into the mountains proved relentless. With a path only just wider than the bus, the numerous switchbacks and sheer drop-offs were a constant concern. The winding, unsealed trail became a showcase for the driver’s proficiency. On occasion we encountered stretches of road partially buried by previous landslides, thus forcing our vehicle to lurch perilously close the outer edge of the trail. Other times the bus would do the opposite, and hug the hillside, where the periphery of the track had simply disintegrated and been consumed effortlessly by the valley below. Despite their potential gravity, the moments that engendered such disquiet quickly passed, becoming insignificant as we traversed further along the rugged highlands of Southern Honduras. The following morning we would take to the Lenca Trail.

Marcala to San Juan. Unofficially named after the indigenous Mayan group that populates the area, the ‘Ruta Lenca’ runs from Marcala to SantaRosa De Copán. With its accessibility and remote feel, this 90 mile journey provides a rewarding experience for visitors short on time, and an inexpensive - yet first class - adventure for energetic shoestringers.

The trail onward from Marcala continued in much the same vein as its inroad. The winding tracks remained a harsh mix of loose gravel and potholes but, through sporadic breaks in the pine forest, we still had the vistas across the verdant hills, mountains and deep valleys.

Throughout the journey we passed several small clusters of dwellings. Houses within each community were virtually identical. Windows were frameless, rectangular openings in the mud block work, and the sagging, clay tiled roofs threatened collapse as our bus rumbled by. Despite the individual structures being makeshift and almost temporary in appearance, their location and well established surroundings betrayed their true age. Each dwelling possessed a plot of land home to banana palms and small vegetable plots and, between the houses, pigs and chickens roamed free.

Along the way the bus would brake and pick up more passengers, some from the small hillside settlements, and others from the roadside – folk would emerge at the last moment, seemingly from nowhere. As each person boarded, I wondered why they were undertaking their journey that day, perhaps to visit friends of family, or to collect the few necessary supplies that their virtually self sufficient lifestyle couldn’t foster. As the new passengers made their way along the bus they exchanged handshakes and friendly nods with those already seated. This practice reoccurred with each new pick up.

A combination of previous recommend and rough morning’s ride determined the next stop. We decided to grab a bed for the night in San Juan, a small pueblo located approximately one third of the way along the Lenca Trail. The driver hit the brakes and hollered “Sawaaaan!Sawa-Sawa-Sawa-Sawan-Sawaaaan!” like a burst from some crazy, comedy machine gun. It sounded vaguely like San Juan so we hastily grabbed our packs and hopped clear of the bus. Chicken bus passengers have to be swift creatures; the drivers are not well known for dawdling at stops. For the average Centro Americano bus driver, bringing his machine to a complete halt would be like checking the road before overtaking – unheard of. Alighting from such buses can be an art. A top tip for potential Central American Shoestringers: Don’t spend time polishing your Spanish, instead learn how to roll like a Royal Marine Commando. You will go far. Literally.

Standing on the roadside, with face screwed up and back turned away from the accelerating bus, we waited for the mass of thick, black exhaust fumes and swirling dust to subside. We then, as has almost become a ritual, bought fizzy drinks and found a shaded curb on which to perch and take stock.

Sitting outside one of the nearby comedors (small Central American eateries), I studied the dusty, litter strewn interchange. Along the roadside groups would huddle in the limited shade afforded by a string of dilapidated shacks. Some folk watched the black, scavenging vultures probing discarded Styrofoam cartons for ersatz carrion, others simply studied the pair of long haired, Pepsi slurping gringos.

There seemed little more here than dust, dirt and despair. Was this really San Juan? We felt we should board the next bus and journey further while the sun was still reasonably high. But we didn’t. I considered the previous recommendation and heeded the large notice that greeted the visitor upon arrival: “Don’t just pass through San Juan. Visit the Tourism Center! – We have enchanted waterfalls, caves, coffee plantations, hiking, pony trekking, swimming, and much more”. Surely they were signs. The second one definitely was a sign.

Despite the elevation, high temperature still prevailed - albeit void of the usual oppressive humidity. The packs felt heavy in the fierce afternoon sun but the plod into town was mercifully brief. In such a small town, and with such friendly people to aid us, we located the Tourist Center effortlessly. Definitely on a roll here, I thought – not only did the office exist, it was also open. Result.

With no hostels, guesthouses, or hotels as such, we were fixed up with a home stay. Gladys, the lady who ran the tourism cooperative, encouraged us lodge with her mother and father. Provided with this uncommon opportunity to stay with a family, we didn’t need much encouragement to accept the kind offer. We were made to feel thoroughly welcome, as if we were extended family.

That evening, her mother proudly demonstrated how she roasted her own coffee; just one of many necessary skills to have when living deep in coffee country. In the markets, the consumer is faced with 3 fundamental options when purchasing these wonderful beans. They can plump for roasted, ground coffee, or roasted, ground coffee mixed with finely ground maize, or the raw, dried, olive coloured beans. Our host would obtain the latter, roasting them to her taste upon a steel sheet above an open fire. After several coffees we thanked her and wished her goodnight, for we had an early start the following morning.

The next day our guide, arranged the previous afternoon, led us to a set of waterfalls in the hills, about 2 hours from town. The pony trek up to them was tremendous; nevertheless, being the first time I had ever ridden a horse, it wasn’t without its moments. My stumpy steed, Fernando, appeared less enthusiastic about visiting the waterfalls than I. Despite his antics, we soon reached a mutual understanding – I would hang on for dear life and Fernando would stop as and when he pleased to chomp on the clusters of green bananas that littered the trail. With that one thrashed out, the remainder of the trip passed without dispute. From within the dense pine forest I could hear the distant thunder of the falls. We were almost there. Having tethered our mounts, we continued on foot to the base of the falls. I recall the walk being one of the most enjoyable I have ever undertaken, not because of the scenery, but because it gave my once peachy, now tenderized butt some respite. In true testament to the Tourism Sign at the San Juan interchange, the falls were indeed enchanting, although we did not catch sight of the pixies that were said to live there. Although highly disappointed by this, I refrained from asking for a refund upon our return, not because it would have been small-minded or petty to display such remonstrance, but simply because my poor Spanish didn’t allow for it.

We decided that we would leave the following morning. This small, friendly town deserved more of our time but the purse strings now dictated our rate of travel. Our modest cache of money was beginning to dwindle. With no clear or simple means of obtaining funds between Perquín and Santa Rosa de Copán, we had to move while we could still afford to. I must clarify that the cost of accommodation, food, transport, and activities along this route were by no means expensive, quite the opposite in fact, but we had just grossly underestimated the time it would take to reach Copán. Our initial combined funds at Perquín came to the grand total of $120 US. A sum more than adequate to cover one day’s traveling and living expenses for two people, but arguably insufficient for a 6 day escapade. We had no choice but to leave San Juan.

San Juan to Santa Rosa. We packed up and headed further west. Having to omit the planned stop in Gracias, we would now pass straight through and head to Santa Rosa. It was with genuine sadness that we said our goodbyes, hugged our host, and boarded the bus. In addition to the premature, reluctant departure, we also knew that this was our final bus trip; it spelt out the end of an unexpected yet magical week along the trail.

From the outskirts of San Juan we began the slow, gradual descent from the temperate highlands toward Gracias. The road connecting the 2 towns was undergoing considerable change. Vast mounds of excavated earth now dominated nearby open spaces, and the crater-like potholes were now but a distant memory. The switchbacks became less frequent, the road leveled, and before long we were racing along a smooth, dark, paved highway. For the past few days I had longed for such comfort, fantasized almost, but now, as we traversed this road, I would have done anything to trade this new found comfort for the raw, rugged beauty that had previously graced the route. A part of me, the part than runs deeper than the nerve endings upon my peachy (although still rather tender) butt, hoped that this ‘progress’ would either slow or, with good fortune, stop. Why change something so perfect? I thought. The clearing, the paving, and the large scale excavations – this devouring entity – continued its slow creep toward the highlands.

We soon arrived in Gracias. Perched once more on the curb, clutching another bottle of fizzy pop, I gave thought to the most recent week of my life, and the kindness displayed by everyone we met. I thought of Gladys, her mother, the audacious bus drivers whom delivered us here, our waterfall guide, the roasted coffee and, of course, Fernando and his green bananas. I thought of the other passengers on our bus rides, the tentative moments, the small settlements, and the changes on the horizon. I wondered how long the highway project would take to complete, and what differences it would make to the villages and people of the Ruta Lenca.

To our knowledge, we were the only visitors to the trail that week. And, although I am slightly ashamed to admit it, the feeling of exclusivity nurtured a sense of smug satisfaction. We were intrepid explorers, pushing the boundaries and discovering new frontiers. Of course, this was complete balderdash. Information about this area can be found in every tourist pamphlet that litters every Honduran guesthouse coffee table - although they only appear as relative footnotes beside the real heavyweight attractions. Yes, we had chanced on something very special, albeit unwittingly. An experience purely occasioned by our lack of forward planning and desire to cut corners.

Nevertheless, I felt privileged to have made this journey, to have traveled the Lenca Trail.

Wetter and Wilder: Impossible Thrills in El Salvador

Wading down the boulder-strewn river, hemmed in on both sides by thick jungle, I could hear the rumble grow louder. Oh man, I thought, here we go again.

This rumbling had become a familiar sound today and, like so many times already, was once again the unmistakeable roar of water crashing into the base of a waterfall. But this time - even before I had reached the edge of the cascade - the resonating thunder was loud enough to send the alarm bells ringing. By a long shot, this was the loudest set of falls so far. It could mean only one thing: the biggest waterfall yet. Even more alarmingly, once again I would be expected to blindly run off the end of it.

Before now, if I’d ever pictured myself hurtling off the edge of a 30 foot jungle waterfall it would’ve been immediately preceded by a hectic race downstream in an attempt to open the distance between me and at least 50 angry pygmies, each armed with blowpipes and machetes. But there were no pygmies here to coax out any unnatural airborne activity, for this was Central America. Instead, encouragement to leap came only from our magnificently bold (or slightly unhinged – you choose) eco-tour leader with personal liability insurance seemingly as robust as his nerves.

The theatre for my latest display of inherent stupidity was the ‘El Imposible’ National Park, a 10,000-acre rainforest nestled among the Apaneca Mountains in the province of Ahuachapan, El Salvador.

Following the success of 3 short excursions the previous day, I opted to hang around and check out more of what this fascinating area had to offer. And Tacuba, a small village located on the edge of the National park just a 2 hour bus ride from the Guatemalan border and 4 hours west from El Salvador’s capital, San Salvador, served as the perfect base from which to explore and learn more about the surrounding eco-wonderland.

Despite it being entirely possible to reside within the park itself (Bosque El Impossible National Park has designated camping areas with toilets and fire pits for those wishing to cook), Tacuba has become host to a growing number of accommodations to suit the budget of even the most frugal traveller. Not only did I get room for around 10 bucks, but it was also along the lines of a homestay, like a bed and breakfast in a private home, as opposed to a soulless box with minimal opportunity for social interaction. In such cases, you’d be hard pressed to put a price on the opportunity it presents – the opportunity to experience everyday Salvadoran family life from the inside.

From Tacuba it was simple enough to arrange guides. With so few visitors heading to El Salvador you are still treated like a visitor instead of a walking ATM, and, with sufficient Spanish (English is seldom spoken), it proves easy enough to ask around and receive genuine help and advice and be pointed in the right direction. Now, with guides readily available, all that was left for me to do was pick an activity.

Trekking has become an increasingly popular activity within the national park, and I wanted to check out what all the fuss was about - and since the park boasted at least 8 rivers and elevations ranging from 800 to 4,600 feet, a trek along at least one of them sounded just the ticket.

This is why, the following day, I found myself clutching a waterlogged black bin liner containing my unsuccessfully waterproofed daypack, and cautiously clambering over and around thigh high boulders and closer toward the edge of this knee-knockingly high waterfall. Around this time an all too familiar probing question once again reared its ugly head: What the hell have I got myself into this time?

My worst fears were soon realised. Peering over the edge I couldn’t help but notice the significant amount of fresh air between where I now stood – knee deep in the fast flowing river, teetering on the very edge of the fall – and the disproportionately small pool of water obscured by spray below.

You know how some folks refer to simple activities being ‘a breeze’, or ‘a walk in the park, well, I can assure you that these people are clearly deluded. Technically, this actually was a walk in the park, but I can’t for the life of me remember the last time such a ‘simple matter’ brought me to the verge of laying an egg in my pants.

With myself and 4 others gathered at the top of the fall, our guide dutifully pointed out the best angle at which to jump so as not require the services of either a stretcher or neck brace. Then, whilst waving his arms wildly and delivering something akin to an war cry by an Apache with Tourette’s Syndrome, he promptly disappeared over the edge. I stood for a moment, stunned by what I thought I had just seen. It just didn’t add up. Y’know, for a moment I could have sworn that he just jumped off the edge – but surely he can’t have, that would have been incalculable stupidity.

I glanced up and checked my fellow tour goer’s reactions, maybe they thought they saw it too. If incredulous looks could be likened to poker, this was a Royal Flush if I’d ever seen one.

Turning toward the edge of the fall, I lifted my chin just enough to peer over once again. I had hoped this time to see a happy, smiling guide treading water at the bottom and not something resembling an explosion in a butcher’s shop. Miraculously, I did see a happy, smiling head bobbing in the water, and the even better news was that it was still attached to its rightful owner.

As our guide swam toward the shallows (which, I must say, took a reassuringly long time) he flipped over onto his back and shouted up to the 5 bewildered gringos AKA ‘Team Terrified’ yet to make the jump.

“You must jump out far as you can…!” he hollered, looking exceedingly chuffed with himself and wiping the spray from his hair and face. Almost as an afterthought he followed up with “…And watch out for the rocks!” as if we weren’t already well aware of their unyielding, body-busting presence.

Lifting my day sack from the water, with its plastic ‘protection’ battered and torn by several encounters with boulders at the base of previous falls, I watched dolefully as rods of water drained from the various holes that now peppered it. After a slight backswing I heaved the waterlogged bag over the edge. There seemed to be painfully long pause between the bag leaving my hand and it splashing into the pool below. Naturally, this only added to my anguish. But at least it didn’t bounce off the rocks first.

Anyhow, I volunteered to go next. As I clambered to the edge on my dry run, I took great care to note precisely where my feet would go on the proper, albeit extremely short, run up. The rocks didn’t appear overly slippery and were easily negotiable even with the oversized sneakers our guide had kindly leant me that morning. This much is good, I thought.

After one final check of the area below I took a few paces back and then embarked on what I felt could have been my last few steps in Central America. Whilst eyeing up my stepping stones I blew out forcefully, as if to try and expel my anguish, and ran through the deed once more in my mind: three firm steps, a big leap, my own unique war cry, and possibly some kind of cool pose as I flew through the air with graceful elegance. Yeah, I was almost looking forward to this now.

Needless to say, the previous planning all went to custard the moment I set off for the edge. In events utterly beyond my control my eyes crimped themselves tightly shut, I ran like someone had just swapped my legs for two different sized pieces of industrial strength rubber, and, worst of all, I let out a ludicrously high pitched, irrepressible yelp as I pushed off into mid air.

In retrospect, I may have looked like a lot of things, but cool definitely wasn’t one of them. But, one by one as my fellow jumpers cleared the falls, I swiftly learnt that this wasn’t an uncommon reaction. It appears that throwing oneself off a waterfall with style and panache is somewhat a precious talent, and one bestowed solely upon a handful of fun loving (and slightly unbalanced) El Salvadorans.

As we swam back up through the cool, blue water to the surface, we knew we had done it. For the last three hours we had religiously followed the river’s course through the jungle, waterfalls and all, and successfully negotiated all that lay in our path. We had cheered and hollered and whooped and applauded as each of our new friends had cleared the jumps, we’d worked together to move along as a team – be it by linking hands or offering up long branches to ease each other safely down the steepest inclines, or by passing bags to and fro as frequently as words of encouragement – we’d placed our faith in each other as much as our guide and not been left wanting. So far this was a good day, but the adventure was far from over.

The last leg of the downward trek would include another bottle test. Yep, another waterfall - but one too dangerous to jump in rainy season. But had it been the dry season – between May and October – well, who knows… Instead, we would take the easy option and skirt around it. The easy option involved bouncing from tree to tree down a steep bank (picture those slot machines where you push a coin in the top and randomly bounces off uniform pegs on its way down behind the Perspex face – just like us, you never knew where the coin would end up) and then, with the aid of a thick rope set up by our tour guide and machete wielding scout, we negotiated a sheer rock face taller than your average house.

Our guide went first and showed us the drill. We looked on intently as there were only two ways down: his way, and the way that involved losing traction, missing the rope in blind panic, dropping 3 stories in as many seconds and, finally, spreading ourselves liberally over a wide and varied selection of rocky outcrops. As I said, he had our undivided attention. If secondary school physics teachers could emulate this guy’s knack of retaining an audience, we would now be living in a world full on NASA engineers.

“Slowly! Slowly!” he jabbered as he descended. Every now and then he would stop, hang off the rope, and point to footholds “Here…then here….then here” he would say, all the time eagerly nodding and delivering well received words of encouragement to 4 clearly concerned individuals. Our smiles broadened as our confidence grew.

Then, sucking the air through his teeth he announced “But not here…really, please, not here” - he even let go with one hand to shake his finger and emphasize the point. Our smiles drooped.

Standing at the bottom and, I dutifully noted, from a position well outside the potential gringo splatter zone, one by one he coaxed us down. Although it seemed a little hairy at the time, we knew we were in safe hands, and “slowly, slowly” we each made it down. After a little more handshaking and back patting we stopped for lunch at the base of the falls. Our scout divvied up the packed lunches and we sat on the rocks, conceivably in the middle of nowhere at the base of this magnificent waterfall, chatting excitedly, filling our bellies with cheese sandwiches and bananas, and recounting the highs of the trip so far.

Now came the tough part. We had descended a fair distance throughout the morning, and must now ascend back to our jeep at the edge of the park. The route back took us over new ground, through more rainforest and coffee plantations. Periodically we would stop on the inclines for a breather, squatting on the steep banks as we did so to either take in the views afforded by small breaks in the forest canopy or get a brief lesson on jungle survival from our knowledgeable scout. He would point out various plants, fruits, and roots, and relay - in Spanish - why and how they can be used. I felt inspired, he was like a skinny Ray Mears. Simply astonished at how so many different varieties of plant can all taste identical – like a subtle blend of rainforest soil and tree root – I was itching to learn more.

Though before I had a chance to dash off and find my very own piece of tree bark to gnaw on, our scout also pointed out some rainforest bad boys. We’re talking spiders the size of small coffee tables (would I exaggerate?), plants sporting spikes large enough to hang a coat from, innocuous, furry plants that if touched would even make chuck Norris cry and, curiously, a selection of toxicity on stalks disturbingly similar to the stuff we had already tasted. It was all a bit of an eye opener and, speaking from a bloke’s point of view, an educative round that appealed to me no end. But just like everyone who points out things that will ruin your day as soon as look at you, our guide qualified each statement with how they are only dangerous if you don’t know what you are doing or if you poke them with sticks.

Throughout the ascent we were told to keep our eyes peeled for wildlife, as apparently over 280 bird species - including the great curassow, the blue-crowned motmot (the national bird of El Salvador), and the king vulture - and a vast amount of other fauna including rare beasts such as pumas, ocelots and collared anteaters inhabit the area. Alas they went undetected, but the perpetual searching it did keep us quietly preoccupied - uncannily like how youngsters remain pacified by parents during long car journeys to the beach. Incidentally, I never did spot that illusive Cornish white rhino. I can only assume that, like so many of these rare animals, they must only come out at night.

Soon enough the dense canopy gave way to hillside coffee plantations and before long we popped back out on to the dirt track just yards from the jeep. Although astounded by this precise navigation, what I found infinitely more incredible was the tour itself - as from start to finish this had been an unparalleled experience. I mean that wholeheartedly.

It’d been less of an organised eco-tour and more of a schoolboy adventure. The whole day was incomparable in its nature to anything I’d experienced before. I could clearly picture our guide taking this very same alarmingly direct route down through the park as a child. We had meticulously retraced his steps through a previous adventure, albeit with less stick fighting, no plant poking, and some, but not as many, grazed kneecaps.

Each hillside conquered, waterfall jumped, and cliff face traversed served as a triumphant two finger salute to every other vapid, soulless eco- tour I could care to mention. It was the real deal. The tour reflected El Salvador’s fledgling tourist industry perfectly, demonstrating the nation’s current air of innocence, a real sense of discovery, and a flagrant disregard for mainstream conformity. Despite having so much to offer, in tourist terms El Salvador has still remained a member of an increasingly exclusive club: it’s one of a handful of countries so readily accessible yet almost completely overlooked - and with safety becoming less of an issue it’s no longer just for the bold. It’s an exciting time not only for El Salvador but also for travellers with the time and inclination to break away from the mainstream Central American Gringo trail - and the Bosque El Impossible National Park, in fact El Salvador as a whole, is an immensely rewarding and justifiable addition to any Central American itinerary.

The Verbal Flat Spin

The return bike ride from the ferry port is just as lively as the trip out there. Eventually, though, the Stardust Guesthouse appears like a vision before me, and not before time. But knowing my luck, I’ll make it all the way back in one piece, climb off the bike, and promptly fall down a storm drain. I decide to keep the crash helmet on until I’m well away from the moped and safely back at reception. ‘You get ticket OK?’ the lady at the counter asks. ‘Yep, no sweat’ I lie. ‘I go to ferry port tomorrow morning’ I continue. ‘…and thanks for the ride.’

In view of the last 30 minutes of my life, she then delivers 4 words that could freeze bone marrow: ‘Tomorrow, you need motorbi…’

I cut her short. There’s no need to finish that sentence. ‘No, I’m good, thank you!’ I blurt in an overly keen, please-don’t-trouble-yourself kind of way.

‘I walk. I like to walk…I enjoy walking…every morning!I love it!’ Me? Enjoy walking? Meh. I think not. This is coming from a bloke who, in the normal run of events, generally qualifies the word ‘walk’ with ‘last resort’ and would only consider running on very special occasions, like if being chased by a bull elephant. Or a Grizzly bear, and a big angry one at that. But the words continue to spill out, each one unimpeded by any form of brain activity. Then, as if to brush away the last remaining fleck of personal credibility, from nowhere comes this ridiculously toothy grin and an accompanying hand signal to raise the weeee-taaard bar even further.

I look to my hand, which has now made it’s own way out and into the space between myself and counter lady, and my eyes are fixed firmly upon it as if to draw even more attention to what happens next. And the next stage is inevitable, there’s no going back – the hand is already out there and has no intention of retreating without putting on a show first. The index and middle fingers are fully extended and pointing downward and, as if they were an entity to themselves, start to flick rhythmically to and fro like something from a Yellow Pages advert. All the while, I’m bobbing my head and smiling like I’ve just been eating Prozac off Carmen Electra’s boobies and I’m saying ‘walk, walk, walk’ in time with finger flicking.

I can see how ridiculous it looks, after all I am actually there, BUT I CAN’T STOP IT! Please, God, make it stop. Possibly call in a meteor strike as a distraction, or an ice storm maybe, or as a last resort even engage my brain if need be, but somehow, please, make it stop.

Eventually, just before my other hand has to intervene, it does stop. Clearly, it’s been doing it for long enough now – long enough for everyone to form their own well founded opinion - so now I can put my hand back in my pocket where there’s a little less chance of it continuing to make me look like a complete tool. Besides, that’s my mouth’s job. So there you have it, another fine example of pointless gesticulation. Once again, consider the bar raised.

With the show now over, I look back up to the lady who has now moved a little deeper behind the counter, possibly out of throat slashing range, and is now clutching a menu as if it were a comfort blanket, or perhaps her last line of defence. Despite her putting on such a brave face, I can see the confusion and smell the fear.

I review the situation and wonder whether I managed to get the message across. I think I did, albeit not the message I’d initially hoped to convey. Still, either way it’s a safe bet that I’ll be making my own way to the pier tomorrow. And maybe looking for a different guesthouse to stay in tonight, possibly one without the optional ferry transfer service.

Langkawi tomorrow. Stroll on.

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